Not alone those camps of white, old comradesof the wars,When as order'd forward, after a longmarch,Footsore and weary, soon as the lightlessens we halt for the night,Some of us so fatigued carrying the gunand knapsack, dropping asleep inour tracks,Others pitching the little tents, and thefires lit up begin to sparkle,Outposts of pickets posted surroundingalert through the dark,And a word provided for countersign,careful for safety,Till to the call of the drummers at daybreakloudly beating the drums,We rise up refresh'd, the night and sleeppass'd over, and resume our journey,Or proceed to battle.Lo, the camps of the tents of green,Which the days of peace keep filling,and the days of war keep filling,With a mystic army, (is it too order'dforward? is it too only haltingawhile,Till night and sleep pass over?)Now in those camps of green, in theirtents dotting the world,In the parents, children, husbands,wives in them, in the old andyoung,Sleeping under the sunlight, sleepingunder the moonlight, content andsilent there at last,Behold the mighty bivouac-field andwaiting camp of all,Of the corps and generals all, and thePresident over the corps and generalsall,And of each of us O soldiers, and ofeach and all in the ranks wefought,(There without hatred we all, all meet.)For presently O soldiers, we too campin our place in the bivouac-campsof green,But we need not provide for outposts,nor word for the countersign,Nor drummer to beat the morningdrum.