So ye 're runnin' fer Congress, mister? Le 'me tell

ye 'bout my son—

Might make you fellers carefuller down there in

Washington—

He clings to his rifle an' uniform—folks call him

Whisperin' Bill;

An' I tell ye the war ain't over yit up here on

Bowman's Hill.

This dooryard is his battle-field—le's see, he was nigh

sixteen

When Sumter fell, an' as likely a boy as ever this

world has seen;

An' what with the news o' battles lost, the speeches

an' all the noise,

I guess ev'ry farm in the neighborhood lost a part

of its crop o' boys.

'T was harvest time when Bill left home; ev'ry stalk

in the fields o' rye

Seemed to stan' tiptoe to see him off an' wave him

a fond good-bye;

His sweetheart was here with some other gals—the

sassy little miss!

An' purtendin' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, she

give him a rousin' kiss.

Oh, he was a han'some feller! an' tender an' brave

an' smart,

An' though he was bigger 'n I was, the boy had a

woman's heart.

I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all

my might,

An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till Bill was

out o' sight.

His mother she often tol' him, when she knew he

was goin' away,

That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he

didn't fergit to pray;

An' on the bloodiest battle-fields, when bullets

whizzed in the air,

An' Bill was a-fightin' desperit, he used to whisper

a prayer.

Oh, his comrades has often tol' me that Bill never

flinched a bit

When every second a gap in the ranks tol' where

a ball had hit.

An' one night, when the field was covered with the

awful harvest o' war,

They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause

he was fightin' for.

His fingers was clutched in the dewy grass—oh,

no, sir, he wasn't dead,

But he lay kind o' helpless an' crazy with a rifleball

in his head;

An' he trembled with the battle-fear as he lay there

in the dew;

An' he whispered as he tried to rise: "God 'll take

care o' you."

An officer wrote an' toL' us how the boy had been

hurt in the fight,

But he said the doctors reckoned they could bring

him around all right.

An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at

Malvern Hill,

That he thought in the course of a week or so he'd

be comin' home with Bill.

We was that anxious t' see him we'd set up an'

talk o' nights

Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an'

put out the Northern Lights;

We waited an' watched fer a month or more, an'

the summer was nearly past,

When a letter come one day that said they'd started

fer home at last.

I'll never fergit the day Bill come—'twas harvest

time again—

An' the air blown over the yeller fields was sweet

with the scent o' the grain;

The dooryard was full o' the neighbors, who had

come to share our joy,

An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o'

that soldier boy.

An' all of a sudden somebody said: "My God!

don't the boy know his mother?"

An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' a-starin'

from one to another;

"Don't be afraid, Bill," says he to himself, as he

stood in his coat o' blue,

"Why, God 'll take care o' you, Bill, God 'll take

care o' you."

He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun, an' to act

like a man who hears

The awful roar o' the battle-field a-soundin' in his

ears;

Ten thousan' ghosts o' that bloody day was marchin'

through his brain

An' his feet they kind o' picked their way as if

they felt the slain.

An' I grabbed his hand, an' says I to Bill, "Don't

ye 'member me?

I'm yer father—don't ye know me? How frightened

ye seem to be!"

But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if

'twas all he knew,

"God'll take o' you, Bill, God'll take care o'

you."

He's never known us since that day, nor his

sweetheart, an' never will;

Father an' mother an' sweetheart are all the same

to Bill.

An' he groans like a wounded soldier, sometimes

the whole night through,

An' we smooth his head, an' say: "Yes, Bill,

He 'll surely take care o' you."

Ye can stop a war in a minute, but when can ye

stop the groans?

Fer ye've broke our hearts an' sapped our blood

an' plucked away our bones.

An' ye've filled our souls with bitterness that goes

from sire to son,

So ye best be kind o' careful down there in Washington.