A soldier of the Union lay
Sore wounded at Lone Jack,
And as his life-blood ebbed away,
His thoughts were wandering back—
Back to his childhood’s early home,
Back to his native land,
And dreaming fancy seemed to roam
Amid a kindred band.
No wife or child beside him now,
Though wife and child he had;
No comrade bathed his bloody brow—
His comrades all had fled;
And there, upon that hard-fought field,
In that small village street,
He lay with those who scorned to yield—
Disdaining to retreat.
No kinsman’s hand or voice was nigh
To minister relief;
But yet there was a pitying eye
Looked on the scene with grief—
A stranger, though a friend, stood near
The dying soldier’s side,
And wept his dreaming talk to hear,
And soothed him till he died.
Through scenes of youth he seemed to pass,
Though now his hair was gray,
And once again he led his class,
As in his school-boy’s day;
He called his playmates' names, although
None answered to his call,
For some had died long years ago,
And far, far distant all.
He often called his father’s name—
He called his brother’s too—
But oftener still his mother came
Within his dreaming view;
He seemed to think that mother near,
And for her hand would feel—
’T would melt the hardest heart to hear
His piteous appeal:
“O mother, help your little son—
My aching head is sore,
And here I lie, with pillows none,
Upon the cold, hard floor;
O lay me on my trundle-bed,
Or take me on your knee—
She does not hear what I have said;
O where can mother be?”
Anon the scene would change, and he,
By fancy still beguiled,
A husband, father—seemed to be,
And spoke of wife and child;
He spoke of them so tenderly,
So often called their names;
Though absent, yet ’twas plain that they
Were present in his dreams.
His days of early manhood came,
And passed in plain review,
His constant struggles after fame,
His disappointments too;
He spoke of hardships undergone,
He spoke of dangers passed,
And still his thoughts kept wandering on,
And wandered to the last.
But then more recent scenes appeared
To claim his wandering thought—
The storm which civil war had stirred,
The sufferings it had wrought;
Upon his home and family
His thoughts appeared to dwell;
With them again he seemed to be—
To them he bade farewell.
“Farewell, my wife, my children all—
My country calls away,
And can I hear my country call,
And not the call obey?
I go, and ere I shall come back,
Grim War shall cease to frown;
I go, though men may call me black,
To put rebellion down.
“I go, my wife, I go, my son,
The Union to sustain,
For North and South shall still be one,
And one shall still remain;
I go, and if I ne’er return,
Farewell, ye loved ones all—
And if I fall, I trust you’ll learn
I fell as man should fall.”
But then his fancy, more and more,
And wilder, seemed to roam;
He seemed to think the war was o’er,
And he was safe at home;
And there, as if to friends, he told
Of war and war’s alarms,
Of many a comrade soldier bold
And many a feat of arms.
Of conflicts sore he spoke of one—
A sore, a bloody fight—
The hard day’s march from Lexington,
The skirmish of the night,
Spoke of the sleepless bivouac,
As on their arms they lay
Within the village of Lone Jack,
To wait the coming day.
And then he spoke of the attack,
Which came at early morn—
The rebel charge, the falling back,
The hedge and growing corn;
He spoke of deeds of daring done,
Of many a soldier slain,
The loss of the artillery gun,
The taking it again.
But there his memory seemed to fail—
His voice was failing too—
Alas! he ne’er will tell the tale
To those he loved so true;
Some other tongue to them will tell
The story he essayed,
Describe the battle where he fell,
The spot where he was laid.
