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If I should die of this slight wound--
The trust is not misplaced--
Carry it back to those who gave,
And say 'twas ne'er disgraced.
”Just there we met the ‘Catamounts’1
From Alabama's wild,
Who dashed upon old Fifty-nine
As if she were a child.
But soon they found us foemen good,
Who worked with might and will,
And would not give one inch of ground--
It was not in our drill!
”My poor old flag was torn to snreds,
But still I held it high,
Determined that this tree itself
Should run as soon as I.
Wounded and faint at last I fell
Upon the reeking ground,
And feeling round for my dear flag,
This, alas! is all I found.
”I crawled away to this old tree,
To lay me down and die,
And thought of you all, my comrades,
But did not think you nigh.
How good it is to meet once more
Before I go away,
To march and carry a different flag,
In the endless realms of day!
”Tell them I held--“ his head bowed down,
As if nature claimed her own,
And they carried off the soldier,
Thinking life had flown.
But he recovered slowly
From wounds — a sad array--
And says he'll yet meet foemen
To fight another day.
Wilkesbarre, April 13, 1864.
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