The Photographic History of The Civil War: in ten volumes, Thousands of Scenes Photographed 1861-65, with Text by many Special Authorities, Volume 9: Poetry and Eloquence.
Francis Trevelyan Miller, Ed.

[200] ‘Indeed I will, for Ned, says he,
If I do what I say
I'll be a general yet, maybe,
And ride a prancing bay.’

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er;
You should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store
Shook out a generous half.

To kiss that little mouth stooped down
A score of grimy men,
Until the Sergeant's husky voice
Said ‘'Tention, squad!’—and then

We gave her escort, till good-night
The pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight—
Or else 'twas tears that hid

Her tiny form-nor turned about
A man, nor spoke a word,
Till after while a far, hoarse shout
Upon the wind we heard.

We sent it back, then cast sad eye
Upon the scene around.
A baby's hand had touched the tie
That brothers once had bound.

That's all—save when the dawn awoke
Again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke
The screaming missiles fell,

Our Gen'ral often rubbed his glass,
And marvelled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell
In the Camp of Battery B.