By David J. Pratt Co. I, 8th C.V.
April 19, 1865. Vol. 1. No. 29. Page 4
Still upon the field of battle,
I am lying, mother dear,
With my wounded comrades waiting
For the morning to appear.
Many sleep to waken never
In this world of strife and death,
And many more are faintly calling,
With their feeble, dying breath.
Oh, the first great charge was fearful,
And a thousand brave men fell,
Still, amid the dreadful carnage,
I was safe from shot and shell,
So amid the fatal shower,
I had nearly passed the day,
When then the howling shell struck me,
And I sunk amid the fray.
Oh, the glorious cheer of triumph,
When the foeman turned and fled,
Leaving us the field of battle,
Strewn with dying and with dead.
Oh, the torture and the anguish,
That I could not follow on,
But here, amid my fallen comrades,
I must wait till morning’s dawn.
Dear Marion, when the moon with glory brightens
In fair heaven’s silvery sea,
And the field and streamlet lighten,
Maiden, wilt thou roam with me?
When all nature is reposing,
And the night is calm and free,
When my troubles ever loosing,
I would wander forth with thee.