June 21, 1865. Vol. 1. No. 38. Page 1
With whom dwells honor, fame and glory,
Is patriotism but a story?
Go to yonder field of battle!
Hear the cannon loudly rattle!
Mark the soldier’s manly bearing,
See him rush to deeds of daring,
Leaden hail around him flying,
Heeds he not the dead and dying;
Tell him, ere it is too late,
He may meet a kindred fate;
See his face then burn with scorning;
He will spurn your coward warning,
Wave his hand in haughty manner,
Turn his eyes to freedom’s banner.
Was it wealth, or fame, or glory,
Led him to that field so gory?
Does he not love ease and pleasure?
Does he not prize golden treasure?
Ye who scheme to fill your purses,
Deaf alike to prayers and curses;
Ye whose hands are grasping plunder,
Ye who shun the battle’s thunder,
He, our soldier, brave and true,
He loves life as well as you.
He loves ease and golden store,
But he loves his country more!
His home pleasures are as dear,
And his little ones as near.
In some far off quiet spot,
Stands his humble little cot,
Where some faithful heart is yearning
For the absent one’s returning.
Where his children lisp a prayer
That kind Heaven his life may spare;
They, alas! may live to tell
How their sire in battle fell;
How their mother, broken-hearted
From her orphans soon departed.
Children of the patriot dead,
In the streets now beg their bread;
Will history write the private’s name
In the annals of her fame?
Let us bow with veneration,
To these saviors of our nation;
These who die on freedom’s shrine,
Bleeding for your rights and mine;
Humbly let us bow before them,
Proudly let our flag wave o’er them!
Private soldier, brave and true!
Patriotism dwells with you!