Ah I who forgets that dreary hour
    When, as with misty eyes,
  To call the old familiar roll
    The solemn sergeant tries,—­
  One feels that thumping of the heart
    As no prompt voice replies.

  And as in faltering tone and slow
    The last few names were said,
  Across the field some missing horse
    Toiled up the weary tread. 
  It caught the sergeant’s eye, and quick
    Bay Billy’s name he read.

  Yes! there the old bay hero stood,
    All safe from battle’s harms,
  And ere an order could be heard,
    Or the bugle’s quick alarms,
  Down all the front, from end to end,
    The troops presented arms!

  Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
    Could still our mighty cheer;
  And ever from that famous day,
    When rang the roll call clear,
  Bay Billy’s name was read, and then
    The whole line answered, “Here!”

FRANK H. GASSAWAY.

* * * * *

WOUNDED TO DEATH.

      Steady, boys, steady! 
      Keep your arms ready,
  God only knows whom we may meet here. 
      Don’t let me be taken;
      I’d rather awaken,
  To-morrow, in—­no matter where,
  Than lie in that foul prison-hole—­over there. 
        Step slowly! 
        Speak lowly! 
    These rocks may have life. 
      Lay me down in this hollow;
    We are out of the strife. 
  By heavens! the foemen may track me in blood,
  For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood. 
  No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid;
  The surgeon I want is pickaxe and spade. 
  What, Morris, a tear?  Why, shame on ye, man! 
  I thought you a hero; but since you began
  To whimper and cry like a girl in her teens,
  By George!  I don’t know what the devil it means! 
  Well! well!  I am, rough; ’tis a very rough school,
  This life of a trooper,—­but yet I’m no fool! 
  I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe;
  And, boys, that you love me I certainly know;
    But wasn’t it grand
  When they came down the hill over sloughing and sand! 
  But we stood—­did we not?—­like immovable rock,
  Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock. 
    Did you mind the loud cry
    When, as turning to fly,
  Our men sprang upon them, determined to die? 
      O, wasn’t it grand!

  God help the poor wretches that fell in that fight;
  No time was there given for prayer or for flight;
  They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,
  And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and sand. 
        Huzza! 
  Great Heavens! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave;
  A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave! 
  Is there never a one of ye knows how to pray,
  Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?