392 SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



How many were killed, or wounded fell, 

 From i^iercing bullet and gashing shell. 

 He never noticed, but with the rest 

 His only thought was doing his best ! 



Thus Gettysburg's patriot grim and lone, 



With a borrowed gun but a will of his own, 



Loading, aiming, firing away ; 



So full of life was he that day 



From his acts you'd scarce the inference draw 



He was dead in the Psalmist's Scriptural law. 



He got more bullets — this man of pluck, 

 Unarmed as yet ; but changed his luck 

 When a low aimed shot his ankle struck. 

 But still he could fire ; when another one 

 Crippled the arm that steadied his gun ; 

 Another, and Burns fell prone to the ground. 

 One added to plenty lying around ; 

 And they bore him off as the sun went down 

 Over the hill and into the town. 



And there he lay while the battle surged 

 Till the fiery day into night had merged, 

 While the men in Gray pushed the boys in Blue 

 The streets of Gettysburg through and through, 

 Capturing some and driving the rest 

 Till they wearied dropped on the graveyard crest. 

 When the guns of Steinwehr, grim and black. 

 Pelted their fierce pursuers back. 



And another day, while the rebel right 



Was fighting our left for Round Top's height, 



Till the famed Peach Orchard ground was filled 



With fallen soldiers maimed and killed, 



And horses dead by the burst caissons 



Just in rear of the useless guns. 



