Oh, no! no! he’ll not need them again—
No more will he wake to behold,
The splendor and fame of his men—
The tale of his victories told!
No more will he wake from that sleep,
Which he sleeps in his glory and fame,
While his comrades are left here to weep
Over Cleburne! his grave and his name.
Oh, no; he’ll not meet them again,
No more will his banner be spread
O’er the field of his gallantry’s fame;
The soldier’s proud spirit is fled!
The soldier who rose ’mid applause,
From the humblemost place in the van—
I sing not in praise of the cause,
But rather in praise of the man.
Oh, no; he’ll not need them again,
He has fought his last battle without them,
For barefoot he, too, must go in,
While barefoot stood comrades about him;
And barefoot they proudly marched on,
With blood flowing fast from their feet;
They thought of the past victories won,
And the foes that they now were to meet.
Oh, no; he’ll not need them again,
He is leading his men to the charge,
Unheeding the shells or the slain,
Or the showers of the bullets at large.
On the right, on the left, on the flanks,
He dashingly pushes his way,
While with cheers, double quick and in ranks,
His soldiers all followed that day.
Oh, no; he’ll not need them again,
He falls from his horse to the ground!
O anguish! O sorrow! O pain!
In the brave hearts that gathered around;
He breathes not of grief, nor a sigh
On the breast where he pillowed his head,
Ere he fix’d his last gaze upon high—
“I’m killed, boys, but fight it out!” said.
Oh, no; he’ll not need them again,
But treasure them up for his sake;
And oh, should you sing a refrain,
Of the memories they still must awake,
Sing it soft as the summer-eve breeze,
Let it sound as refreshing and clear;
Tho’ grief-born there’s that which can please,
In thoughts that are gemmed with a tear. |