And his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of stone, As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own; And he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills me yet, "I think in a moment more that I would have stood on that parapet, "But now I never more will climb, and, Sergeant, when you see The men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me; For though I cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise, I may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies." Well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore, But I raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore, And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy, And uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant Drummer Boy. When sped the news that "Fighting Joe" had saved the Union right With his legions fresh from Lookout, and that Thomas massed his might, And forced the rebel centre, and our cheering ran like wild, And Sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child,― When Grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, where'er he cast his eye, And when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done, The fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won Then his bright, black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wild ; And in that hour of conquest our little hero died. But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old, For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold! And when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won, Of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done, Of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead, My heart goes back to Mission Ridge and the Drummer Boy who lay With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of that terrible day; And I say that the land that bears such sons is crowned and dowered with all The dear God giveth nations to stay them lest they fall. Oh, glory of Mission Ridge, stream on, like the roseate light of morn On the sons that now are living, on the sons that are yet unborn! And cheers for our comrades living, and tears as they pass away! And three times three for the Drummer Boy who fought at the front that day. THE PENCIL TREE. [Song of the mother whose children are fond of drawing.] OH! could I find the forest I'd hie to their grateful shade, In deep, in deepest bliss, For then I need not hourly hear A chorus such as this: Oh! lend me a pencil, please, Mamma! Great poppy to copy, And a horsey that prances and goes, Mamma! The branches of the pencil-tree Ay! each one has a glancing point That glitters in the sun; The leaves are leaves of paper white, All fluttering in the breeze. Ah! could I pluck one rustling bough, I'd silence cries like these: Oh! lend me a pencil, do, Mamma! I've got mine all stuck in the glue, Mamma! Oh! make me a pretty Big barn and a city And a cow and a steam-engine too, Mamma! The fruit upon the pencil tree In clusters bright of pocket-knives— Ah might I pluck one shining fruit, The pleading cries, the longing sighs, Oh! sharpen a pencil for me, Mamma! And Hal sat down on mine! So do it bee-yu-ti-ful-lee, Mamma ! YOUTH'S COMPANION. THE FANCY WORK MAIDEN. AN' so you kinder wanter know w'y I broke off with Sal? It war'nt because she war'nt a good an' mighty purty gal ; For there ain't a blessed star in heaven shines brighter than her eyes, An' her cheeks are jest like peaches on the trees of Paradise! An' her smile is like the sunshine spilt upon a flower bed, An' her hair like sproutin' sunbeams, on the garding of her head, An' her laff is like a singin' brook that bubbles as it passes Thro' the stuck-up tiger lilies, an' the purty smellin' grasses. An' I told her that I loved her much as forty times a day, But she hadn't much time to bother, an' kept on with her crowshay, W'en I plumped right down afore her, plumb upon my very knees, She said, "Git off my rick-rack, an' you're rumplin' up my frieze." An' I tried to talk of love an' things, an' told her I would die Unless she smiled upon my soot. She simply said, "Oh, my! You've tore my purty tidy down, an' hain't ye got no eyes? You've planted them big feet o' yourn on them ar tap estries !" An' she wove big flamingoes, snipes, an' turkeys on her rugs, An' she painted yuller poodles on her mother's 'lasses jugs, An' she painted purple angels on majenta colored plaques, An' five orange-colored cherubs, with blue wings behind their backs. An' w'en I talked of love an' stuff she'd talk of rugs lace, an' An' ax me would I take my feet from off thet Chiny vase. I'd say, "My heart's love, O, be mine! be mine! be wholly mine !" She'd say, "You've got your elbows mixed in that silk skein er twine." Now I'm goin' to Arizony for to do a cowboy's work, Driven forth from civil'zation by the cuss er fancy work, But her smile will allus hant me, allus in my visions play, Framed in latest styles of rick-rack, with a back-groun' of crowshay. S. W. Foss. |