New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1871-02-14

The old farm gable, he thought II turned
The milk that fell, In a babbling mood
Into the milk pail, red ~ blood
Or how he fancied the hum OF bees
Were bullets buzzing among the trees.
But all such fanciful thoughts as these
Were strange TO practical man like Burns,
Who minded only his own concerns
Troubled no more by fancies fine
Than one of his calmeyed, long-tailed klne,-
Quite Od-fashioned and matter-oi-fact,
Slow Go argue, but quick TO act.
That was the reason as some folks FAY,
He fought so well on that terrible day.
And it was terrible. On the right
Ragged for hours the heady fight,
Thundered the battery's double bass
Difficult music for men TO face;
While on the left-where now the graves
Unduate like the living waves
That all that day unceasing swept
Up To the pits the rebels kept
Round shot plOwed the upland gladesi
Sown with bullets reaped with blades;
shattered fences here ana there
Tossed their splinters In the air;
The very trees were stripped ana pare;
The barns that once held yellow gram
Were heaped with harvests Of the slam;
The cattle beloved on the plain, -.
The turkeys screamed with nnlght anu ip"in'
And brooding barn-fowl left their rest
With strange shells barstng In each nest
Inst where the tide Of battle turns,
Erect and lonely stood old John Burns,
How do YOU think the man was dresseui
He wore an ancient long buff vest,
yellow as safron,-but his best;
And bnttoned over his manly breast, ~
Was "A bright blue coat with a rOlilnS coihh'
And large gilt buttons,-size Of a dollar,- -
with tails that the country-folk called sws s
He wore o broad brimmed, beil-cro"neu nat
White as the locks on which IL sat
Never had such sight been seen
For forty years on the village green,
since old John Burma was "a country oeau'
And went To the "qultlngs Iohs aEo'
Close at his elbows all that day,
Veterans OF the Peninsula,
Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;
And striplings, dOwDf OF Up ana chln.
hat he
Glanced, as they passed, al the nat ne WOTe'
Then at the rifle his hight hand bore;
And hal led him, frola out their youthful lore,
" "Iio "a are You, White Hafr' "Pnt her through
Your head IS level" aud "Buly for you!
Called him " Daddy begged he d disclose
The name Of the taller who made his clothes,
And what was the value he set on those;
While Burns unmindful OF ieer and scon,
stood there picking the rebels OIL
With his long brown rifle, ana bell-crown nat,
And the swallow tails they were laughing at
IT was hut a moment for that respect
Which clothes all courage their voices checkeuj
And something the widest could understand
Snake i'm the old mans strong right handi
And his corded throat, and the lurking frOwn
OF his eyebrows under his Old belcloWnj
Until, rs they gazed, there crcpt an awe
Through the ranks in whispers and some men saw,
In the antique vestments and long white hair
The Past Of the Nation In battle there;
And some OF the soldiers since declare
That the CLEAN OF his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume OF the brave Navarro,
That day was their Oribamme OF war.
So ragged the battle You know the rest:
How the rebels, beaten ana backward pressed
Broke at the final charge. and ran.
At which John Burns--a practical man
ShOuldered his rifle, unbent his br0ws,
And then went back to his bees ana COWS
That is the story OF old John Burns;
This is the moral the reader learns:
In fighting the battle, the question = whether
You II show a hat that 5 white, or feather!