Oh, the soldier will be dreaming,
Dreaming often of us all,
(When the damp earth is his pillow,
And the snow and cold sleet fall),
Of the dear, familiar faces,
Of the cozy, curtained room,
Of the flitting of the shadows
In the twilight's pensive gloom.
Or when summer suns burn o'er him,
Bringing drought and dread disease,
And the throes of wasting fever
Come his weary frame to seize--
In the restless sleep of sickness,
Doomed, perchance, to martyr death,
Hear him whisper "Home"--sweet cadence,
With his quickened, labored breath.
Then God bless him, bless the soldier,
And God nerve him for the fight;
May He lend his arm new prowess
To do battle for the right.
Let him feel that while he's dreaming
In his fitful slumber bound,
That we're praying--God watch o'er him
In his blanket on the ground.
The Mountain Partisan.
I.
My rifle, pouch, and knife!
My steed! And then we part!
One loving kiss, dear wife,
One press of heart to heart!
Cling to me yet awhile,
But stay the sob, the tear!
Smile--only try to smile--
And I go without a fear.
II.
Our little cradled boy,
He sleeps--and in his sleep,
Smiles, with an angel joy,
Which tells thee not to weep.
I'll kneel beside, and kiss--
He will not wake the while,
Thus dreaming of the bliss,
That bids thee, too, to smile.
III.
Think not, dear wife, I go,
With a light thought at my heart
'Tis a pang akin to woe,
That fills me as we part;
But when the wolf was heard
To howl around our lot,
Thou know'st, dear mother-bird,
I slew him on the spot!