JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. HAVE you heard the story that gossips tell The only man who didn't back down When all his townsfolk ran away. That was in July, sixty-three, The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. I might tell how, but the day before, John Burns stood at his cottage door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, Or how he fancied the hum of bees But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folk say, He fought so well on that terrible day. And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery's double bass,— Difficult music for men to face; John Burns of Gettysburg. While on the left-where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the rebels kept Round shot ploughed the upland glades, Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air; The turkeys screamed with might and main, With strange shells bursting in each nest. Just where the tide of battle turns, And buttoned over his manly breast Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 73 And large gilt buttons,-size of a dollar, With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, Close at his elbows all that day, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, "How are you, White Hat!" "Put her through!" |