The Plymouth tribune. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1901-1911, 1908-03-12
Starting 10 the War.

When first they heard the words
That fell from Lincoln's lips:
ITO arms! We must be free :"
The brav0t of our country's brave
Went forth and donned a soldiers garb,
And midst the roar of cannon
And the mufied sobs of sad, sad hearts
Marched out to battle they.
The husband left his new-made bride,
Whose love and tender hands
Had failed to hold him back
From taking up the bayonet
To free his country fair.
And many a father. with glistening tear
Upon his brawny cheek. to see his pet,
Her little arms around his neck,
And say as best she could:
Dear papa do not go away from me-"
Twas like the giving up of his hearts
blood
To needless be to that sweet little voice /:
But go he must, and with a kiss
Upon that quivering little brow,
And ruby lips and dimpled hands
He's zone, that from the ocean
To the sea might ring at last
We're free! We're free,
The lover as he held the hand
OF her he loved the best,
The last farewell now trembling on his
lips,
Can scarcely hear above the echo,
Shoulder arms" her pleading tones;
"Oh. must you go? l cannot, cannot
Give you up to war"
A moment more-"Farewell,O
And he, too, is numbered
In the soldier band,
That over this loved land
Might float the flag
That published to the world
America is free"
| So TO the music of fife and drum
They marched-they marched TO battle
on.
Days came and went
And likewise months and years,
And battle after battle strewed the field
With our brave dead.
Whose dying breath was one
OF prayer to God
That right might win.
Yet often would soldiers courage almost
sink
When in the smoke of battle
They'd gather from the field,
Carpeted with dead, their lifeless
friends,
| Clutehing in their icy hands
Perhaps a battle steel
With which they'd written on the ground
Some word that they had hoped
Might be conveyed to some dear one at
. home.
Perhaps some mothers only boy
Each night she'd prayed he might re-
turn
With his last breath. as from
His heart his brave blood flowed away,
Would beckon from the battling throng
Some friend, and whisper as he ia
grew:
Tell mother, Ben, that I've gone
home"
He's dead.
Such sights and sounds,
That only On a battlefield can be,
Were seen and heard so oft
That each time seemed
That it must be the last.
Until at last the glad news came.
On that great battle day at Appomattox,
When in the shade of the old apple tree,
Commander Lee to our beloved Grant
Delivered up his sword, ard we had won.
The cause for which so many
Had yielded up their lives
At last was ours.
But let the world take note,
Twas not for shining gold,
Twas not for thatSair bauble, fame,
Twas not to chisei an immortal name
Upon the walls of time, that forth
Our soldiers went.
The fondest wish those brave hearts knew
Was that they might put down the foe
That stamped our nation one Of slavery.
So honor TO orr soldiers,
High honor to them all,
AND may their names in letters bright
Shine out upon fame's scroll.
But first of all. high at the top.
Let shine Abe Lincoln's name,
Whose hands, now turned to dust
Had ever dared to do the right,
MOI trembled when they signed
That document of war
That brought a nation
To the battlefield.
American Tribune.