Evening draws nigh, and the daylight
    In golden splendor dies;
  And the stars look down through the gloaming
    With soft and tender eyes.

  I sit alone in the twilight,
    And lazily whiff my cigar,
  Watching the blue wreaths curling,
    And thrumming my old guitar: 

  Old, and battered, and dusty,—­
    A veteran covered with scars;
  Yet to me the most precious of treasures,
    The sweetest of all guitars.

  For a gentle spirit dwells in it,
    That speaks through the trembling strings,
  And in echo to my thrumming
    A wonderful melody sings.

  As I softly strike the measures,
    The spirit murmurs low
  A song of departed pleasures,
    A dream of the long ago.

  And like a weird enchanter
    It paints in the star-lit sky
  Pictures from memory’s record,
    Scenes of the days gone by.

  And as the ripples of music
    Float out on the evening air,
  There comes to me a vision
    Of the girl with the golden hair.

  Kindly she turns upon me. 
    Those lustrous, violet eyes,
  And my heart with passionate yearnings
    To meet her eagerly flies.

  Nearer she comes, and yet nearer,
    At the beck of the spirit’s wand,
  And I feel the gentle pressure
    On my brow of her warm, white hand—­

  Tr-r-r-rum-ti-tum-tum, tr-r-r-rum-ti-tum-tum!
  ’Tis the warning voice of the rolling drum. 
  Through the awakened night air come
  The stern command and the busy hum
          Of hurried preparation. 
  ’Tis no time now for idle strumming
  Of light guitars:  in that loud drumming
  Is fearful meaning; the hour is coming
  That for some of us will be the summing
          Of all life’s preparation.

Quick, quick, my boys:  fall in! fall in! 
Now is the hour when we begin
The battle with this monstrous sin. 
Onward to victory!—­or to win
A patriot’s martyrdom! 
Stay no longer to bandy words;
Trust we now to our gleaming swords;
For foul rebellion’s dastardly hordes
A terrible hour has come.

By all that you love beneath the skies;
By the world of cherished memories;
By your hopes for the coming years;
By the tender light of your loved one’s eyes;
By the warm, white hands you so highly prize;
By your mothers’ parting tears,
Swear the horrible wrong to crush! 
What though you fall in the battle’s rush,
And the velvet leaves of the greensward blush
With your young life’s crimson tide? 
The angels look down with pitying love,
And your tale will be told in the record above: 
‘For his country’s honor he died.’

The gentle strings of the light guitar,
Waking soft echoes from memory’s chords,
And tender dreams of home—­
The noise, and the pomp, and the glitter of war;
The furious charge, and the clashing swords;
The song of the rolling drum.