Page:Songs, Legends, and Ballads.djvu/123

Rh But let me draw one picture from the page—
 * For words of song embalm the hero dead.

The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted,
 * Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow;

The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted,
 * And Burnside's battalions are mustering now.

The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting;
 * The work must be done by a desperate few;

The black-mouthed guns on the height give them greeting —
 * From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view.

Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind them
 * Are Georgia militia—an Irish brigade—

Their caps have green badges, as if to remind them
 * Of all the brave record their country has made.