Scarcely had the words been spoken, Fell upon the dew-wet ground, ! CAVALRY RAID. TO BATON ROUGE, LA., AUGUST 5TH, '62. "TO HORSE! to horse!" the trumpet's breath Is wafted o'er wide fields of death; A thousand horsemen mount their steed A thousand sabres flash in the air- Again the bugle sounds: and now No craven voice is heard to cry, Their tramp is like the ocean's roar Death leads the van, and then Some seek by hasty steps to hide The sabre's edge is clogged with gore, Yes! 'tis the doom of traitors; on The bugle calls from strife; the sky The traitors in their quick retreat, How many souls in fear have fled! N And treason with its hollow eye To fill our homes with blood and strife; And sabres flash from many a side Seizing with willing hand the knife ! Onward they march; above the rest OSCAR J. WISNER. THE DYING COLOR-BEARER. AT THE BATTLE OF LONE JACK, MO., OH! take me home to die, brother; Would dream again the pleasant dreams Of the sweet songs that mother sang, Near where the laughing forest stream, Close by the old, moss-grown churchyard, I there would long to sleep, That in the morn, the tear-gem'd flow'rs May o'er me bow and weep. 'Mid trumpet's call, drum's dreaded roll, And cannon's fearful roar, Bright bay'nets glance and sabres flash, Yet warm with human gore Our men, with steady front, charged on Upon the rebel foe, Where carnage red looked on dire deeds Of sickening, mortal woe. |