390 SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



Sections of batteries thundered by, 

 Followed by squadrons of cavalry ; 

 And limping on with blistered feet, 

 The tired foot-soldiers filled the street ; 

 While on the hill top, smoke enplumed, 

 The hot breathed cannon ceaseless boomed ; 

 And underneath was heard the whir 

 Of the random ball of the skirmisher ; 

 But neither to right nor left he turns, 

 But on like fate stalks old John Burns, 

 With soul aflame and teeth on edge. 

 And never stops till he mounts the Ridge. 



And here he sees, in the rising din, 



The Seventh Wisconsin going in ; 



And he says to the Colonel, " Give us a gun. 



And I'll help you to make the rebels run ! " 



Just then a shell tore up the dirt — 



" Run home, old fellow, or you'll get hurt," 



Said the Colonel. But John roared back in wrath. 



As he stood unflinched in the fiery bath, 



" There's no room there, for all the cellars 



Are full to the joists with home-guard fellers, 



So give us a gun." And the Colonel said, 



Under the orders he roared o'erhead, 



" There's none to spare," and he said with a smile, 



" There'll be plenty if you'll wait awhile," 



As he changed the order to " Fire by file." 



Just then came the " zip " of a Minnie ball, 

 And a tall file-closer was seen to fall. 

 And when to his side John quickly sped, 

 No thought had he of robbing the dead. 

 But rather that of grafting his life 

 To this one laid low in the battle's strife. 

 And to finish the work he'd just begun. — 

 With short apology fighting John 



