YOU know that day at Peach Tree Creek, | |
| When the Rebs with their circling, scorching wall | |
| Of smoke-hid cannon and sweep of flame | |
| Drove in our flanks, back! back! and all | |
| Our toil seemed lost in the storm of shell— | 5 |
| That desperate day McPherson fell! | |
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| Our regiment stood in a little glade | |
| Set round with half-grown red oak trees— | |
| An awful place to stand, in full fair sight, | |
| While the minie bullets hummed like bees, | 10 |
| And comrades dropped on either side— | |
| That fearful day McPherson died! | |
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| The roar of the battle, steady, stern, | |
| Rung in our ears. Upon our eyes | |
| The belching cannon smoke, the half-hid swing | 15 |
| Of deploying troops, the groans, the cries, | |
| The hoarse commands, the sickening smell— | |
| That blood-red day McPherson fell! | |
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| But we stood there!—when out from the trees, | |
| Out of the smoke and dismay to the right | 20 |
| Burst a rider—His head was bare, his eye | |
| Had a blaze like a lion fain for fight; | |
| His long hair, black as the deepest night | |
| Streamed out on the wind. And the might | |
| Of his plunging horse was a tale to tell, | 25 |
| And his voice rang high like a bugle’s swell; | |
| “Men, the enemy hem us on every side; | |
| We’ll whip ’em yet! Close up that breach— | |
| Remember your flag—don’t give an inch! | |
| The right flank’s gaining and soon will reach— | 30 |
| Forward boys, and give ’em hell!”— | |
| Said Logan after McPherson fell. | |
| We laughed and cheered and the red ground shook, | |
| As the general plunged along the line | |
| Through the deadliest rain of screaming shells; | 35 |
| For the sound of his voice refreshed us all, | |
| And we filled the gap like a roaring tide, | |
| And saved the day McPherson died! | |
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| But that was twenty years ago, | |
| And part of a horrible dream now past. | 40 |
| For Logan, the lion, the drums throb low | |
| And the flag swings low on the mast; | |
| He has followed his mighty chieftain through | |
| The mist-hung stream, where gray and blue | |
| One color stand, | 45 |
| And North to South extends the hand. | |
| It’s right that deeds of war and blood | |
| Should be forgot, but, spite of all, | |
| I think of Logan, now, as he rode | |
| That day across the field; I hear the call | 50 |
| Of his trumpet voice—see the battle shine | |
| In his stern, black eyes, and down the line | |
| Of cheering men I see him ride, | |
| As on the day McPherson died. | |
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