THE ORPHAN BRIGADE
EIGHTEEN hundred and sixty-one:
There in the echo of Sumter's gun
Marches the host of the Orphan Brigade,
Lit by their banners, in hopes best arrayed.
Five thousand strong, never legion hath borne
Might as this bears it forth in that morn
Hastings and Cressy, Naseby, Dunbar,
Cowpens and Yorktown, Thousand Years' War,
Is writ on their hearts as onward afar
They shout to the roar of their drums.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-two:
Well have they paid to the earth its due.
Close up, steady ! the half are yet here
And all of the might, for the living bear
The dead in their hearts over Shiloh's field-
Rich, 0 God, is thy harvest's yield
XWhere faith swings the sickle, trust binds the sheaves,
To the roll of the surging drums.
Eighteen hundred and sixty-three:
Barring Sherman's march to the sea -
Shorn to a thousand; face to the foe
Back, ever back, but stubborn and slow.
Nineteen hundred wounds they take