By W. F. W.
And it is but a handful, the telegrams add, To those who are coming by boats and by cars, Weary and wounded, dying and sad; Covered—but only in front—with scars.
Some are wounded by Minie shot, Others are torn by the hissing shell, As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot As a demon spawned in a traitor’s hell.
Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet, Others are crushed by the horses’ hoof, Or fell ’neath the shower of iron which met Them as hail beats down on an open roof.
Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate? Why was this living death their doom? Why did they fall to this piteous state Neath the rifle’s crack and the cannon’s boom?
Orders arrived, and the river they crossed; Built the bridge in the enemy’s face; No matter how many were shot and lost, And floated—sad corpses—away from the place.
Orders they heard, and they scaled the height, Climbing right “into the jaws of death”; Each man grasping his rifle-piece tight, Scarcely pausing to draw his breath.
Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame From hidden fence and from ambuscade; A moment more—(they say this is fame)— A thousand dead men on the grass were laid.
Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed, At least, is “our loss,” the newspapers say. This loss to our army must surely be filled Against another great battle day.