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At the Burial of Grant, a Bugler Stood Forth and

Sounded Taps

Come, soldiers, arouse ye!

Another has gone;
Let us bury our comrade,

His battles are done.
His sun it is set;

He was true, he was brave,

He feared not the grave,
There is naught to regret.

Bring music and banners

And wreaths for his bier,
No fault of the fighter

That Death conquered here.
Bring him home ne'er to rove,

Bear him home to his rest,

And over his breast
Fold the flag of his love.

Great Captain of battles,

We leave him with Thee!
What was wrong, O forgive it;

His spirit make free.

* By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Sound taps, and away!

Out light, and to bed!

Farewell, soldier dead!
Farewell—for a day.



The band was playing “Dixie” when he marched, ,

marched away; An' never any likelier lad stept time to it that day; “ The finest fellow of 'em all!” I heard the town-folk

say. The band was playin Dixie" as he marched,

marched away. How fast my wild arms held him,-my boy, who would

not stay,The likeliest lad that answered to the captain's call

that day! “ The finest fellow of 'em all!” An' in the red array Of flags that rippled over them they marched my lad

away! But a mother's fears and prayers and tears were

nothing. War must slay, And the draped, deep drums were muffled as they

brought him home that day! “The finest fellow of 'em all!" I heard the town-folk

say, And his mother bendin' over him,-dead at her feet

that day! (Southern.)



When the opulence of summer unto wood and meadow

comes, And within the tangled graveyard riot old-time spice

and bloom, Then dear Nature brings her tribute to the “ smallest

of the drums," Spreads the sweetest of her blossoms on the little

soldier's tomb.

In the quiet country village, still they tell you how he

died; And the story moves you strangely, more than other

tales of war. Thrice heroic seems the hero, if he be a child beside, And the wound that tears his bosom is more sad

than others far.


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In the ranks of Sherman's army none so young and

small as he With his face so soft and dimpled, and his innocent

blue eyes.

Yet of all the Union drummers he could drum most

skillfully, With a spirit-said his colonel—fit to make the dead In the charge of Chickamauga (so, beside his little


grave, You may learn the hero's story of some villager,

perchance), When his regiment sank, broken, from the rampart,

like a wave, Thrice the clangor of his drum-beat rallied to a

fresh advance.

There he stood upon the hillside, capless, with his

shining hair Blown about his childish forehead like the bright

silk of the corn; And the men looked up and saw him standing brave

and scathless there, As an angel on a hilltop, in the drifting mist of morn.

Thrice they rallied at his drum-beat,—then the tat

tered flag went down! Someone caught it, waved it skyward for a mo

ment, and then fell. In the dust, the gore, and drabble, all the stars of

freedom's crown, And the soldiers beaten backward from the emblem

loved so well!

Then our drummer-boy, our hero, from his neck the

drum-cord flung And amid the hail of bullets to the fallen banner


Quick he raised it from dishonor; quick before them

all he sprung, And in fearless, proud defiance, waved the old flag

o'er his head!

For a minute's space the cheering, louder than the sing

ing balls. And the soldiers pressing forward, closing up their

broken line, Then the child's bright head, death-stricken, on his

throbbing bosom falls, And the brave eyes that God lighted cease with life

and soul to shine.

In the flag he saved they wrapped him; in that starry

shroud he lies, And the roses, and the lilacs, and the daisies seem to

know; For in all that peaceful acre, sleeping 'neath the sum

mer skies, There is neither mound nor tablet that is wreathed

and guarded so!



“At dawn," he said, “I bid them all farewell,

To go where bugles call and rifles gleam.”
And with the restless thought asleep he fell,

And glided into dream.

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