For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son’s again.
The summer day grew cold and late, He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,—
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,— But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale from the crisping hair Looked out a face that the father knew.
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies, Together they followed the cattle home.
