The Bugle Boy

I said, "Son, you look too young To wear that uniform. You ought to be home with your ma, There, by the fireside warm. "That bugle hanging 'round your neck, You sure can blow it fine, But you'd be home, singing in the choir Were you a boy of mine." The bugle boy's blue eyes flashed fire; His freckled face blushed red. He slowly shuffled his booted feet And cleared his throat, and said, "I guess I'm older than I look. I'm kind o' thin and lean, But I'm not "son" by a damn long site! I'm goin' on fifteen. "My ma, she died when I was born; The Rebs, they killed my pa, On a battle field called Prairie Grove, Out west, in Arkansas. "One brother died at Chancellorsville. He got in a cannon's way. Another was lost at Gettysburg, In Pickett's Charge, they say. "Well, that leaves only two of us-- Just me and brother Phil. He's with the troops on the forward line, In the woods, just down the hill. "They don't let me tote a rifle; Guess I don't shoot so well. But I can sound a bugle call That'd send a charge through hell." The bugler's story ended there. No time for more to tell, For, the midday quiet was shattered By that awful rebel yell. The cold air rang with musket fire And cannon, from both sides. Soon the sparkling snow was crimson stained Where the fallen bled and died. The blue line held; the Rebel thrust Was slowly turned away. Now the boy was told to sound the charge In the fading light of day. The blackness of the winter night Brought fighting to an end. The moaning of departing souls Mounted up the wailing wind. The bury detail found the boy, On their grim, morning beat, The bugle grasped in his frozen hand, He had never blown retreat. "Why, sonny, you look peaceful there In that blue uniform. I guess you're home, now, with your ma, There, by the fireside warm."