Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as cool, as clear of mood
Be thou whene er it sees the sun;
For country s claim, at honor s call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy s voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier boy a blade.
The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains.
So when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by these heartfelt strains
I give my soldier boy a blade.
"THE BRIGADE MUST NOT KNOW, SIR!"
"Who Ve ye got there?" "Only a dying brother, Hurt in the front just now."
"Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother Where he was killed, and how."
"Whom have you there?" "A crippled courier, Major, Shot by mistake, we hear. He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they Ve made here; Quick with him to the rear!"
"Well, who comes next?" "Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; Don t let the men find out! It s Stonewall!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir, While there s a foe about!"
