The captain galloped to the front,
The foam upon his rein;
And, as he urged his swerving steed
Across a pile of slain,
He hailed the gunner at his post:
“Ho, Fergus! pour your shell
Straight in the face of yon stout line
That holds the height so well,
“And never slack your raking fire--
No, not to cool your gun;
For if we break those stubborn ranks,
I think the day is won.”
The gunner wiped his smoke-dimmed face--
“I’ll do the best I can,
And down--brave fellows though they be--
We’ll bring them to a man!”
“I’ll trust you for it!”--Like a flash
The captain turned and wheeled,
And with his sword above his head
Dashed backward to the field.
Fierce belched the cannon’s ceaseless fire,
With deadly crash and din;
And, though the line still held the height,
Its ranks began to thin.
“Two rounds--and we will clear the hill!”
But, as the gunner spoke,
A sudden overwhelming storm
Of bullets o’er him broke.
And when the smoke had lifted, there
Still straining all his powers,
They heard him shout: “Two shots, my boys,
And then the day is ours!
“No matter if one arm be gone,
I keep the other still;
I promised I would do my best,
And so you’ll see, I will!
“Let me make trial while my strength
Can do the duty set;
I tell you that this strong left hand
Is good for service yet!”
They primed the piece, and twice he sent,
With all too deadly aim,
The shells that mowed the broken line,
And swept the hill with flame.
“Where’s Fergus?”--and the captain’s horse
Came spurring into sight--
“Where’s Fergus? let him take my thanks,--
His fire has won the fight!”
The dying gunner raised his head,
His lips were faintly stirred--
“Captain, I said I’d do my best--
And--I have kept my word!”