Did you ever hear of the Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge, who lay
With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of
that terrible day?
They were firing above him and firing below, and the tempest of shot
and shell
Was raging like death, as he moaned in his pain, by the breastworks
where he fell.
"Go back with your corps," our colonel had said, but he waited the
moment when
He might follow the ranks and shoulder a gun with the best of us
bearded men;
And so when the signals from old Fort Wood set an army of veterans wild,
He flung down his drum, which spun down the hill like the ball of a
wayward child.
And then he fell in with the foremost ranks of brave old company G,
As we charged by the flank, with our colors ahead, and our columns
closed up like a V,
In the long, swinging lines of that splendid advance, when the flags
of our corps floated out,
Like the ribbons that dance in the jubilant lines of the march of a
gala day rout.
He charged with the ranks, though he carried no gun, for the colonel
had said him nay,
And he breasted the blast of the bristling guns, and the shock of the
sickening fray;
And when by his side they were falling like hail he sprang to a comrade
slain,
And shouldered his musket and bore it as true as the hand that was dead
in pain.
'Twas dearly we loved him, our Drummer Boy, with a fire in his bright,
black eye,
That flashed forth a spirit too great for his form--he only was just so
high,
As tall, perhaps, as your little lad who scarcely reaches your shoulder--
Though his heart was the heart of a veteran then, a trifle, it may be,
bolder.
He pressed to the front, our lad so leal, and the works were almost won,
A moment more and our flags had swung o'er the muzzle of murderous gun;
But a raking fire swept the van, and he fell 'mid the wounded and slain,
With his wee wan face turned up to Him who feeleth His children's pain.
Again and again our lines fell back, and again with shivering shocks
They flung themselves on the rebels' works as ships are tossed on rocks;
To be crushed and broken and scattered amain, as the wrecks of the
surging storm.
Where none may rue and none may reck of aught that has human form.
So under the ridge we were lying for the order to charge again,
And we counted our comrades missing, and we counted our comrades slain;
And one said, "Johnny, our Drummer Boy, is grievously shot and lies
Just under the enemy's breastwork; if left on the field he dies."
Then all the blood that was in me surged up to my aching brow,
And my heart leaped up like a ball in my throat--I can feel it even now,
And I said I would bring that boy from the field, if God would spare my
breath,
If all the guns in Mission Ridge should thunder the threat of death.
I crept and crept up the ghastly ridge, by the wounded and the dead,
With the moans of my comrades right and left, behind me and yet ahead,
Till I came to the form of our Drummer Boy, in his blouse of dusty blue,
With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, where the blast of
the battle blew.
And his gaze as he met my own just there would have melted a heart of
stone,
As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own;
And he said in a voice half smothered, though its whispering thrills
me yet,
"I think in a moment more that I would have stood on that parapet.
"But now I nevermore will climb, and, Sergeant, when you see
The men go up those breastworks there, just stop and waken me;
For though I cannot make the charge and join the cheers that rise,
I may forget my pain to see the old flag kiss the skies."
Well, it was hard to treat him so, his poor limb shattered sore,
But I raised him on my shoulder and to the surgeon bore;
And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy,
And uttered fervent prayers for him, our valiant Drummer Boy.
When sped the news that "Fighting Joe" had saved the Union right,
With his legions fresh from Lookout; and that Thomas massed his might
And forced the rebel center; and our cheering ran like wild;
And Sherman's heart was happy as the heart of a little child;
When Grant from his lofty outlook saw our flags by the hundred fly
Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, where'er he cast his eye;
And when we heard the thrilling news of the mighty battle done,
The fearful contest ended, and the glorious victory won;
Then his bright black eyes so yearning grew strangely rapt and wide,
And in that hour of conquest our little hero died.
But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that ne'er is old,
For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold!
And when they tell of heroes, and the laurels they have won,
Of the scars they are doomed to carry, of the deeds that they have done;
Of the horror to be biding among the ghastly dead,
The gory sod beneath them, the bursting shell o'erhead,
My heart goes back to Mission Ridge and the Drummer Boy who lay
With his face to the foe, 'neath the enemy's guns, in the charge of
that terrible day;
And I say that the land that bears such sons is crowned and dowered
with all
The dear God giveth nations to stay them lest they fall.
Oh, glory of Mission Ridge, stream on, like the roseate light of morn,
On the sons that now are living, on the sons that are yet unborn!
And cheers for our comrades living, and tears as they pass away!
And three times three for the Drummer Boy who fought at the front that
day!