little company fell together
worthy of brief mention. One, a singer, had spread out his rubber cloth
upon the wet ground, and was reclining upon it. Eight others had joined
him, also singers, sitting down on the edges of the cloth; and they
were singing together. A row of listeners sat perched on a rail fence
five or six feet in front of them, and others were ranged around in
various picturesque situations and attitudes. These swelled the
choruses and joined in the melody according to their skill and
knowledge. And what did they sing? "Gideon's Band"? "Hail Columbia"?
"Kingdom Coming"? or any of those songs with which we were wont days
before to greet the larks and the freshly risen sun when resuming the
march after an uncomfortable bivouac? No, nothing of the sort. But in
soft low tones they warbled the most plaintive songs. Because of our
hope, we counted over and over again the remaining days of wandering
allotted to us by the terms of our enlistment, and beguiled one another
with scenes of home revisited. But because there was fear and
uncertainty mingled with our hope, we thought of that home tenderly,
and were in no mood of exultation in our singing. Those who remember
that little chance way-side festival will have no difficulty of
recognising the spirit which animated it in the following melodies,
which were always great favorites with us when we were in a plaintive
mood:--

Why am I so weak and weary?
See how faint my heated breath!
All around to me seems darkness;
Tell me, comrades, is this death?
Ah! how well I know your answer;
To my fate I'll meekly bow,
If you'll only tell me truly,
Who will care for mother now?

CHORUS: Soon with angels I'll be marching,
With bright laurels on my brow;
I have for my Country fallen,
Who will care for mother now?

Who will comfort her in sorrow?
Who will dry the falling tear?
Gently smooth her wrinkled forehead?
Who will whisper words of cheer?
Even now I think I see her
Kneeling, praying for me! How
Can I leave her in her anguish?
Who will care for mother now?

Let this knapsack be my pillow,
And my mantle be the sky;
Hasten, comrades, to the battle!
I will like a soldier die.
Soon with angels I'll be marching,
With bright laurels on my brow;
I have for my Country fallen.
Who will care for mother