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Browsing named entities in a specific section of Waitt, Ernest Linden, History of the Nineteenth regiment, Massachusetts volunteer infantry , 1861-1865. Search the whole document.

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St. Louis (Missouri, United States) (search for this): chapter 48
there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom Claffy has a place, And valiant Thompson marches past. There with the men he led in fight, The handsome Ferris moves along; There's Donath, with his ways polite, And Robinson is with the throng. Three hundred of our bravest men, Who fell on Southern battle plains, Or yielded life in prison pen, That silent host of death contains. We see their faces as of old, We reach for hands we may not clasp; We nevermore can them enfold Within our warm and friendly grasp. But deep within our hearts we hold Remembrance of our gallant dead; And all the scenes of war unfold And clear before our vision spread. Our proudest boast will ever be— While in life's march our footsteps lag— That in the war for liberty, We followed the Nineteenth's flag. St. Louis, Mo., Aug. 25, 18
Yorktown (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 48
r the martial strains once more; We don our uniforms of blue; We see again the flags we bore We hear from lips we love, adieu; We leave our plows in furrowed field, To idly rust 'midst tangled weeds; We go the tools of war to wield, Responsive to our country's needs; We leave behind us fields unsown; We go to till the fields of death, Watered with blood, and bullet mown; Scorched with the heated cannon's breath. By Potomac's willowy shore We form our primal battle line; We hear the guns of Yorktown roar; O'er West Point see the sun decline. The Chickahominy we cross, On Fair Oaks' field we join the fray; We mourn the gallant Warner's loss, And all who fell that sad June day. Across the dark peninsula We march to reach the James's shore; We see again the smoke of war Hang over Glendale's field of gore; The lapse of time has not concealed The faces of our comrades brave, Who on Antietam's gun-swept field Their noble lives to Freedom gave. At Fredericksburg the boats we man, Under the fi
Glendale, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 48
miliar faces greet, Remembered are those far away, Whose hearts are with us while we meet. Nor unforgotten those who fell, And sleep today in sunny lands; On breezy hill, in quiet dell, In graves dug by their comrades' hands. They were as noble, brave and true As ever followed noisy drum; Their silent ranks pass in review, With noiseless step, and voices dumb. Brave Howe is riding at their head, Tall and graceful, but ashy pale, Just as he looked when, cold and dead, We dug his grave at sad Glendale. Another rides with that silent host— Boyd, the hero of many fields— Who bravely fell at duty's post, Just as the foe the contest yields. And there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom Claffy has a place, And valiant Thompson marches past. There with the men he led in fight, The handsome Ferris moves along; Ther
Spottsylvania (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 48
s not concealed The faces of our comrades brave, Who on Antietam's gun-swept field Their noble lives to Freedom gave. At Fredericksburg the boats we man, Under the fire from trench and slope, And, with the Seventh Michigan, We form once more ‘The forlorn hope.’ On Gettysburg's famed heights we stand, And form the long, thin line of blue, Whose courage high, and valor grand, The fiery Pickett's charge o'erthrew. All through the gloomy Wilderness, In rough dug graves we leave our dead; At Spottsylvania, back we press The line of gray, by Stuart led. Cold Harbor's flaming cannon boom, And thin our weak and shattered lines; And comrades fall, and find a tomb Amidst Deep Bottom's tangled vines. At Petersburg we stand again Where strong redoubts the hillsides crown; We see beyond the intrenched plain The lofty steeples of the town. Disaster at Reams' Station came, When from its trenches we are hurled; On Appomattoxa field of fame We see the flag of treason furled. And from war's sad and g
Edgar Marshall Newcomb (search for this): chapter 48
; Their silent ranks pass in review, With noiseless step, and voices dumb. Brave Howe is riding at their head, Tall and graceful, but ashy pale, Just as he looked when, cold and dead, We dug his grave at sad Glendale. Another rides with that silent host— Boyd, the hero of many fields— Who bravely fell at duty's post, Just as the foe the contest yields. And there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom Claffy has a place, And valiant Thompson marches past. There with the men he led in fight, The handsome Ferris moves along; There's Donath, with his ways polite, And Robinson is with the throng. Three hundred of our bravest men, Who fell on Southern battle plains, Or yielded life in prison pen, That silent host of death contains. We see their faces as of old, We reach for hands we may not clasp; We nevermore ca
Tom Claffy (search for this): chapter 48
is riding at their head, Tall and graceful, but ashy pale, Just as he looked when, cold and dead, We dug his grave at sad Glendale. Another rides with that silent host— Boyd, the hero of many fields— Who bravely fell at duty's post, Just as the foe the contest yields. And there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom Claffy has a place, And valiant Thompson marches past. There with the men he led in fight, The handsome Ferris moves along; There's Donath, with his ways polite, And Robinson is with the throng. Three hundred of our bravest men, Who fell on Southern battle plains, Or yielded life in prison pen, That silent host of death contains. We see their faces as of old, We reach for hands we may not clasp; We nevermore can them enfold Within our warm and friendly grasp. But deep within our hearts we hold R
David Lee (search for this): chapter 48
brave and true As ever followed noisy drum; Their silent ranks pass in review, With noiseless step, and voices dumb. Brave Howe is riding at their head, Tall and graceful, but ashy pale, Just as he looked when, cold and dead, We dug his grave at sad Glendale. Another rides with that silent host— Boyd, the hero of many fields— Who bravely fell at duty's post, Just as the foe the contest yields. And there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom Claffy has a place, And valiant Thompson marches past. There with the men he led in fight, The handsome Ferris moves along; There's Donath, with his ways polite, And Robinson is with the throng. Three hundred of our bravest men, Who fell on Southern battle plains, Or yielded life in prison pen, That silent host of death contains. We see their faces as of old, We reach
John J. Ferris (search for this): chapter 48
his grave at sad Glendale. Another rides with that silent host— Boyd, the hero of many fields— Who bravely fell at duty's post, Just as the foe the contest yields. And there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom Claffy has a place, And valiant Thompson marches past. There with the men he led in fight, The handsome Ferris moves along; There's Donath, with his ways polite, And Robinson is with the throng. Three hundred of our bravest men, Who fell on Southern battle plains, Or yielded life in prison pen, That silent host of death contains. We see their faces as of old, We reach for hands we may not clasp; We nevermore can them enfold Within our warm and friendly grasp. But deep within our hearts we hold Remembrance of our gallant dead; And all the scenes of war unfold And clear before our vision spread. Our p
Henry Jackson Howe (search for this): chapter 48
, the night bivouac; The roll of drum will never more Arouse us for the foe's attack. And as we clasp the hands today, And old familiar faces greet, Remembered are those far away, Whose hearts are with us while we meet. Nor unforgotten those who fell, And sleep today in sunny lands; On breezy hill, in quiet dell, In graves dug by their comrades' hands. They were as noble, brave and true As ever followed noisy drum; Their silent ranks pass in review, With noiseless step, and voices dumb. Brave Howe is riding at their head, Tall and graceful, but ashy pale, Just as he looked when, cold and dead, We dug his grave at sad Glendale. Another rides with that silent host— Boyd, the hero of many fields— Who bravely fell at duty's post, Just as the foe the contest yields. And there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom
George Batchelder (search for this): chapter 48
zy hill, in quiet dell, In graves dug by their comrades' hands. They were as noble, brave and true As ever followed noisy drum; Their silent ranks pass in review, With noiseless step, and voices dumb. Brave Howe is riding at their head, Tall and graceful, but ashy pale, Just as he looked when, cold and dead, We dug his grave at sad Glendale. Another rides with that silent host— Boyd, the hero of many fields— Who bravely fell at duty's post, Just as the foe the contest yields. And there George Batchelder we see, Gentle and true, and bravest of men, And there steps gallant David Lee, And Mumford's manly form we ken. Newcomb is there, with thoughtful face, In that battalion weird and vast; And brave Tom Claffy has a place, And valiant Thompson marches past. There with the men he led in fight, The handsome Ferris moves along; There's Donath, with his ways polite, And Robinson is with the throng. Three hundred of our bravest men, Who fell on Southern battle plains, Or yielded life in pris
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