A ghost in the saddle is riding them down, the
spurs of Pain at his heels;
They are cut to the bone, they rush and they groan,
as a wake in the barley reels:
And faces rise with haggard eyes where the wake
in the barley reels.
The blue and the gray lie face to face and their
fingers harrow the loam,
There's a sob and a prayer in the smoky air as
their winged thoughts fly home.