large/7841/battle-pieces_aspects_war_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/battle-pieces_27_melville_64kb_25
large/7841/battle-pieces_aspects_war_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/battle-pieces_27_melville_64kb
English
7841
_Far West, and farther South, Wherever the sword has been, Deserted camps are met, And desert graves are seen. FAR WEST AND FARTHER SOUTH WHEREVER THE SWORD HAS BEEN DESERTED CAMPS ARE MET AND DESERT GRAVES ARE SEEN
s bubbling for punch for our braves. What if the night be drear, and the blast Ghostly shrieks? their rollicking staves Make frolic the heart; beating time with their swords, What care they if Winter raves? _Is life but a dream? and so, In the dream do men laugh aloud? So strange seems mirth in a camp, So like a white tent to a shroud._ II The May-weed springs; and comes a Man And mounts our Signal Hill; A quiet Man, and plain in garb-- Briefly he looks his fill, Then drops his gray eye on the ground, Like a loaded mortar he is still: Meekness and grimness meet in him-- The silent General. _Were men but strong and wise, Honest as Grant, and calm, War would be left to the red and black ants, And the happy world disarm._ That eve a stir was in the camps, Forerunning quiet soon to come Among the streets of beechen huts No more to know the drum. The weed shall choke the lowly door, And foxes peer within the gloom, Till scared perchange by Mosby’s prowling men, Who ride in the rear of doom. R A HEARTHSTONE THERE THE WATER IS BUBBLING FOR PUNCH FOR OUR BRAVES WHAT IF THE NIGHT BE DREAR AND THE BLAST GHOSTLY SHRIEKS THEIR ROLLICKING STAVES MAKE FROLIC THE HEART BEATING TIME WITH THEIR SWORDS WHAT CARE THEY IF WINTER RAVES IS LIFE BUT A DREAM AND SO IN THE DREAM DO MEN LAUGH ALOUD SO STRANGE SEEMS MIRTH IN A CAMP SO LIKE A WHITE TENT TO A SHROUD TWO THE MAYWEED SPRINGS AND COMES A MAN AND MOUNTS OUR SIGNAL HILL A QUIET MAN AND PLAIN IN GARB BRIEFLY HE LOOKS HIS FILL THEN DROPS HIS GREY EYE ON THE GROUND LIKE A LOADED MORTAR HE IS STILL MEEKNESS AND GRIMNESS MEET IN HIM THE SILENT GENERAL WERE MEN BUT STRONG AND WISE HONEST IS GRANT AND CALM WAR WOULD BE LEFT TO THE RED AND BLACK ANTS AND THE HAPPY WORLD DISARM THAT EVE A STIR WAS IN THE CAMPS FOR RUNNING QUIET SOON TO COME AMONG THE STREETS OF BEECH AND HUTS NO MORE TO KNOW THE DRUM THE WEEDS SHALL CHOKE THE LOWLY DOOR AND FOXES PEER WITHIN THE GLOOM TILL SCARED PERCHANCE BY MOSEBY'S PROWLING MEN WHO RIDE IN THE REAR OF DOOM
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