THE BROTHER'S BURIAL.
BY ISABELLA McFARLANE.
Hear me, stranger, hear me tell
How my gallant brother fell.
We were rushing on the foe,
When a bullet laid him low.
At my very side he fell—
He whom I did love so well.
On we rushed—I could not stay—
There I left him where he lay.
Then when fled the rebel rout,
I came back and searched him out.
Wounded, bleeding, suffering, dying,
Midst a heap of dead men lying.
Friend and foe above each other—
There I found my mangled brother.
Blind with tears, I lifted him:
But his eyes were sunk and dim.
'Brother, when I'm dead,' said he,
'Find some box to coffin me.'
For he could not bear to rest
With the cold earth on his breast.
All around the camp I sought;
Box for coffin found I not.
Still I searched and hunted round—
Three waste cracker-boxes found;
Nailed them fast to one another,—
Laid therein my precious brother!
Then a grave for him I made,
Hands and bayonet all my spade.
Long I worked, yet 'twas not deep:
There I laid him down to sleep.
There I laid my gallant brother:
Earth contains not such another!
Little more than boys were we,
I sixteen, and nineteen he.
For his country's sake he died,
And for her I'd lie beside.