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! |