INTRODUCTORY.
xv
In one of the wild skirmishes with the Indians, "Chicago" was killed by an arrow, and in falling confined his rider to the ground. The savages swept down to secure the tempting scalp, but were arrested by the fall of their leader, shot by a sergeant, also dismounted, who ran to the assistance of his officer, and delivered his fire over the dead body of the horse.
The Lieutenant, mourning the loss of his valued steed and companion, after the fight, to prevent him from becoming food for the wild animals of the prairie, buried him where he fell. These lines, written in pencil on the back of a blank requisition for holsters, bridle-bits, etc., were found, after Lieut. Davidson's death, in a pocket of his waistcoat:—
EPITAPH ON MY HORSE.
And thou art dead, my noble steed!
The duties of a friend are done:
Thou wert the soldier's friend, indeed,
And nobly has thy course been run.
That flashing eye, that lofty head,
Are dim, and spiritless, and dead,
And stiffened are thy limbs of speed.
The duties of a friend are done:
Thou wert the soldier's friend, indeed,
And nobly has thy course been run.
That flashing eye, that lofty head,
Are dim, and spiritless, and dead,
And stiffened are thy limbs of speed.
O! if the bugle's stirring blast,
With war's enlivening influence rife,
Could usher back the moments past,
And raise the slumbering dead to life:
How quickly would'st thou prance again,
And limbs, and nerves, and sinews strain,
To taste the raptures of the strife.
With war's enlivening influence rife,
Could usher back the moments past,
And raise the slumbering dead to life:
How quickly would'st thou prance again,
And limbs, and nerves, and sinews strain,
To taste the raptures of the strife.
