A Song in Memory of the Gallant 
Col. T. F. Brodhead, 
of the 1st Michigan Cavalry.

"The Old Flag Will Triumph Yet" (1863)
Words by 
J.E. Parker Doyle. 
Music by 
J. Henry Whittemore.

Detroit: J. Henry Whittemore
Chicago: Root & Cady
Cleveland: S. Brainard & Co.
New York: William Hall & Son
Toledo: Doebell & Sterlingson
Lithographer: C. Inger [?]
[Source: 089/073@Levy]

During the battle near Manassas Aug, 30th 1862, the brave
Col. Brodhead was mortally wounded. As he was dying on the
Battlefield, he wrote to his brother the following letter upon which
this song is composed. "I am passing now from earth; but send you
love from my dying Couch. For all your love and kindness you will
be rewarded. I have fought manfully, and now die fearlessly. But the
old Flag will triumph yet. The Soldiers will regild its folds polluted by
imbecility and treason. I had hoped to have lived longer, but I die amid
the ring and clangor of Battle as I could wish. Farewell. To you and
the noble Officers of my Regiment I confide my Wife and Children."

1. Upon my couch I lie,  Brother, 
But I sen you love once more; 
Death’s hand is on my pallid brow, 
And the struggle is nearly o’er. 
Manfully I have fought, Brother, 
And now fearlessly I die, 
While white wing’d seraphs wait around, 
To waft my soul on high.

CHORUS [sung after each verse]
For blood must flow, war’s fires glow, 
The foeman must be met, 
Nor sheath our swords ’gainst rebel hordes, 
Our flag will triumph yet.

2. Our flag will triumph yet, Brother, 
The soldiers of our land, 
Once more will gild its blooddy’d folds, 
Though blurr’d by treason’s hand. 
I bravely drew the glitt’ring steel, 
For my country’s sacred cause; 
And have shed my blood in conflict, 
To maintain its honor’d laws.

3. My life is ebbing fast, Brother, 
But our banners proudly wave, 
Bright emblems of a nation free, 
The glory of the Brave. 
While I die amid the clangor, 
Of the battle’s raging strife. 
To thy care I give my Children, 
And the Partner of my life.

4. Traitors have drawn the sword, Brother, 
And war’s fierce lance is breaking. 
And many a brave man sleepeth, 
The sleep that knows no waking. 
But we’ll let them calmly slumber, 
’Neath the bloodbaptised sod, 
While their spirits bloom forever 
In the garden of our God.