  Eighty winters have turned him white, White of beard and of crown, Slackened his steps and dimmed his sight, Bent him and weighed him down, Not only with war, but with toils of peace, Toil of the pioneer’s life, Now at eighty he takes his ease, The fruit of his years is rife. Proud he is of the things achieved, Glad for things as they are, Greater far than he once believed When new was his battle-scar; But he lives in the past, and speaks Often of bloody frays, Of roaring guns and shrapnel’s shrieks In dark Rebellion days. Bull Run, Chancellorsville, but most Gettysburg’s three days fight, Pickett’s charge, and the thousands lost, Burying them in the night, These are subjects on which he dwells, For he himself was there. Younger he seems while he sits and tells, A smouldering fire seems flare. Tales of war by a man who loves Peace and good will among men, Veterans pride without silken gloves, Calling the rebel his friend, Sighs he and says: “Oh, war is hell; Costlier far than mortal can tell, Nations who keep it are wise.” Met him I did the other day, Reading a morning-sheet: “Blame on the Mexicans for the way Our Old Glory they treat, Tearing it down from our consulate, Trampling it in the mud, Flag of the free must it meet such a fate, Flag, bought with patriots’ blood!” “Reading such things, I feel that I could Shoulder a musket still, Feel that my insulted country should ‘Rise in its strength with a will, Lifting Old Glory o’er Mexico, Ne’er to come down again, Patriots’ fire—has it ceased to glow?— Look to your flag, young men!” |
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