Pray! 
          Pray! 
  Our Father! our Father!... why don’t ye proceed? 
  Can’t you see I am dying?  Great God, how I bleed! 
  Ebbing away! 
    Ebbing away! 
      The light of day
      Is turning to gray. 
        Pray! 
          Pray! 
  Our Father in Heaven,—­boys, tell me the rest,
  While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my breast. 
  There’s something about the forgiveness of sin—­
  Put that in! put that in!—­and then
  I’ll follow your words and say an amen.

  Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand;
  And, Wilson, my comrade—­O, wasn’t it grand
  When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud! 
  Where’s Wilson, my comrade?—­Here, stoop down your head;
  Can’t you say a short prayer for the dying and dead! 
    “Christ God, who died for sinners all,
      Hear thou this suppliant wanderer’s cry;
    Let not e’en this poor sparrow fall
      Unheeded by thy gracious eye.

    “Throw wide thy gates to let him in,
      And take him, pleading, to thine arms;
    Forgive, O Lord! his life-long sin. 
      And quiet all his fierce alarms.”

  God bless you, my comrade, for saying that hymn;
  It is light to my path when my eye has grown dim. 
  I am dying—­bend down till I touch you once more—­
  Don’t forget me, old fellow,—­God prosper this war! 
  Confusion to traitors!—­keep hold of my hand—­
  And float the OLD FLAG o’er a prosperous land!

JOHN W. WATSON.

* * * * *

SOMEBODY’S DARLING.

  Into a ward of the whitewashed halls
    Where the dead and the dying lay,
  Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
    Somebody’s darling was borne one day—­
  Somebody’s darling, so young and brave;
    Wearing yet on his sweet pale face—­
  Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave—­
    The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.

  Matted and damp are the curls of gold
    Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
  Pale are the lips of delicate mould—­
    Somebody’s darling is dying now. 
  Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
    Brush his wandering waves of gold;
  Cross his hands on his bosom now—­
    Somebody’s darling is still and cold.

  Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,
    Murmur a prayer soft and low;
  One bright curl from its fair mates take—­
    They were somebody’s pride, you know. 
  Somebody’s hand hath rested here—­
    Was it a mother’s, soft and white? 
  Or have the lips of a sister fair
    Been baptized in their waves of light?

  God knows best.  He has somebody’s love,
    Somebody’s heart enshrined him there,
  Somebody wafts his name above,
    Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. 
  Somebody wept when he marched away,
    Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
  Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,
    Somebody clung to his parting hand.