Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

CAVALRY SONG.

OUR bugles sound gayly. To horse and away! And over the mountains breaks the day;

Then ho! brothers, ho! for the ride or the fight, There are deeds to be done ere we slumber tonight!

And whether we fight or whether we fall

By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball,

The hearts of the free will remember us yet,

And our country, our country will never forget!

Then mount and away! let the coward delight

To be lazy all day and safe all night;

Our joy is a charger, flecked with foam,

And the earth is our bed and the saddle our home! And whether we fight, etc.

See yonder the ranks of the traitorous foe,
And bright in the sunshine bayonets glow!

Breathe a prayer, but no sigh; think for what you would fight;

Then charge! with a will, boys, and God for the right!

And whether we fight, etc.

We have gathered again the red laurels of war;
We have followed the traitors fast and far;
But some who rose gayly this morn with the sun
Lie bleeding and pale on the field they have won!

But whether we fight or whether we fall

By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball,

The hearts of the free will remember us yet, And our country, our country will never forget!

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES.*

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,That story of Kearny who knew not to yield! 'T was the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,

Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,

Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,

Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,

No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole

line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,

Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held

our ground,

He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a

bound;

He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the pow

der,

* Major-General Philip Kearny, killed at the battle of Chantilly, September 1, 1862.

His sword waved us on and we answered the

sign:

Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder,

"There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten

In the one hand still left, and the reins in his

teeth!

He laughed like a boy when a boy when the holidays heighten,

But a soldier's glance shot from his visor be

neath.

Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,-through the clearing or pine?

"O, anywhere! Forward! "Tis all the same, Colonel :

You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!

Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white.

lily,

The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's

pride!

Yet we dream that he still,-in that shadowy

region

Where the dead form their ranks at the wan

drummer's sign,—

Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is Forward! along the whole

line.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE GENERAL'S DEATH.

THE general dashed along the road
Amid the pelting rain;

How joyously his bold face glowed
To hear our cheers' refrain !

His blue blouse flapped in wind and wet,
His boots were splashed with mire,
But round his lips a smile was set,
And in his eyes a fire.

A laughing word, a gesture kind,—
We did not ask for more,
With thirty weary miles behind,
A weary fight before.

The gun grew light to every man,

The crossed belts ceased their stress,

As onward to the column's van
We watched our leader press.

Within an hour we saw him lie,
A bullet in his brain,

His manly face turned to the sky,
And beaten by the rain.

JOSEPH O'CONNOR.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.*

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,

Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars?-
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye;

Trust him to the hand that made him.

* Major-General Philip Kearny.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »