Did ever you 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.
We had burnished our muskets and filled our canteens, as we waited for orders that morn, —
Who knows when the soldier is dying of thirst where the wounded are wailing forlorn? —
When forth from the squad that was ordered back from the flash of that furious fire
Our Drummer Boy came, and his face was aflame with the light of a noble desire.
" 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 so 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 to 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, the 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 the 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 Rebel works as the fleets on the jagged 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 flying for the order to charge again,
And we counted our comrades missing and we counted our comrades slain;
And one said, " Johnnie, our Drummer Boy, is grievously shot, and lies
Just under the enemy's breastworks; 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 swore I would bring that boy from the field if God would spare my breath,
If all the guns on 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, God wot, would have melted a heart of stone,
As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own;
So wan and faint, with his ruby red blood drank deep by the pitiless sward,
While his breast with its fleeting, fluttering breath throbbed painfully slow and hard.
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,
For my feet have trodden life's rugged ways, and I have been used to climb
Where some of the boys have slipped I know, but I never missed a time.
" But now I nevermore will climb; and, comrade, when you see
The men go up those breastworks there, just stoop 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 to my shoulder and to the Surgeon bore,
And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy,
Though some in curses clothed their prayers, for him, our 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 our Drummer Boy heard the news and knew the mighty battle done,
The valiant contest ended, and the glorious victory won, —
Then he smiled in all his agony beneath the Surgeon's steel,
And joyed that his the blood to flow his country's woes to heal;
And his bright, black eyes so yearning, grew strangely glad and wide;
I think that in that hour of joy he gladly would have died.
Ah, ne'er again our ranks were cheered by our little Drummer's drum,
When rub, rub, rub-a-dub dub , we knew that our hour had come;
Beat brisk at morn, beat sharp at eve, rolled long when it called to arms,
With rub, rub, rub-a-dub dub , 'mid the clamor of rude alarms!
Ah, ne'er again our black-eyed boy looked up in the veteran's face,
To waken thoughts of his children safe in mother love's embrace!
O ne'er again with tripping feet he ran with the other boys, —
His budding hopes were cast away as they were idle toys.
But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that never is old,
For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold!
His heart the hero's heart we name, the loyal, true, and brave,
The heart of the soldier hoar and gray, of the lad in his Southern grave!
And when they tell of their 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'er-head, —
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.
O 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!
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.
We had burnished our muskets and filled our canteens, as we waited for orders that morn, —
Who knows when the soldier is dying of thirst where the wounded are wailing forlorn? —
When forth from the squad that was ordered back from the flash of that furious fire
Our Drummer Boy came, and his face was aflame with the light of a noble desire.
" 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 so 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 to 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, the 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 the 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 Rebel works as the fleets on the jagged 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 flying for the order to charge again,
And we counted our comrades missing and we counted our comrades slain;
And one said, " Johnnie, our Drummer Boy, is grievously shot, and lies
Just under the enemy's breastworks; 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 swore I would bring that boy from the field if God would spare my breath,
If all the guns on 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, God wot, would have melted a heart of stone,
As he tried like a wounded bird to rise, and placed his hand in my own;
So wan and faint, with his ruby red blood drank deep by the pitiless sward,
While his breast with its fleeting, fluttering breath throbbed painfully slow and hard.
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,
For my feet have trodden life's rugged ways, and I have been used to climb
Where some of the boys have slipped I know, but I never missed a time.
" But now I nevermore will climb; and, comrade, when you see
The men go up those breastworks there, just stoop 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 to my shoulder and to the Surgeon bore,
And the boys who saw us coming each gave a shout of joy,
Though some in curses clothed their prayers, for him, our 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 our Drummer Boy heard the news and knew the mighty battle done,
The valiant contest ended, and the glorious victory won, —
Then he smiled in all his agony beneath the Surgeon's steel,
And joyed that his the blood to flow his country's woes to heal;
And his bright, black eyes so yearning, grew strangely glad and wide;
I think that in that hour of joy he gladly would have died.
Ah, ne'er again our ranks were cheered by our little Drummer's drum,
When rub, rub, rub-a-dub dub , we knew that our hour had come;
Beat brisk at morn, beat sharp at eve, rolled long when it called to arms,
With rub, rub, rub-a-dub dub , 'mid the clamor of rude alarms!
Ah, ne'er again our black-eyed boy looked up in the veteran's face,
To waken thoughts of his children safe in mother love's embrace!
O ne'er again with tripping feet he ran with the other boys, —
His budding hopes were cast away as they were idle toys.
But ever in our hearts he dwells, with a grace that never is old,
For him the heart to duty wed can nevermore grow cold!
His heart the hero's heart we name, the loyal, true, and brave,
The heart of the soldier hoar and gray, of the lad in his Southern grave!
And when they tell of their 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'er-head, —
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.
O 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!