But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,
Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.
Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—
Wounded boys from the Vermont Hills and the Alabama dells;
“Put them into this ambulance; I’ll ride to the front,” he said,
And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.
From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,
And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,
As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,
Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!