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I.—1863 “WELL, this is bad!” we sighing said, | |
| While musing round the bivouac fire, | |
| And dwelling with a fond desire, | |
| On home and comforts long since fled. | |
| |
| “How gayly came we forth at first! | 5 |
| Our spirits high, with new emprise, | |
| Ambitious of each exercise, | |
| And glowing with a martial thirst. | |
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| “Equipped as for a holiday, | |
| With bounteous store of everything | 10 |
| To use or comfort minist’ring, | |
| All cheerily we marched away. | |
| |
| “But as the struggle fiercer grew, | |
| Light marching orders came apace,— | |
| And baggage-wagon soon gave place | 15 |
| To that which sterner uses knew. | |
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| “Our tents—they went a year ago; | |
| Now kettle, spider, frying-pan | |
| Are lost to us, and as we can | |
| We live, while marching to and fro. | 20 |
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| “Our food has lessened, till at length, | |
| E’en want’s gaunt image seems to threat— | |
| A foe to whom the bravest yet | |
| Must yield at last his knightly strength. | |
| |
| “But while we ’ve meat and flour enough | 25 |
| The bayonet shall be our spit— | |
| The ramrod bake our dough on it— | |
| A gum-cloth be our kneading trough. | |
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| “We ’ll bear privation, danger dare, | |
| While even these are left to us— | 30 |
| Be hopeful, faithful, emulous | |
| Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare!” | |
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II.—1864 “Three years and more,” we grimly said, | |
| When order came to “Rest at will” | |
| Beside the corn-field on the hill, | 35 |
| As on a weary march we sped— | |
| |
| “Three years and more we ’ve met the foe | |
| On many a gory, hard-fought field, | |
| And still we swear we cannot yield | |
| Till Fate shall bring some deeper woe. | 40 |
| |
| “Three years and more we ’ve struggled on, | |
| Through torrid heat and winter’s chill, | |
| Nor bated aught of steadfast will, | |
| Though even hope seems almost gone. | |
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| “Ill fed, ill clad, and shelterless, | 45 |
| How little cheer in health we know! | |
| When wounds and illness lay us low, | |
| How comfortless our sore distress! | |
| |
| “These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide | |
| Our forms, can naught discourage us; | 50 |
| But Hunger—ah! it may be thus | |
| That Fortune shall the strife decide. | |
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| “But while the corn-fields give supply | |
| We ’ll take, content, the roasting-ear, | |
| Nor yield us yet to craven fear, | 55 |
| But still press on, to do or die!” | |
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