WILLIAM GORDON McCABE 257 And sweetly from the far-off years Comes borne the laughter faint and low, The voices of the Long Ago! My eyes are wet with tender tears. I feel again the mother-kiss, I see again the glad surprise That lighted up the tranquil eyes And brimmed them o er with tears of bliss, As, rushing from the old hall door, She fondly clasped her wayward boy Her face all radiant with the joy She felt to see him home once more. My saber swinging on the bough Gleams in the watch fire s fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow Aslant upon my saddened brow. Those cherished faces all are gone! Asleep within the quiet graves Where lies the snow in drifting waves, And I am sitting here alone. There s not a comrade here to-night But knows that loved ones far away On bended knees this night will pray:
"God bring our darling from the fight." But there are none to wish me back, For me no yearning prayers arise. The lips are mute and closed the eyes My home is in the bivouac.
