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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