[20.
Copyright secured 25 April 1863
Publication deposited same day]
Inscribed to the
Bereaved Ones at Home.
"Is that my Mother?" [25 Apr 1863]
Ballad
[Words-- anonymous]
Music Composed by
J. R. STEVENSON.

A few days days ago a Lady visiting on of the Soldiers’ 
Hospitals stood beside a fair young lad of some sisteen 
years when he raised his dying eyes, looked at her intently 
and then whispered with pathos impossible to describe “Is that 
my Mother?”  His touching look and tone melted all who stood 
around the couch to tears.

Baltimore, MD: MILLER & BEACHAM, 10 N. Charles St.
[lithpgrapher] Gillingham.
[[25536]
[M 1640
  .S]
[Plate no.] 3387
[Engravor] Clayton.
[Source: civilwardigital.com]

1. Is that my mother bending low,
  Her hand upon my brow?
And those my mother’s pitying eyes?
  I dream’d of her but now;
Sweet mother, it indeed is joy
To have you bless your dying boy!
Sweet mother, it indeed is joy
To have you bless your dying boy!

2. The red rays of the setting sun
  Were streaming thro’ the hall,
And creeping with a fading light
  Along the silent wall
Where many a brave heart tthrobb’d in pain,
And pin’d for home and friends again!
Where many a brave heart tthrobb’d in pain,
And pin’d for home and friends again!

3. One soldier boy, a fair young lad,
  The pet of some dear home,
Sailed, as a gentle face bend low,
  And asked “Has mother come?”
Like balm the hope, like Heav’n the thought
Godsent, a moment’s bliss it brought.
Like balm the hope, like Heav’n the thought
Godsent, a moment’s bliss it brought.

4. She press’d the clinging locks away
  From his young brow and fair,
But the falt’ring voice had touch’d her heart
  Too tenderly to bear—
Her quiv’ring lips could scarcely tell
She was not her he lov’d so well
Her quiv’ring lips could scarcely tell
She was not her he lov’d so well.


5. Ah, brave young boy, thy precious dust
  Enshrin’d in memory
We’ll keep forever— a holy trust,
  Thou child of Liberty!
Tho’ thy deathbrow in a far off land
May ne’er be press’d by a mother’s hand.
Tho’ thy deathbrow in a far off land
May ne’er be press’d by a mother’s hand.

6. Oh! woman in your cheerless homes
  Oh! woman wan with woe,
There’s many a motherly footfall heard
  Where your kind steps would go;
And many a soldier boy has died
Thinking his mother by his side!
And many a soldier boy has died
Thinking his mother by his side!