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Che Dying Soldier.
PARCHING for Atlanta,
Sweeping scouts and pickets
With the peals of martial music,
Through forests deep and rough ravines,
'Twas skirmish day by day, To feel the foe and and know the point
Where the rebel Hood did lay.
It was a grand and gorgeous sight;
They bore our flag on high, As o'er the hills and through the vales
Our boys went sweeping by.
They tried to flank them on their march,
With solid shot and shell, When a thousand muskets said "retreat,
For I do my mission well.”
The deep voiced thunder pealed afar,
And strewed the ground with dead, Till it was covered with their blood,
And solid balls of lead.
The rebels charged again and again,
The lines swayed to and fro, Till flesh and blood could bear no more, · Nor the sullen craven foe.
Then on that field of dead and dying,
years; His ghastly wound was plainly telling
'Twould bring a mother's burning tears.
They saw the golden cord was loosened,
They knew that he must die; They could read that mournful
hat mournful message, In that calm and blood-shot eye.
They read it in the purple flow,
That roamed from cheek to cheek, And the quivering of his pallid lips,
Though faint he thus did speak:
Glancing at his mangled limb,
With a calm and tearful eye
But comrades, I must die!"
He drew a picture from his breast,
Then called a friend beside:“This is my mother; tell her all
'Twas for the flag I died!"
And then he pressed it to his lips,
And said, “before I go, We'll give three cheers for the dear old flag
That flag will win, I know!"
Then with a gentle smile,
His spirit winged its flight; No more to hear the bugles call,
Or share the bloody fight.
Pis mete that we should meet this day,
And bring the rarest flowers,
graves, In memory of the hours When we were called to cut the sod
And place our comrades under:They who the hand of treason had
From this world snatched assunder.
'Tis mete that we should meet this day,
To join in songs and homage pay To those who then with fear and wonder,
Lest our nation be rent assunder,
Gave up their homes and loved ones dear,
And suffering bore from year to year, Then yielded up their lives.
'Tis mete that we should set apart
A day of adoration,
And fell to save this nation;
We will each year spread flowers about Our comrade's graves.
'Tis mete that we should weld anew
Our sacred honor and our love, For they whose voice is hushed in death,
Whose spirits are in heaven above; For the boys who quietly slumber,
In the ground so cold and damp, The boys of our martyred army,
The boys in the silent camp.
'Tis mete that we should teach our sons,
All treason to abhor,