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142
BATTLE-FLAG DAY.
A little sprite sat in a high oak-tree,
Laughing loudly in scornful glee,
For he heard the bells ring long and loud,
He saw the rush of a mighty crowd.
The cannon's roar and the throbbing drum,
Rose from the city's ceaseless hum
Like the dash and beat of a stormy sea,
Till it tossed and fluttered the old oak-tree.
Laughing loudly in scornful glee,
For he heard the bells ring long and loud,
He saw the rush of a mighty crowd.
The cannon's roar and the throbbing drum,
Rose from the city's ceaseless hum
Like the dash and beat of a stormy sea,
Till it tossed and fluttered the old oak-tree.
He saw the lift of the battle-flags
As the rough wind troubled their bloody rags,
And the marching veterans grim and old,
Who once were stalwart and young and bold,
The marbled halls like a shining dream,
The flag-case bright with silvery gleam,
And the feast for that weary company;
But louder he laughed in mocking glee.
As the rough wind troubled their bloody rags,
And the marching veterans grim and old,
Who once were stalwart and young and bold,
The marbled halls like a shining dream,
The flag-case bright with silvery gleam,
And the feast for that weary company;
But louder he laughed in mocking glee.
Hurrah! he yelled, for the battle-flags!
But where are the men that bore the rags
High overhead through seas of fire,
Right into the rebels' cruel ire?
Some on the field lie stark and dead,
Their children hunger to-day for bread,
Their wives are toiling in need and rags:
Hurrah! hurrah for the battle-flags!
But where are the men that bore the rags
High overhead through seas of fire,
Right into the rebels' cruel ire?
143
Their children hunger to-day for bread,
Their wives are toiling in need and rags:
Hurrah! hurrah for the battle-flags!
Some are tilling a barren soil;
What did they bring from the battles' spoil?
A single leg and fingers three.
No matter! the flags wave merrily.
Here is another without an arm,
Death had done him a lesser harm:
He grinds an organ along the street
One hand earns him food to eat.
The lost one carried those battle-flags.—
Hurrah! hurrah! for the tattered rags!
What did they bring from the battles' spoil?
A single leg and fingers three.
No matter! the flags wave merrily.
Here is another without an arm,
Death had done him a lesser harm:
He grinds an organ along the street
One hand earns him food to eat.
The lost one carried those battle-flags.—
Hurrah! hurrah! for the tattered rags!
Fools and blind! while the banners fly
You leave their bearers in want to die.
The husk is honored and praised and sung
The kernel into the gutter flung.
Go feed and cherish the maimed old man,
Who gives to his country all he can.
Nor offer the life for freedom spent
The scoff of a costly monument,
Well may he make a bitter moan
When he asks for bread and you give a stone,
And scatter your money on worn-out rags,
Not on the men who carried the flags!
You leave their bearers in want to die.
The husk is honored and praised and sung
The kernel into the gutter flung.
Go feed and cherish the maimed old man,
Who gives to his country all he can.
Nor offer the life for freedom spent
The scoff of a costly monument,
Well may he make a bitter moan
When he asks for bread and you give a stone,
And scatter your money on worn-out rags,
Not on the men who carried the flags!
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