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 HEROISM OF THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 EULOGY, 
 
 : x £^ T QUNCED AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICE OF POST SUMNER, NO. 24, AND POST 
 WINTHROP, NO. 28, G. A. R., MAY 31st, 1868. 
 
 IN COMMEMORATION OF THE UNION SOLDIERS SLAIN IN THE WAR FOR OUR 
 
 UNION. 
 
 BY COLONEL A. J. K. DUG-ANNE. 
 
 j -, 
 
 Comrades : The world is ruled by ideas, 
 emotions, impulses, more than by laws, logic, 
 or deliberations. A spark of thought kindles 
 to a flame of action. The mob of a day over- 
 whelms the dynasty of a century. A name 
 builds up an empire. 
 
 It is the ideal that is power ; the material 
 is but force : it is the unseen fluid that kills ; 
 the visible lightning and the audible thunder 
 only terrify. 
 
 "We behold the hand of a buffoon uplifting 
 n^ody dagger, and pointing with it a straight 
 of honor? ^ ne Roman people out of monarchy 
 berless /publicanism. But the buffoon is Bru- 
 unweaihcl his dagger is wet with the blood of 
 will r# re d Lucretia, ideal and example of ma- 
 rewai/y virtue. 
 
 ^y/e discern an impostor bestriding a camel, 
 horn/ holding in one hand a roll of parchment, 
 ile the other brandishes a scimitar. Nations 
 low him ; cities and kingdoms fall before 
 5 march. But the impostor is Mahomet; 
 3 book is the scripture of Islam ; bis sword 
 its interpreter ; his idea is to found a new 
 religion. 
 
 Later in the world's history, a barefooted 
 monk, advancing with uplifted crucifix, leads 
 forth uncounted multitudes of armed men to 
 fight against the successors of Mahomet. But 
 that monk is Peter the Hermit ; his armies 
 are the Crusaders ; his idea and theirs is to 
 
 deliver Jerusalem from the Infidel, and redtem 
 the Sepulchre of Christ. 
 
 And later still, in the lapse of centuries, 
 another barefoot monk lifts up the Book of 
 God, and, opening wide its pages, calls on 
 kings and serfs to read them. It is Luther, 
 and his idea is the Reformation. 
 
 And later yet, and in our own times, an old 
 man, fired by mad enthusiasm, musters a band 
 of zealots like himself, and yields his life in an 
 attempt to strike the shackles from four mill- 
 ion slaves. But the madman was John Brown, 
 and after him came Abraham Lincoln ; and the 
 four million that were slaves shall be slaves no 
 more forever. 
 
 Thus, always, an idea advances, leads, im- 
 pels. It is the soul, whose body is action — 
 whose outer robes are battles, histories, em- 
 pires, revolutions. It is the magnet, drawing; 
 the light, revealing ; the heat, generating. A 
 cause that is without an idea cannot survive. 
 
 This tissue of cotton threads, which I fling 
 out before me — what is it ? No thrill of life 
 responds from it ; no voice returns my invo- 
 cation of it ; no pressure vibrates on my lips 
 as I enclasp and kiss it as a bride. Yet for 
 this web and woof of simple cotton, spun by 
 hand or loom, there shall be myriads of men 
 ready to lay down their lives, as myriads have 
 done; there shall be tears, and prayers, and 
 embraces, and such deeds achieved as life u/ 
 
HEROISII OF THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 mortals to be demigods. For this tissue of 
 threads- red, white, and blue — is the flag of 
 my country. It is an emblem ; it is a sym- 
 bol ; it is an embodied idea. Robing them- 
 selves in this drapery, men have wooed danger 
 as a l»eloved bride, and died upon her bosom 
 exultinglv. Wrapped in its starry folds, they 
 have lapsed from Buffering into martyrdom — 
 from glory into immortality. Death-stricken 
 heroes have looked their last upon it, and 
 smiled as though their mothers were blessing 
 them. Fugitives from tyranny have caught 
 its first gleams, with their hearts bounding 
 upward to worship it. The sick have stretctied 
 out their feeble arms to it ; the weary piisoner 
 has yearned for its sight, " as the hart panteth 
 for the water-brooks." I have seen poor com- 
 rades in Southern captivity creeping out of 
 their huts, under the darkness of midnight, and 
 clustering together like shadows, to surround 
 this treasured emblem, kept by day with jeal- 
 ous secrecy from the search of rebel guards. 
 And I have seen them, those loyal and loving sol- 
 diers and sailors, rough men though they were, 
 with tears in their eyes and with swelling bo- 
 soms, pass the precious folds of that cherished 
 old flag from lip to lip, in the holy communion 
 of patriotism. 
 
 Svmboi of an idea — of manifold ideas—the 
 flag of an army, or a people, or a nationality, 
 or a cause — how immeasurable its influence 
 how exalted its inspiration ! Depress it, and 
 the hearts of men sink within them ; raise it, 
 and those hearts become winged like eagles. 
 Its tissues are woven into multitudinous mem- 
 ories ; its colors are blended with infinite 
 hopes. There is no thread of its web that is 
 not moistened, no hue that is not gilded, with 
 the priceless blood of heroism. Thus the flag 
 becomes an emblem of faith, a beacon of as- 
 pirations, a cynosure of veneration. It writes, 
 as with sunbeams upon ether, the name and 
 the path of a cause which it marshals. Yet 
 the flag itself is only an emblem. Its dazzle 
 is but the reflex of an idea that dwells in the 
 army or nation whose progress it foreruns and 
 identifies. That idea may be patriotism, or 
 religion, or liberty — whatever it be, it is the 
 soul, whereof armies and nations are but 
 bodily manifestations. 
 
 And it is to some tender or gallant quality 
 in the man that a flag appeals so potently. I 
 care not if he be common soldier or sailor, or 
 
 if his shoulder be doubly or trebly starred, his 
 soul must thrill lovingly to the waving of his 
 flag, or he is no true man in the hour of trial. 
 We have rank and titles for leaders, princely 
 guerdons for their services, monuments to 
 their memories ; but the idea of the cause 
 which upraised these heroes may be sometimes 
 more vital in a private's soul than in that of 
 his chief commander. The piety of a true 
 Christian is not measured by riches or by pov- 
 erty. The idea of patriotism or of liberty is 
 not written upon a parchment commission, but 
 upon the living heart of a man. Brig! 
 sword of a captain, but the flames of ^^ 
 powder-black muskets at his left reach farther 
 into the darkness of conflict. 
 
 I follow, with hushed breath, the firm tread 
 of a column of these unnoted heroes into line 
 of battle, or the double-quick of their charge 
 into the bowels of fiery batteries There is no 
 waver in that front — no gap in all those files. 
 Who, then, shall I choose out as the hero-one ? 
 What matters it that the tew wear shoulder- 
 straps and the many have no badge of distinc- 
 tion ? There is no hero-one— they are all he- 
 roes. Captain, corporal, guide, or color bearer, 
 or drummer-boy — black-skinned or white — 
 they are in one battle-line, and each man keeps 
 his post in the march or the melee. Who, 
 then, shall I choose as my hero — the soldier 
 who is called general, or the soldier who is 
 only known as "one of the rank and file"? 
 I will single no one. They are all heroes. 
 
 " One of the rank and file," I said ; on* nf 
 the undecorated line of nobility, who" 
 advances over lost battle fields, to f 
 them with pledges of life-bbod ; one >. 
 living stones of those human avalanches 
 roll over batteries and bulwarks, and 
 throw towers and armies, as an Alpine m\ 
 tain-slide sweeps away peaceful hamlets, 
 the gazing world, there are but few marl 
 objects in the great panorama of warfare — { 
 leaders on their battle-steeds, the flags ridi\ 
 upon cannon-smokes, the onset of squadronl 
 the movement of columns, the swift flash 
 a bayonet charge. Of the individual hearts 
 beating through long lines, of the personalities 
 of valor in those manifold ranks that clcse on 
 death so devotedly, there is but one who hat 
 perfect cognizance, and he is their Eternal His- 
 torian. To us, the vast enginery of conflict 
 has merely physical significance. The soldier 
 
H 
 
 EROISM OF THE BANK AND FILE. 
 
 5 
 
 is but one of its multitudinous cogs and 
 wheels. We regard only the terrible machine 
 and its directors. God alone sees the inner 
 soul-works, that run in such wondrous unison. 
 
 Therefore, I remember with gladness, and 
 rehearse with pride, the heroism of obscure 
 merit, as well as of recognized fame. I rejoice 
 in the daring of the noble wife of that Rhode 
 Island sergeant — Brownell — who, in the 
 bloody press of Roanoke fight, caught up the 
 banner of a regiment, and fell, wounded, while 
 bearing it to the front; but I find her equally 
 in the hospital- wards, nursing her 
 ^moiv-Y V.-sband and his dying comrades. I 
 call the brave New Jersey corporal — John 
 Lawrence — a hero, when I see him lying with 
 both legs amputated, after that Roanoke fight, 
 and raising his head from his cot to hear the 
 news, and waving his blue cap, with three 
 cheers, when he learns of a Union victory. 
 . . . I repeat with reverence the name of 
 that gunner's mate — John Davis — of the Val- 
 ley City steamer, who, in the fight at Eliza- 
 beth City, threw himself over a barrel of gun- 
 powder, to shield it from the flames cf burst- 
 ing shells, while he served out ammunition 
 to the cannoniers . . . And how can I 
 forget the lofty heroism of that unknown ser- 
 geant at Fort Donelson, who was seen to 
 throw himself before his line, and receive 
 within his own loyal heart the rebel bullet that 
 would have slain bis captain ? . . . These 
 are but initials of the heroic catalogue that 
 stands out s lil> lief , on the entablature 
 
 of honor's temple; and yet there are num- 
 berless episodes of fortitude, and devotion, and 
 unwearied zeal in the Republic's service, that 
 will never be noted by the historian — never 
 rewarded by earthly renown. 
 
 What holy sacrifices have consecrated the 
 homes of ouv patriot volunteers, whose loyalty 
 led them to the forefront of danger, and whose 
 souls were sustained and strengthened by the 
 hope.- and prayers of dear ones left behind — 
 the mother, who gave her first-born ; the wife, 
 yielded her spouse; the sister who re- 
 signed her brother, and the maiden who parted 
 with her betrothed ; all priceless offerings 
 a the altar of our country — all pledges of 
 a s< blime faith in her cause ! 
 
 What illustrations of all that was womanly 
 and saint-like are to be met with in the ob- 
 scure chronicle of hospital service — that in- 
 
 audible and unblazoned service wherein health 
 and life were offered daily upon the altar of 
 simple duty, made beautiful by the flowers of 
 love and charity that enwreathed it ! How 
 blessed in the sight of heaven, how sacred in 
 the thought of ail good men, those number- 
 less and nameless benefactions which inter- 
 posed between the wounded soldier and his 
 death, to smooth his passage from the world 
 of warfare to the world of peace ! Who shall 
 say to me that the hospital was not a field of 
 heroic effort? that the Sanitary Commission 
 had no heroes enrolled under its banners? that 
 the surgeon, the nurse, the unarmed chaplain 
 might never win or claim the palm of merit 
 such as fame bestows on the sword wielders 
 and the death-doers in sanguinary conflict ? 
 I crown my heroes in all ranks ; 1 jlasp hands 
 with noble ones iu every sphere that is il- 
 lumined by the steady torch of loyal and de- 
 voted service. 
 
 But it is only when the living idea that im- 
 pels heroic natures finds voice or stamps out 
 deeds more noticeable than the rest, that we 
 are able to signalize some hero-man by name. 
 Thus I behold brave Sergeant William Car- 
 ney, in the bloody contest of Fort Wagner, 
 ditching the falling colors of his regiment, 
 and climbing up the hostile parapet, to plant 
 them on its highest works ; and holding them 
 aloft under the rain of shot and shell ; and 
 folding them to his heart when our line was 
 borne backward ; and falling thus, with a shot 
 in his bosom ; and clasping the colors still 
 with one hand, while the other strove to keep 
 his life-blood back in the gaping wound ; and 
 crawling thus, slowly, slowly, from those fatal 
 ramparts, out to his camp again ; still hugging 
 tightly to his breast the regimental flag, while 
 with scarcely articulate voice, he answers to the 
 plaudits of his comrades, black and white : " I 
 did my duty, boys — the dear old flag never 
 touched the ground !" 
 
 And at the same eventful fight, I see the son 
 of one who was a slave — the son of Frederick 
 Douglas — mounting, foremost of our troops, 
 upon the walls of Wagner, while his voice 
 rang out in trumpet tones : " Come on, boys , 
 fight for God and Governor Andrew!" 
 
 And I follow that bold Pennsylvanian, Ser- 
 geant Bruner, of the Twenty -third Wisconsin 
 Volunteers, iu the fight at Port Gibson, where 
 he caught the colors from their disabled bearer! 
 
(•> 
 
 HEROISM OF THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 and planted them on the ramparts amid a 
 storm of bullets. And again, at Champion 
 Hill, where he seized the flag, as our line was 
 breaking, and crying out, " Boys, follow ! 
 don't flinch from your duty!'' led the regi- 
 ment into order and victory. And once more, 
 at the battle of Big Black, under the eye of 
 Grant, when the valiant Sergeant led his men 
 against a battery that had dismounted one of 
 our cannon and dispersed its supporters — 
 twice in the melee was Bruner made a prisoner, 
 and twice his comrades rescued him; and he 
 brought to General Grant the last one of three 
 rebel fhgs captured by his own bold hand 
 from the enemy. It is in the hearts of such 
 men as this that the idea of a cause is en- 
 shrined, like a jewel in some golden ca?ket. 
 
 And that old man-of-war's- man, William 
 Reid, in his fiftieth year, one of the noble sail- 
 ors whose bravery almost redeemed the folly 
 or treachery of their flag-captain at Galveston ; 
 I can see him, in my mind's eye, as he stood 
 on the Owasco's deck, his left hand well-nigh 
 shot away, and a shot-wound in his shoulder, 
 where the blood oozed through his shirt, while 
 holding still a rifle in his grasp, he continued 
 to fire upon the foe. " Go below and get } our 
 wounds dressed," said the master's mate. 
 " No, sir !" the veteran replied : " so long as 
 there's fighting to be done, I'll stay on deck!" 
 
 What patient courage, what quiet self-devo- 
 tion is common to the sailor at his gun and 
 the soldier in his ranks ! so common, indeed, 
 that no note is made of it ; so habitual, that 
 it is looked upon as the mere routine of duty. 
 But assuredly there is a motive power deeper 
 than mere routine to inspire these unrewarded 
 heroes of our nation. Was there not true 
 nobility in that seaman, Samuel Woo'is, who, 
 when serving his gun, with resolute courage, 
 yet found heart to plunge into the stream to 
 save a drowning shipmate, and who, after the 
 battle, knelt beside his wounded comrades, 
 nursing them like a tender woman as he had 
 fought beside them like a hero man ! Was 
 there not cool and provident valor in that 
 cockswain of the Wabash, Edward Ringgold, 
 who, in service with the howitzer corps, per- 
 formed his duty with such faithfulness, and 
 heading that the powder ran low, passed up, 
 through all the fiery line, with his shirt slung 
 over bis shoulders and filled with ammunition 
 that he had brought two miles from the rear ! 
 
 Well did these seamen deserve the medal they 
 won for " gallantry in action." 
 
 I have spoken of the fight at Fort Wagner, 
 and of its heroes, Douglas and Carney, whose 
 African veins were flooded with such patriotic 
 blood, and whose dark skins covered such 
 trusty hearts, as their captains of purest lin- 
 eage might well be proud to recognize. Such 
 men deserved to be led by the chief who died 
 for them — that immortal son of Massachusetts 
 sires, the gallant Colonel Shaw. 
 
 Let us thank God that everywhere, in all 
 the bloody years of our righteous vt 
 treason, the names of such faithful iLoieilKU, 
 are recorded in the pages of impartial history ! 
 Not among generals only — brave and meri- 
 torious though they be — need we look for ex- 
 amples and models of patriotism. The hero 
 of a knapsack is grand as the hero of a baton ! 
 Martyrs ascend to heaven from rank and file 
 as luminously as from the field and staff. 
 Poor PJummer Tidd, who bad fought with 
 John Brown at Harper's Ferry, and who lay 
 dying on his cot with typhus fever, while the 
 batteries of Fort Donelson thundered in bis 
 ears, was no less a hero of liberty than if he 
 had fallen at his sergeant's post in battle. ''Is 
 our side winning ?" he gasped, as the gun-boat 
 rocked under the concussion of artillery, and 
 when the chaplain answered "Yes !" the brave 
 man said, " Thank God !" and died ! 
 
 John Beman, the humble watch-nan of a 
 steamer, hanged by the rebels to a tree in 
 Mississippi, because of being a loyal man, de- 
 serves his place upon the hero-t*biet ; not less 
 than our martyred Abraham Lincoln. " I will 
 die before I take the Southern oath," this bold 
 Norwegian cried ; and they swung his body 
 upward ; but his soul soared higher than 
 traitors can reach. 
 
 " Don't mind me, boys ! Go on with t 
 fight !" said Orderly Sergeant Goodfelk 
 Bethel fight. He gave his musket to a 
 rade. and sank dying in his place ; a Lero- 
 soldier, promoted in death to equal rank with 
 Greble and Winthrop, who fell not far from 
 him. 
 
 There was an old man of Gettysburg, whose 
 musket was first shouldered in the war 
 1812 ; whose head was white with the snov. 
 of seventy years; and when he saw the ba 
 flag of disunion blotting the sunshine of h 
 cottage-sill, he took down an old State muskt 
 
HEKOISM OF THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 from the wall, moulded a score of bullets, as 
 they used to do in the times of old. and made 
 ready to defend his homestead. Anon came 
 the Stars and Stripes through Cumberland 
 Valley, and the gray haired farmer presented 
 himself to our soldiers. " Take me with you !" 
 said the man of three score and ten ; " I can 
 still peer over a musket-sight !" And they 
 took him with them — those brave "Wisconsin 
 boys to whom he showed himself ; and that 
 true-hearted veteran fought in our ranks at 
 Gettysburg, and was left with three wounds 
 field, in sight almost of his own 
 iiecti uistone. God be thanked that the veteran 
 survived the dread conflict, and that he will, 
 at the last, which I hear is close at hand, lay 
 down his gray head in peace by his cottage 
 on the sacred ground of Gettysburg. Worthy 
 to bear the name of Burns — the free-souled 
 Scotch bard — was this old fighter for the Re- 
 public ! Poor though he may be, he will be- 
 queath to his children a heritage of honor that 
 Lee and Beauregard, with all their chivalry, 
 have no longer in their bestowal. 
 
 And I am reminded here of those gallant 
 gunners of Gettysburg, who died upon the 
 " Round Top," as they whirled their cannon to 
 the front of battle. Here let me recall the 
 names of Weed and Hazlett, recorded in the 
 rude but graphic verse of a loyal ballad : 
 
 " On to the Round Top ! the Round Top we gain ! 
 Falls gallant Weed from a ball— is he slain ? 
 Prone on the earth he lies heavily sighing ; 
 Near him lie gallant men, wounded and dying. 
 
 ' Hazlett, come hither,' sighed Weed, as he lay; 
 Hither, my friend — I have something to say !' 
 [azlett speeds forward, bends down, lifts his head : 
 s a mmie-ball — Hazlett lies dead ! 
 
 ' • Dead ere Weed utters the word he would speak ; 
 ire both heroes, with cheek close to cheek ; 
 ■ . led their thoughts as they waft their last breath ; 
 ■ng each other — united in death." 
 
 the days to come our heroes of rank and 
 fi nil be cherished in tradition as we now 
 c a the "Liberty Boys " and "Marion's 
 Men. Ballads will chronicle their "hand- 
 to hand " fights, and their " hair-breadth 
 
 33 " on field and flood. It is of their ex- 
 aia : : ;es that our future nation must eat and 
 drink, that it may become robust in patriotism. 
 
 >d keep their memory green !'' 
 
 / Give flowers ! bring flowers ! of every hue, 
 
 ■ garden-bed and field, 
 
 ' e green above the hearts 
 the Northern shield. 
 
 Ask lilies lest buds, 
 
 And violets for theii blue, 
 
 And twine them with the greenest leaves 
 For those who died for you ! 
 
 And when the other Junes shall bloom 
 
 Through all the years to be, 
 Bring flowers as sweet and fair for those 
 
 Who died to make us free ! 
 
 The heroes and martyis of our Republic are 
 guarantees which God vouchsafes for its fu- 
 ture. Every drop of blood spilled in defence 
 of a free nation, in a righteous cause, is a 
 jewelled pledge of some blessing to posterity. 
 What matter if gold be banished for a season 
 from the public purse ? No nation's treasury 
 is bankrupt that has store of patriotic mem- 
 ories. Brave deeds are better than ingots. 
 
 I hail the legacy of noble deeds bequeathed 
 by our war to immortality — that inestimable 
 heritage which we claim this day, showing our 
 title to it by these flowers which we reverently 
 strew in memory of faithful service sanctified 
 to us and to our nation. It is a heritage which 
 may not be alienated, and cannot be squan- 
 dered. It is the patrimony of freedom. 
 
 What grand contributions this wondrous 
 treasure comprises ! how sweet and holy, how 
 loyal and liberal, are the donations of heroism ! 
 They descend to us in the streamlets from hill- 
 tops and mountain pass-ways, where Liberty 
 builds her stronghold, and dwells in sunshine 
 and starlight ! They look up to us from the 
 tender eyes of daisies that grow over woodland 
 graves ! They whisper in the land-breezes 
 that blow through sword-won valleys ; they 
 are crested on the sea-waves that break upon 
 blood-bought beaches ! 
 
 And here let me invoke the glorified host of 
 nameless men, who have fallen upon the 
 marches and battle-fields of Freedom ! Here 
 let me apostrophize the unknown armies of 
 martyrs who have laid down their lowly lives 
 for Liberty in every era and upon every soil ! 
 
 dumb and traceless shades ! misty 
 semblances of humanity ! receding into the 
 dimness of immemorial centuries ! Ye multi- 
 tudes, whose weary journeyings left no foot- 
 prints, and whose fall awoke no echo ! Was 
 it your destiny to be barren of fruit for the 
 future ? to be absorbed, as clouds, into the 
 ocean of time, leaving no refit x of your tran- 
 sit upon earth or in the heavens ? 
 
 1 think that my soul can recognize a sweet 
 response to its invocation — a voiceless yet in- 
 telligible reply, down-flowing, as from choirs 
 of invisible spirits, in harmonies that interpret 
 
HEROISM OF THE HANK A]\ T D FILE. 
 
 both Past and Present. I fancy those misty- 
 darknesses which enshroud the heroes and pa- 
 triots and martyrs of forgotten generations 
 have opened sometimes into vistas of immortal 
 glory, revealing glimpses of the great White. 
 Throne; and that, out from the overpowering 
 splendor, unsylla'nled music glides into my 
 heart, as of blessed ones chanting eternally. 
 
 '' Clouds we are!" they sing, "but clouds 
 are footstools for the Infinite ! Clouds we are ! 
 but clouds of witnesses! testifying for ever- 
 more in heaven, as we testified on earth, the 
 hope, the promise, and the assurance of Free 
 dom for humanity !" 
 
 Let us leave with Our Father in heaven the 
 
 records which earth hath lo^t! They rest in 
 
 celestial archives. Enough for us to cherish 
 
 the examples That descend from our fathers, 
 
 and to multiply them by thoughts and deeds 
 
 which shall be memorials for our children here 
 
 after ! 
 
 Flowers for the valiant Dead 
 Who for the Union bled ! 
 Let all the summers shed 
 
 Sweets on our brave ! 
 
 Let all the years renew 
 Liberty's colors true, 
 Plant the Red, White, and Blue 
 Over each grave ! 
 
 Red rose for valor sow — 
 Lilies for honor strew, 
 
 And for the hearts below 
 Violets bine. 
 
 So shall the years to be 
 Say to our children free, 
 Liberty's colors three 
 Still are for you ! 
 
 Lightly let flowers enfold 
 
 Pledges worth more than gold : 
 Lay on the lowly mould 
 Lily .and rose : 
 
 Pledges thai Fro 
 Planted at Runnymede, 
 
 Up out of thorn and weed 
 Evermore grows ! 
 
 Out from these ashes mute 
 Freedom's 1 ** ide branches shoot — 
 Liberty's lofty fruit 
 
 Beckons the slave. 
 
 Soon to these altars dumb, 
 Grandly, at beat of drum, 
 All the far lands shall come, 
 Blessing our brave ! 
 
 Come, where the valiant host 
 Loving their country most. 
 In her dread Pentecost 
 
 Yielded their souls ! 
 
 Come, at the Whitsuntide, 
 Counting, with love and pride, 
 Every true man who died 
 Still on the rolls ! 
 
 So, through the marching years, 
 Mingling their manly tear-. 
 Mustered by rosy biers, 
 
 Soldiers shall stand : 
 
 So, o'er each lowly grave, 
 Freedom's high flag shall wave. 
 Blessing the dead who gave 
 Life to the land ! 
 
 
 

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