At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe, By a shell-shattered caisson we found him; And we buried him there in the sunset’s red glow, With the dear old flag knotted around him. Yet how could we mourn, when each drum’s muffled strain Told of foemen hurled back in disorder,— When we knew the North reaped her rich harvest of grain, Unharmed by a foe on her border!
JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG.
By BRET HARTE.
[A Union officer who was with the Eleventh Corps in the battle of Gettysburg says: “During the first day’s fight, an old man, in a swallow-tailed coat and battered cylinder hat, came stalking across the fields from the town, and made his appearance at Colonel Stone’s position. With a musket in his hand and ammunition in his pocket, this venerable citizen asked Colonel Wister’s permission to fight. Wister directed him to go over to the Iron Brigade, where he would be sheltered by the woods; but the old man insisted on going forward to the skirmish line. He was allowed to do so, and continued firing until the skirmishers retired, when he was the last man to leave. He afterwards fought with the Iron Brigade, where he was three times wounded. This patriotic and heroic citizen was Constable John Burns of Gettysburg.”—Author’s note.]
