JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. HAVE you heard the story that gossips tell Briefer the story of poor John Burns : He was the fellow who won renown,— The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town: But held his own in the fight next day, 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, 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. JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 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; While on the left—where now the graves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the rebels kept Round shot ploughed the upland glades, Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main, With strange shells bursting in each nest. 57 Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient long buff vest, Yellow as saffron,-but his best; And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons,-size of a dollar, With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. 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, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; And striplings, downy of lip and chin, Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, |