|
April 20, 1864 |
|
By Private Miles
O'Reilly |
|
|
| Three
years ago to-day |
| We raised
our hands to heaven, |
| And on
the rolls of muster |
| Our names
were thirty-seven; |
| There
were just a thousand bayonets |
| And the
swords were thirty-seven |
| As we
took the oath of service |
| With our
right hands raised to heaven |
| |
| Oh 'twas
a gallant day, |
| In memory
still adored, |
| That day
of our sun-bright nuptials |
| With the
musket and the sword! |
| Shrill
rang the fifes, the bugles blared, |
| And
beneath a cloudless heaven |
| Twinkled
a thousand bayonets, |
| And the
swords were thirty-seven |
| |
| Of the
thousands stalwart bayonets |
| Two
hundred march to-day; |
| Hundreds
lie in Virginia swamps, |
| And
hundreds in Maryland clay; |
| And other
hundreds, less happy, drag |
| Their
shattered limbs around, |
| And envy
the deep, long, blessed sleep |
| Of the
battle-field's holy ground. |
| |
| For the
swords - one night, a week ago, |
| The
remnant, just eleven, |
| Gathered
around a banqueting board |
| With
seats for thirty-seven; |
| There
were two limped in on crutches, |
| And two
had each but a hand |
| To pour
the wine and raise the cup |
| As we
toasted "Our flag and land!" |
| |
| And the
room seemed filled with whispers |
| As we
looked at the vacant seats, |
| And, with
choking throats, we pushed aside |
| The rich
but untasted meats; |
| Then in
silence we brimmed our glasses, |
| As we
rose up - just eleven, |
| And bowed
as we drank to the loved and the dead |
| Who had
made us THIRTY-SEVEN! |
