Loved of all the National Greys.
Tears, those Soldiers’ eyes suffuse;
Sad and solemn is the news;
Clarie rudely from them torn,—
From their ranks forever gone.
Mirthful Clarie, Buoyant Clarie!
Fav’rite with the National Greys.
Clarie now lies still and cold
(Only twelve brief summers old)
Low beneath the mould’ring sod,