Who on the vet'ran's breast reclines.
Has thrown aside the favorite toy,
And round his tender finger twines
Those scattered locks, that, with the flight
Of ninety years are snowy white;
And, as a tear arrests his view,
He cries, 'Grandpa, what wounded you?' "
Hannah F. Gould.
Broad flashes of sheet lightning, and rumbling thunder, on the van of an approaching shower, made us use the whip freely when we left the dark lane of the patriot. We reached Newburgh at eleven o'clock, wearied and supperless, the tempest close upon us, but in time to escape a drenching. This, be it remembered, was on the occasion of my second visit to the camp ground in New Windsor, in the fervid summer time. Let us resume our narrative of the autumnal tour.