A laughing word, a gesture kind,—­
    We did not ask for more,
  With thirty weary miles behind,
    A weary fight before.

  The gun grew light to every man,
    The crossed belts ceased their stress,
  As onward to the column’s van
    We watched our leader press.

  Within an hour we saw him lie,
    A bullet in his brain,
  His manly face turned to the sky,
    And beaten by the rain.

JOSEPH O’CONNOR.

* * * * *

DIRGE FOB A SOLDIER[A]

[Footnote A:  Major-General Philip Kearny.]

  Close his eyes; his work is done! 
    What to him is friend or foeman,
  Rise of moon or set of sun,
    Hand of man or kiss of woman? 
      Lay him low, lay him low,
      In the clover or the snow! 
      What cares he? he cannot know;
        Lay him low!

  As man may, he fought his fight,
    Proved his truth by his endeavor;
  Let him sleep in solemn night,
    Sleep forever and forever. 
      Lay him low, lay him low,
      In the clover or the snow! 
      What cares he? he cannot know;
        Lay him low!

  Fold him in his country’s stars,
    Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
  What to him are all our wars?—­
    What but death-bemocking folly? 
      Lay him low, lay him low,
      In the clover or the snow! 
      What cares he? he cannot know;
        Lay him low!

  Leave him to God’s watching eye;
    Trust him to the hand that made him. 
  Mortal love weeps idly by;
    God alone has power to aid him. 
      Lay him low, lay him low,
      In the clover or the snow! 
      What cares he? he cannot know;
        Lay him low!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

* * * * *

BAY BILLY.

[December 15, 1862.]

  ’Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg,—­
    Perhaps the day you reck,
  Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine,
    Kept Early’s men in check. 
  Just where Wade Hampton boomed away
    The fight went neck and neck.

  All day the weaker wing we held,
    And held it with a will. 
  Five several stubborn times we charged
    The battery on the hill,
  And five times beaten back, re-formed,
    And kept our column still.

  At last from out the centre fight
    Spurred up a general’s aide: 
  “That battery must silenced be!”
    He cried, as past he sped. 
  Our colonel simply touched his cap,
    And then, with measured tread,

  To lead the crouching line once more
    The grand old fellow came. 
  No wounded man but raised his head
    And strove to gasp his name,
  And those who could not speak nor stir,
    “God blessed him” just the same.