LAST OF THE GRAND ARMY
Therethey come with feeble step,There they come with lessened rank,And yet pathetic with the martial airAnd ancient discipline of field and camp!There they come with sounding pipe,There they come with armor clank;The dimming uniform’s parade each yearAnd ensign’s flaunting—Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!Thus they pass in broken corps,Thus they pass in mounted troop,Across the square in valor’s proud review,Beneath the victor’s green triumphal arch;Heads with many a Winter hoar,Upright shoulders now astoop;Their once imperial numbers grown so few,But bravely onward—March! March! March!Many a soldier’s vacant place,Many an officer’s blank post,And many a veteran, too, with touching zealTo mend the losses hobbling along;Many a scarred and figured face,Many a luckless member lostWith silent eloquence the tale revealOf desperate battles—On! On! On!By Gratitude’s tall monuments,By private cemetery tombsWhere floral wreaths from loving hands lie muteUpon each honored grave for Memory’s sight;Bowing heads in reverence,Treading slow with muffled drums,With tear-dimmed eye and sorrowful saluteAnd lowered standard—Right! Left! Right!Every footfall of the past,Every annual elapse,The silent hearts and silent years no more,Half-echo, mingle in that ghostly treadAnd seem to swell the muster vastAnd seem to say with hollow steps,From all that mighty vanguard gone beforeTo this small rearguard—Dead! Dead! Dead!A few more years bivouac here,A few more years of sepultureIn trench or dungeon, grave or moaning deep,A few more years of Death’s soft slumbering nightTill all that spectral host appearBefore the throned CynosureWhose reveille will call them from their sleepTo Heaven’s reviewing—Right! Left! Right!No shotted cannon, deadly arms,No trophy of a fallen foe,Till God define the worthiest conqueror;Him who has vanquished Death and conquered DoubtAnd faced a thousand alarmsTill life sits firmly on his browOr echoes through the happy Evermore,Ye host of victors—Shout! Shout! Shout!
Therethey come with feeble step,There they come with lessened rank,And yet pathetic with the martial airAnd ancient discipline of field and camp!There they come with sounding pipe,There they come with armor clank;The dimming uniform’s parade each yearAnd ensign’s flaunting—Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!Thus they pass in broken corps,Thus they pass in mounted troop,Across the square in valor’s proud review,Beneath the victor’s green triumphal arch;Heads with many a Winter hoar,Upright shoulders now astoop;Their once imperial numbers grown so few,But bravely onward—March! March! March!Many a soldier’s vacant place,Many an officer’s blank post,And many a veteran, too, with touching zealTo mend the losses hobbling along;Many a scarred and figured face,Many a luckless member lostWith silent eloquence the tale revealOf desperate battles—On! On! On!By Gratitude’s tall monuments,By private cemetery tombsWhere floral wreaths from loving hands lie muteUpon each honored grave for Memory’s sight;Bowing heads in reverence,Treading slow with muffled drums,With tear-dimmed eye and sorrowful saluteAnd lowered standard—Right! Left! Right!Every footfall of the past,Every annual elapse,The silent hearts and silent years no more,Half-echo, mingle in that ghostly treadAnd seem to swell the muster vastAnd seem to say with hollow steps,From all that mighty vanguard gone beforeTo this small rearguard—Dead! Dead! Dead!A few more years bivouac here,A few more years of sepultureIn trench or dungeon, grave or moaning deep,A few more years of Death’s soft slumbering nightTill all that spectral host appearBefore the throned CynosureWhose reveille will call them from their sleepTo Heaven’s reviewing—Right! Left! Right!No shotted cannon, deadly arms,No trophy of a fallen foe,Till God define the worthiest conqueror;Him who has vanquished Death and conquered DoubtAnd faced a thousand alarmsTill life sits firmly on his browOr echoes through the happy Evermore,Ye host of victors—Shout! Shout! Shout!
Therethey come with feeble step,There they come with lessened rank,And yet pathetic with the martial airAnd ancient discipline of field and camp!There they come with sounding pipe,There they come with armor clank;The dimming uniform’s parade each yearAnd ensign’s flaunting—Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
Therethey come with feeble step,
There they come with lessened rank,
And yet pathetic with the martial air
And ancient discipline of field and camp!
There they come with sounding pipe,
There they come with armor clank;
The dimming uniform’s parade each year
And ensign’s flaunting—Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
Thus they pass in broken corps,Thus they pass in mounted troop,Across the square in valor’s proud review,Beneath the victor’s green triumphal arch;Heads with many a Winter hoar,Upright shoulders now astoop;Their once imperial numbers grown so few,But bravely onward—March! March! March!
Thus they pass in broken corps,
Thus they pass in mounted troop,
Across the square in valor’s proud review,
Beneath the victor’s green triumphal arch;
Heads with many a Winter hoar,
Upright shoulders now astoop;
Their once imperial numbers grown so few,
But bravely onward—March! March! March!
Many a soldier’s vacant place,Many an officer’s blank post,And many a veteran, too, with touching zealTo mend the losses hobbling along;Many a scarred and figured face,Many a luckless member lostWith silent eloquence the tale revealOf desperate battles—On! On! On!
Many a soldier’s vacant place,
Many an officer’s blank post,
And many a veteran, too, with touching zeal
To mend the losses hobbling along;
Many a scarred and figured face,
Many a luckless member lost
With silent eloquence the tale reveal
Of desperate battles—On! On! On!
By Gratitude’s tall monuments,By private cemetery tombsWhere floral wreaths from loving hands lie muteUpon each honored grave for Memory’s sight;Bowing heads in reverence,Treading slow with muffled drums,With tear-dimmed eye and sorrowful saluteAnd lowered standard—Right! Left! Right!
By Gratitude’s tall monuments,
By private cemetery tombs
Where floral wreaths from loving hands lie mute
Upon each honored grave for Memory’s sight;
Bowing heads in reverence,
Treading slow with muffled drums,
With tear-dimmed eye and sorrowful salute
And lowered standard—Right! Left! Right!
Every footfall of the past,Every annual elapse,The silent hearts and silent years no more,Half-echo, mingle in that ghostly treadAnd seem to swell the muster vastAnd seem to say with hollow steps,From all that mighty vanguard gone beforeTo this small rearguard—Dead! Dead! Dead!
Every footfall of the past,
Every annual elapse,
The silent hearts and silent years no more,
Half-echo, mingle in that ghostly tread
And seem to swell the muster vast
And seem to say with hollow steps,
From all that mighty vanguard gone before
To this small rearguard—Dead! Dead! Dead!
A few more years bivouac here,A few more years of sepultureIn trench or dungeon, grave or moaning deep,A few more years of Death’s soft slumbering nightTill all that spectral host appearBefore the throned CynosureWhose reveille will call them from their sleepTo Heaven’s reviewing—Right! Left! Right!
A few more years bivouac here,
A few more years of sepulture
In trench or dungeon, grave or moaning deep,
A few more years of Death’s soft slumbering night
Till all that spectral host appear
Before the throned Cynosure
Whose reveille will call them from their sleep
To Heaven’s reviewing—Right! Left! Right!
No shotted cannon, deadly arms,No trophy of a fallen foe,Till God define the worthiest conqueror;Him who has vanquished Death and conquered DoubtAnd faced a thousand alarmsTill life sits firmly on his browOr echoes through the happy Evermore,Ye host of victors—Shout! Shout! Shout!
No shotted cannon, deadly arms,
No trophy of a fallen foe,
Till God define the worthiest conqueror;
Him who has vanquished Death and conquered Doubt
And faced a thousand alarms
Till life sits firmly on his brow
Or echoes through the happy Evermore,
Ye host of victors—Shout! Shout! Shout!