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Hark to the shouts of the rebel scouts Away! away! good steed!
Come hither and see the glory with me — are thine eyes so weak, my love?
Sunlit mountains stand on either hand, and a purple sky above:
“There's a path goes out at the golden west,” trod by the parting day,
That leads to the fabled home of the blest,. “over the hills away:”
The sun swells big in a last fond gaze, big with the light of love--
Come hither and see, it will not daze, for the purple grows misty above.
Drive home the spur! a riderless horse into the night leads on;
Follow! faint not! his master's corpse is many a mile by-gone.
On! on! deem not the danger passed till the wished — for goal be won.
--“who goes?” --“Thank God! the lines, at last!” and the hard race is done.
“Boys! who is here?” a trooper cried; “How many are alive?”
And the stern courier's voice replied: “brave comrades, we are five”
Edmundus Scotus, Ninth Illinois Cavalry.
Cyril's Wood, Ark.
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