But where are the loved ones we met here of yore?
Their forms and their faces we'll see nevermore;
Their loud, cheery laugh and swift-coming feet
No more in the Sabbath-school ever to greet.
Some have launched out on the world's busy tide,
Some have got married, some have died,
Some on the frontier, wading through strife,
With the musketry's rattle and the wild scalper's knife.
Some by the camp-fires, with their minds on the rack,
Eating salt pork with a little hard-tack,
Wading through snow or fording a river,
Or asleep on the ground without any cover.
From the falls of Missouri, with its loud, maddening roar,
To the slopes of Pacific, an ever-green shore,
To the Atlantic Ocean, with a coast sand-bound,
There some of my boys are sure to be found.
To the northward, to the westward, and fair, sunny south,
Like the dove with the olive-branch of peace in its mouth,
Thus they've gone forth their garlands to weave,
When they get through they'll return with the sheaves.
Some on the Lone Star, quite at their ease,
Eating their rations, doing just as they please,
Basking in sunshine among the sweet flowers,
Whiling away the long, tedious hours.
KOSCIUSZKO GARDEN.