  NOW who is the delightfulest Old soldier that shakes hands with you? The genial host, the welcome guest, The teeming brain, the bosom true, The soul of song and merry jest? The prince of all good fellows, who? “Why, William Baird of Ridgeville!” Whenever meets the G. A. R., Through rain or dust he hies to town; He gladdens the excursion car, And, as his regiment tramps down The gala street, you hear afar The marching measure, “Old John Brown,” From William Baird of Ridgeville. Then all the casements open wide, A thousand flags are shaken free, The balconies on either side Are loud with shouts of jubilee, And thrilling maidens wave with pride Their kerchiefs, laughing, crying: “See! That’s William Baird of Ridgeville! All children feel his gracious charm,— Of gentle birth, or sprung of churls; From hut and mansion, street and farm, Troop eager round him lads and girls; The baby leaves its mother’s arm To ride the shoulder, pull the curls Of William Baird of Ridgeville. The fools in flock from William fly, Like fluttered sparrows from a hawk; The women hover warmly nigh, Like bees around a lily-stalk,— Enchanted by the sparkling eye And by the spiced and nectared talk Of William Baird of Ridgeville. Yet Bill is not a ladies’ man; He consorts with “the boys”;—he jokes— This front-faced, sturdy veteran— With common and uncommon folks; He’s not the least a Puritan:— Sometimes he drinks, and daily smokes His briar-pipe, at Ridgeville. Wit’s gold is minted in his brain And glitters from his lavish tongue: The gravest deacon frowns in vain To quench the laughter; old and young Report the brilliant quips that rain Like scattered pearls at random flung By William Baird of Ridgeville. No wight can counterfeit or steal What unpremeditated art Gives him to improvise, to feel, To waken in the answering heart; What they from learning’s pride conceal, The Muses uninvoked impart To William Baird of Ridgeville. An unambitious soul hath Bill; The man is modest as a maid; Down at the foot of fortune’s hill His genius bides in calm and shade; He reads his Shakespeare, dreams his fill; A scythe he swings or plies a spade,— Bold Captain Baird of Ridgeville. Nor wife nor child his arms enfold; No, no—he is a bachelor; Yet, in his bosom aches an old Deep wound which antedates the war; He mourns—so is the secret told— His dear, dead sweetheart, Eleanor;— True William Baird of Ridgeville. Bill’s time must come some day, to die! Then like a soldier he’ll be found, Nor fear the bullet’s whizzing cry, Nor dread the final trumpet’s sound. If I be breathing then, may I Be with him on that battleground, To kiss his lips and say good-bye To William Baird of Ridgeville. |
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