John Burns of Gettysburg Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, But all such fanciful thoughts as these Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,— Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folks say, He fought so well on that terrible day. And it was terrible. On the right While on the left-where now the graves That all that day unceasing swept The turkeys screamed with might and main, The brooding barn-fowl left their rest Just where the tide of battle turns, 2441 How do you think the man was dressed? And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, Close at his elbows all that day, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy repertoire: "How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!” "Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!" Called him "Daddy,"-begged he'd disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer or scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off,— With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat, 'Twas but a moment, for that respect Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, Farragut In the antique vestments and long white hair, So raged the battle. You know the rest: At which John Burns--a practical man— That is the story of old John Burns; 2443 In fighting the battle, the question's whether FARRAGUT [MOBILE BAY, August 5, 1864] FARRAGUT, Farragut, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke, Watches the hoary mist Greets the young day. Far, by gray Morgan's walls, Looms the black fleet. Hark, deck to rampart calls With the drums' beat! Buoy your chains overboard, While the steam hums; Men! to the battlement, Farragut comes. See, as the hurricane Squadrons of clouds amain Back to the parapet, To the guns' lips, Thunderbolt Farragut Hurls the black ships. Now through the battle's roar "Nor' by East keep her," "Steady," but two alive: How the shells sweep her! Lashed to the mast that sways Round the torn wrecks, Over the dying lips Framed for a cheer, Farragut leads his ships, Guides the line clear. On by heights cannon-browed, While the spars quiver; Onward still flames the cloud Where the hulks shiver. See, yon fort's star is set, Cheer him, lads-Farragut, Lashed to the mast! Oh! while Atlantic's breast Bears a white sail, While the Gulf's towering crest Tops a green vale, Craven Men thy bold deeds shall tell, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke! William Tuckey Meredith [1839– 2445 CRAVEN [MOBILE BAY, AUGUST 5, 1864] OVER the turret, shut in his ironclad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game. There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, The flag was flying, and he was head of the line. The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed Into the narrowing channel, between the shore Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower, They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,— Down the ladder he went, and Craven died. |