Poems (Jones)/A Rebel Flag of Truce
ET us bury our dead:
Since we may not of vantage or victory prate;
And our army, so grand in the onslaught of late,
All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead,—
For the carnage was great:
Let us bury our dead.
A REBEL FLAG OF TRUCE.
ET us bury our dead:Since we may not of vantage or victory prate;
And our army, so grand in the onslaught of late,
All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead,—
For the carnage was great:
Let us bury our dead.
"Let us bury our dead.
Oh, we thought to surprise you, as, panting and flushed,
From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed:
But you fought like the gods—till we faltered and fled,
And the earth, how it blushed!
Let us bury our dead."
Oh, we thought to surprise you, as, panting and flushed,
From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed:
But you fought like the gods—till we faltered and fled,
And the earth, how it blushed!
Let us bury our dead."
So we bury our dead—
From the field; from the range and the crash of the gun;
From the kisses of love; from the face of the sun!
Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed!
Lay them in, one by one:
So we bury our dead.
From the field; from the range and the crash of the gun;
From the kisses of love; from the face of the sun!
Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed!
Lay them in, one by one:
So we bury our dead.
Fast we bury our dead:
All too scanty the time, let us work as we may,
For the foe burns for strife and our ranks are at bay:
O'er the graves we are digging what legions will tread—
Swift, and eager to slay,
Though we bury our dead.
All too scanty the time, let us work as we may,
For the foe burns for strife and our ranks are at bay:
O'er the graves we are digging what legions will tread—
Swift, and eager to slay,
Though we bury our dead.
See, we bury our dead!
Oh they fought as the young and the dauntless will fight,
Who fancy their war is a war for the right!
Right or wrong, it was precious—this blood they have shed:
Surely God will requite,
And we bury our dead.
Oh they fought as the young and the dauntless will fight,
Who fancy their war is a war for the right!
Right or wrong, it was precious—this blood they have shed:
Surely God will requite,
And we bury our dead.
Yes, we bury our dead.
If they erred as they fought, will He charge them with blame,
When their hearts beat aright, and the truth was their aim?
Nay, never in vain has such offering bled—
North or South, 't is the same—
Fast we bury our dead.
If they erred as they fought, will He charge them with blame,
When their hearts beat aright, and the truth was their aim?
Nay, never in vain has such offering bled—
North or South, 't is the same—
Fast we bury our dead.
Thus we bury our dead.
Oh, ye men of the North, with your banner that waves
Far and wide o'er our Southland, made rugged with graves,
Are ye verily right, that so well ye have sped?
Were we wronging our slaves?
Well—we bury our dead!
Oh, ye men of the North, with your banner that waves
Far and wide o'er our Southland, made rugged with graves,
Are ye verily right, that so well ye have sped?
Were we wronging our slaves?
Well—we bury our dead!
Ah, we bury our dead!
And granting you all you have claimed on the whole—
Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,
To be spurned at Heaven's court when its records are read?
Nay, expound not the scroll
Till we bury our dead!
And granting you all you have claimed on the whole—
Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,
To be spurned at Heaven's court when its records are read?
Nay, expound not the scroll
Till we bury our dead!
Haste and bury our dead!
No time for revolving of right and of wrong;
We must venture our souls with the rest of the throng;
And our God must be Judge, as he sits overhead,
Of the weak and the strong,
While we bury our dead.
No time for revolving of right and of wrong;
We must venture our souls with the rest of the throng;
And our God must be Judge, as he sits overhead,
Of the weak and the strong,
While we bury our dead.
Now peace to our dead:
Fair grow the sweet blossoms of spring where they lie:
Hark! the musketry roars, and the rifles reply;
Oh the fight will be close and the carnage be dread—
To the ranks let us hie,
We have buried our dead.
Fair grow the sweet blossoms of spring where they lie:
Hark! the musketry roars, and the rifles reply;
Oh the fight will be close and the carnage be dread—
To the ranks let us hie,
We have buried our dead.