O God! it was an awful thing to die with help so near!
And death was stealing o’er me: with the strength of wild despair.
I raised the standard o’er my head, and waved it through the air.
Then all grew dim: the fire, the men, all vanished from my sight,
My senses reeled: I know no more of that eventful night.
’Twas weeks before my mind came back: I knew not where I lay,
But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades came each day.
They told me how the waving flag that night had caught their eye,
And how they found me bleeding there, and thought that I must die;
No wonder ’twas with all their care, I soon began to mend.