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EVER THE SAME.

ENGAGEMENT ON THE YAZOO RIVER, MISS.,
JULY 12TH, '62.

THE glorious band of patriots,
Who gave the flag its birth,
Have writ with steel in history,

The record of its worth.

From east to west, from sea to sea,
From pole to tropic sun,

Will eyes grow bright and hearts throb high
At the name of Washington.

Ah! proudly should we bear it now,
And guard this flag of ours,
Borne bravely in its infancy,

Amid the darker hours;

The brave alone may bear it thus,

A guardian it shall be

For those who well have won the right

To boast of liberty.

The meteor flag of Seventy-six,

Long may it wave in pride,

To tell the world how nobly

Our patriot fathers died;

When from the shadows of their night,
Outburst the brilliant sun,

It bathed in light the Stars and Stripes,
As now in Sixty-one.

ANONYMOUS.

THE DRUMMER BOY.

AT THE BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO, MISS.,
JULY 13TH, '62.ˆ

THE solemn work at last was o'er,
And then towards the camp,
The weary soldiers went their way
With slow and heavy tramp;
And as the lanterns' fitful gleams
Shone o'er the field around,
What was it that sent back the light
Upon the bloody ground?

There, with his drum beside him laid,
That should have been a toy,
Was stretched the gory body

Of a little drummer boy.

Nine summers scarce had blessed him

Ere his little life went out,

Amid the battle's thunder,

And the foe's inglorious rout.

His golden hair in clustering curls,
Lay on his pallid face,

And on his lip a gentle smile

The soldier's eye could trace.
His sweet blue eye was glassy now,
His little hand was still,

And his young heart no more, alas!

With joy and pride would thrill.

Ah! curse the traitor hand that sped
That bullet swift and sure!

Was there no power to ward it from
That little bosom pure?

And was not stern death satisfied?
Could naught complete his joy,
But the widowed mother's only hope,
That little drummer boy?

A year ago the little one

Was in his village home,

And often to his childish ear

The sad war news would come,

This friend was dead, that battle lost,
Until his swelling heart.

Within him burned, to take his drum,
And bear his little part.

His widowed mother-bless her, Heaven!

Proudly bade him go,

And bare his little bosom to

The bullet of the foe,

Nor sigh, nor tear escaped her when

She gave the parting kiss;

Did ever Spartan mother make
A sacrifice like this?

And now her heart is desolate,

Her prayers ascend on high,

That God in tender mercy

Will allow her but to die;
For if in answer to her prayers
The asked-for boon be given,
She'll meet the darling of her heart
And dwell with him in heaven.

But still not one repining word
Her sorrowed lip will speak,
For her spirit is a noble one
Although her heart be weak,
And had she yet another son
She'd freely let him go.

Where Willie went to meet his death
Before his country's foe.

A. M. O

THE MAN OF THE IRON WILL.

BATTLE OF MEMPHIS, MO.,
JULY 18TH, '62.

AYE! toll! toll! toll!

Toll the funeral bell!

And let its mournful echoes roll

From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole,
O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul
That ever in battle fell.

Yes! weep! weep! weep!

Weep for the hero fled!

For Death, the greatest of soldiers, at last
Has over our leader his black pall cast,
And from us his noble form hath passed
To the home of the mighty dead.
!

His form has passed away

His voice is silent and still!

No more at the head of "the old brigade,”
The daring men who were never dismay'd,

Will he lead them to glory that never can fade,
The man of the iron will!

ANONYMOUS.

PICKET SHOOTING.

AT HARRISON LANDING, VA.

AUG. 1st, 1862..

To AND fro upon the green banks,
'Neath the moonbeams pale and fair,
Paced a picket, silent, lonely,

Thinking of the home afar,
With his gun upon his shoulder,
To and fro he slowly trod,
And his eyes were dim and misty
As they fell upon the sod.

"It was here," he murmured, sadly,
"That poor Charley Stanton fell,
Shot down by some lurking foeman,
Here, within this little dell;
Here it was we found his body,

When the golden morning broke,
With the red blood on his forehead,
From the gory bullet stroke.”

Then the soldier looked around him
With a searching, anxious look,
Peered behind each clump of bushes,
Searched each silent, leafy nook,.
But no foeman sprang to meet him,
And he murmured wearily,
“There's no rebel lurking near me,
Nothing lies in wait for me."

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