Cannon On the Court House Lawn

It rests 'neath spreading sycamores on the small-town square, A venerable old relic of the Civil War affair. The sun casts a fleeting glint as it rises anew each dawn, On the brass barrel of the cannon on the court house lawn. Oft' on languid summer days I like to pause and muse, About its past and the brave men who once comprised its crews. Tho' long silent it still has a powerful story to tell, As in the heat of battle it spewed its shot and shell. I wonder where and by whose skilled hands it was made. Did Johnny Reb or Billy Yank light the fuse for its grenade? Was it present at Gettysburg, repelling with deadly barrage, The cavalry of General Pickett's daring but fatal charge? I proudly recall that my great-grandpa was in the artillery. Could he have manned it at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee? Did it accompany General Sherman on his march toward the sea? Did it witness the surrender to Grant at Appomattox by Lee? Little children now happily scamper on this stately old piece, That fought for the North or South and saw the battles' cease. Old soldiers with far away stares recall its flaming roar, Watch the children play and silently pray, "No more war!" Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)