Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, Who kissed the Testament; To keep the Constitution? No! _To keep the Government!_
We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, And take him half and half; We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool, And _miss_ him if a calf!
We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks By which a war is won; Especially how seventy-six Took Tories on the run.
Only one killed in Company B, 'Twas a trifling loss--one man! A charge of the bold and dashing Lee, While merry enough it was, to see The enemy, as he ran.
Only one killed upon our side-- Once more to the field they turn. Quietly now the horsemen ride, And pause by the form of the one who died, So bravely, as now we learn.
Their grief for the comrade loved and true For a time was unconcealed; They saw the bullet had pierced him through; That his pain was brief--ah! very few Die thus on the battle-field.
The news has gone to his home, afar-- Of the short and gallant fight; Of the noble deeds of the young La Var, Whose life went out as a falling star In the skirmish of the night.
"Only one killed! It was my son," The widowed mother cried; She turned but to clasp the sinking one, Who heard not the words of the victory won, But of him who had bravely died.
Ah! death to her were a sweet relief, The bride of a single year. Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief, Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf, Now trodden and brown and sere!
But no, she must bear through coming life Her burden of silent woe, The aged mother and youthful wife Must live through a nation's bloody strife, Sighing and waiting to go.
Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars, Are meeting no more to part, They can smile once more through the crystal bars-- Where never more will the woe of wars O'ershadow the loving heart.
_Respectfully dedicated to the War Clergy of the United States._
Oh, God of battles! once again, With banner, trump and drum, And garments in thy wine-press dyed, To give Thee thanks we come.
No goats or bullocks garlanded, Unto Thine altars go; With brother's blood, by brothers shed, Our glad libations flow.
From pest-house and from dungeon foul, Where, maimed and torn, they die, From gory trench and charnel-house, Where, heap on heap, they lie.