Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
III. WarThe C. S. Army’s Commissary
Ed. Porter Thompson (1834–1903)While musing round the bivouac fire,
And dwelling with a fond desire,
On home and comforts long since fled.
Our spirits high, with new emprise,
Ambitious of each exercise,
And glowing with a martial thirst.
With bounteous store of everything
To use or comfort minist’ring,
All cheerily we marched away.
Light marching orders came apace,—
And baggage-wagon soon gave place
To that which sterner uses knew.
Now kettle, spider, frying-pan
Are lost to us, and as we can
We live, while marching to and fro.
E’en want’s gaunt image seems to threat—
A foe to whom the bravest yet
Must yield at last his knightly strength.
The bayonet shall be our spit—
The ramrod bake our dough on it—
A gum-cloth be our kneading trough.
While even these are left to us—
Be hopeful, faithful, emulous
Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare!”
When order came to “Rest at will”
Beside the corn-field on the hill,
As on a weary march we sped—
On many a gory, hard-fought field,
And still we swear we cannot yield
Till Fate shall bring some deeper woe.
Through torrid heat and winter’s chill,
Nor bated aught of steadfast will,
Though even hope seems almost gone.
How little cheer in health we know!
When wounds and illness lay us low,
How comfortless our sore distress!
Our forms, can naught discourage us;
But Hunger—ah! it may be thus
That Fortune shall the strife decide.
We ’ll take, content, the roasting-ear,
Nor yield us yet to craven fear,
But still press on, to do or die!”