he dies."

Then all the blood that was in me surged up to my aching brow,
And my heart leaped up like a ball in my throat--I can feel it even now,
And I said I would bring that boy from the field, if God would spare my
breath,
If all the guns in Mission Ridge should thunder the threat of death.

I crept and crept up the ghastly ridge, by the wounded and the dead,
With the moans of my comrades right and left, behind me and yet ahead,
Till I came to the form of our Drummer Boy, in his blouse of dusty blue,
With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, where the blast of
the battle blew.

And his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of
stone,
As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own;
And he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills
me yet,
"I think in a moment more that I would have stood on that parapet.

"But now I nevermore will climb, and, Sergeant, when you see
The men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me;
For though I cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise,
I may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies."

Well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore,
But I raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore;
And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy,
And uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant Drummer Boy.

When sped the news that "Fighting Joe" had saved the Union right,
With his legions fresh from Lookout; and that Thomas massed his might
And forced the rebel center; and our cheering ran like wild;
And Sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child;

When Grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly
Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, where'er he cast his eye;
And when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done,
The fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won;

Then his bright black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wide,
And in that hour of conquest our little hero died.
But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old,
For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold!

And when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won,
Of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done;
Of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead,
The gory sod beneath them, the bursting shell o'erhead,

My heart goes back to Mission Ridge and the Drum