For memory brought us back again to times of darkest woe,
When, strong in hand and light in heart, he fought the Northern foe.
He often spoke of ’46—the fight on Mexic’s plain—
How Buena Vista heights were reached while bullets fell like rain.
How Shields had gained Chapultepec, how Santa Anna fled,
And how the Sisters labored even where the bullets sped;
And oft he spoke of later times, but always with a sigh,
When South and North rose up to fight en masse for cause or die.
And as beside the fire he sat and piped his meerschaum well,
We asked, to pass the time away, that he a tale should tell.