​

Walt Whitman. Arr. from C. M. Wyman.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

0 Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells;

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;

Rise up,— for you the flag is flung — for you the bu - gle trills;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all ex - ult - ing,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a - crowd-ing,

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

While follow eyes the steady keel, the ves - sel

For yon they call, the swaying mass— their ea - ger

grim and dar - ing; But O heart! heart!

fa - ces turn - ing; Here Captain! dear father!

ob - ject won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

O the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my Captain lies,

This arm be - neath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've

But I -walk with mournful tread. Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fall - en cold and dead.

Fall - en cold and dead.

Fall - en cold and dead. Cold and dead.