In honor of the fallen:
THE SOLDIER’S DEATH IN MINDANAO.
(By John J. Reidy.)
The lone shades of evening have fallen o’er the white tented plain,
And the sun has sank deep in the horizon of the watery main.
The Camp is all silent, the banners are waving no more,
And the sound of the waves are echoing from the far distant shore.
The tire-worn soldier, fatigued from the march of the day,
Is silently sleeping and dreaming of scenes far away.
Of his own Native Land where he spent many jovial hours,
Of the sweetheart with whom he has roved by the shady green bowers.
He sees in his dreams the cherished home of his boyhood so dear,
And the mother he loved as she sits by the fireside in tears.
She is thinking of him who has gone from her side to the war
To fight the bold Moros in Mindanao’s island afar.
She is patiently waiting for the bright day of gladness to come,
When with arms outstretched she will welcome the warrior home.
But lo, as the darkness grows denser in Mindanao’s heights,
The loud pealing of cannons is heard in the dark stilly night.
The trump’ter’s call, echoing loud through the hills and ravines,
Has aroused the brave soldier from the joy of his whimsical dreams.
He has joined his brave comrades who have formed in line for the fray,
Then he thinks of his mother, his sweetheart and home far away.
The battle commences, loud crashes the bolos and spears
And the gleam of the bayonets shine forth like the stars in the sea.
Colonel Baldwin’s command is now heard by the brave and the bold,
As onward they charge like lions leaping mad at a fold.
They meet in hot conflict, they bleed in the midst of the strife,
For their country’s freedom, for their glory, their honor and life.
The battle is over amid cheers from the victors of war,
But alas, one brave hero has fallen with many a scar.
Bleeding he lays on the field in his anguish and pain,
Whose dreams were of home, of the loved one he will never see again.
He pictures, in anguish, his mother in sorrow and gloom,
Vainly waiting for him who will never return to his home.
The black cloud of death darkens o’er the young soldier so brave,
Then he dies, and with honor is borne to his rest in the grave.
But the mother waits on, no news from the young hero comes,
For he sleeps with the brave where he fell, in a warrior’s tomb.
On the Slain at Chickamauga.
Happy are they and charmed in life
Who through long wars arrive unscarred
At peace. To such the wreath be given,
If they unfalteringly have striven—
In honor, as in limb, unmarred.
Let cheerful praise be rife,
And let them live their years at ease,
Musing on brothers who victorious died—
Loved mates whose memory shall ever please.
And yet mischance is honorable too—
Seeming defeat in conflict justified
Whose end to closing eyes is his from view.
The will, that never can relent—
The aim, survivor of the bafflement,
Make this memorial due.