Martinsburg independent. [volume] (Martinsburg, W. Va.) 1875-1900, 1884-08-09
The Soldiers Death.
THE PATHETIC STORY OF THE BUR-
IAL OF A BRAVE PRIAATE.


THE PATHETIC STORY OF THE BUR-
IAL OF A BRAVE PRIAATE.
Robert Burdette.
Some of the boys will remember
the day we buried Billy Taylor, pri-
vate,C. company Forty-seventh Hi
nois infantry. l remember, because
it was th0first time l ever marched
in a military funeral, and / was but
a boy; hadn't seen my nineteenth
year then, and / wasn't much taller
than the musket 1 carried. Billy
wasn't killed in the battle. He had
passed through dozen fights. Every
time the Forty seventh went in he
was close by the colors, and shot or
bullet never touched him, but the
god of war demanded more lives
than the rifle and cannon could pile
upon it's Keeling affairs, and so death,
wearying maybe of the red carnage
of the field, often came to our tents
to select a victim for the sacrifice.
So Billy was excused from duty one
day, and sat down in the tent, and
tried to shake off the sickness that
came creeping over him, aud had
time to write a letter, and then he
planned what he would do to-mor-
row. And the next day he was ex-
cused again and he stayed in his
bunk, but it was hard and he could
feel the knots in the board under his
blanket and it made him restless,a nd
he thought if he didn't feel better
to-morrow-but he knew he would
he would go to the
REGIMENTAL HOSPITAL.
And the next day he was better; so
much better that he was pronounced
we'll, and his name was stricken off
the sick list. 1t was also stricken
from the company's roll and he was
marked off duty forever. Six men
were detailed for pallbearers, a cor
poraI and eight men for escort, and
following marched the men and Off
GERS of the company in the inverse
order of their rank.
Somehow the sunshine seemed mis-
ty and dim as the muffled drum
spoke mournfully and our slow steps
seemed to be marked off by heart
breaking sobs in distant home away
up in the far away Northland. The
wailing flies breathed the pathetic
strains of "The Land o. Leaf" until
the air seemed filled with tears.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair, Jean,
In the land o. leal.
We could hear the sweet voices of
women. tremulous, grief stricken, in
the mourning fifes. Since he kissed
mother, sister and sweetheart good
by in the prairie state he had not
heard woman's voice syllable his
name. His last dying looks were
bent upon bronzed, bearded faces.
and the kind hands that dressed him
for the funeral march were hard,
calloused with toll and war, scented
only with the cartridges they had
last handled. The voice of woman
would have sounded to him like the
BLESSING OF GOD.
To die, so far away from home; to
die and know at that moment, igno-
rant of his passing, the dearest of
earth were joyous, singing, laughing
maybe; to dies and know that the
days would creep on into weeks, and
the weeks into months before those
whose names were trembling, on
his lips, would know it; to die and
know they would still be writing
letters to him when his eyes would
be closed and the heart that longed
and loved would be stilled forever.
1t is a sad, sad thing TO bury a SOL
der.
But sorrows sell wears past, Jean,
And joys a comm fast, Jean,
The JOY that's aye 10 last, Jean,
In the land o. leai.
And they-what would be the