| |
| IT was a Sergeant old and gray, | |
| Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage, | |
| Went tramping in an army’s wake | |
| Along the turnpike of the village. | |
| |
| For days and nights the winding host | 5 |
| Had through the little place been marching, | |
| And ever loud the rustics cheered, | |
| Till every throat was hoarse and parching. | |
| |
| The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame, | |
| All took the sight’s electric stirring, | 10 |
| And hats were waved and staves were sung, | |
| And kerchiefs white were countless whirring. | |
| |
| They only saw a gallant show | |
| Of heroes stalwart under banners, | |
| And, in the fierce heroic glow, | 15 |
| ’T was theirs to yield but wild hosannas. | |
| |
| The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, | |
| Where he behind in step was keeping; | |
| But glancing down beside the road | |
| He saw a little maid sit weeping. | 20 |
| |
| “And how is this?” he gruffly said, | |
| A moment pausing to regard her;— | |
| “Why weepest thou, my little chit?” | |
| And then she only cried the harder. | |
| |
| “And how is this, my little chit?” | 25 |
| The sturdy trooper straight repeated, | |
| “When all the village cheers us on, | |
| That you, in tears, apart are seated? | |
| |
| “We march two hundred thousand strong, | |
| And that ’s a sight, my baby beauty, | 30 |
| To quicken silence into song | |
| And glorify the soldier’s duty.” | |
| |
| “It ’s very, very grand, I know,” | |
| The little maid gave soft replying; | |
| “And Father, Mother, Brother too, | 35 |
| All say ‘Hurrah’ while I am crying; | |
| |
| “But think—O Mr. Soldier, think,— | |
| How many little sisters’ brothers | |
| Are going all away to fight | |
| And may be killed, as well as others!” | 40 |
| |
| “Why, bless thee, child,” the Sergeant said, | |
| His brawny hand her curls caressing, | |
| “’T is left for little ones like thee | |
| To find that War’s not all a blessing.” | |
| |
| And “Bless thee!” once again he cried; | 45 |
| Then cleared his throat and looked indignant, | |
| And marched away with wrinkled brow | |
| To stop the struggling tear benignant. | |
| |
| And still the ringing shouts went up | |
| From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; | 50 |
| The pall behind the standard seen | |
| By one alone of all the village. | |
| |
| The oak and cedar bend and writhe | |
| When roars the wind through gap and braken; | |
| But ’t is the tenderest reed of all | 55 |
| That trembles first when Earth is shaken. | |
| |
