Her daily lot for more than twenty years
Has been the widow’s toil, and widow’s tears.
Comrades, we’re growing old; upon our hairs
Gather the frosts of more than twenty years,
Since in the trench at Petersburg we lay,
Or, gayly holding our triumphal way,
Unto the sea we swept with Sherman’s pennon,
Or heard the roar of Stonewall Jackson’s cannon,
Waking the echoes of the Rapidan,
Or through the valley whirled with Sheridan.