THE CHICKAMAUGA OAK
September came with harvest sun,The alchemist of old,Across the fields of green to runAnd turn them into gold.But here was neither corn nor grain,Nor need of alchemist,For verdant vale and upland plainNo busy plow had kissed.The men who once had turned the sodAnd scattered here the seedO’er other hills and valleys trodTo serve their dearest creed.A hotter sun shone overhead,The cannon’s sulphur breath;They sowed the seed whose bloom is redAnd final fruit is death.Here stood the Chickamauga oakThat cool September mornAnd from its night of sleep awokeTo hear the blare of horn,To hear the tramp of marching feet,The steady clank of steel,The hoofbeats of the horses fleetAnd rumble of the wheel.Around it broke the crimson gale,Up rose the clouds of war;Down poured the slanted sheets of hailOn Chickamauga’s shore.Red lightning flashed from barking gunWhile cannon thundered by,And son and sire and sire and sonExchanged their battle cry.Above them neutral still it stood,The Chickamauga oak,Nor questioned whose the purpose goodAnd whose the wrongful stroke;And, when the line of battle passedWhere broke the storm anew,Impartially its shade it castOn fallen gray and blue.The battle long is ended now,The fife and drum are still;Again the men of Georgia plowThe fertile field and hill.Again the bright September sunTurns waving grain to goldAnd still the crystal waters runAs in the days of old.Still stands the Chickamauga oak—But now beneath its shadeLie those who parried stroke and strokeAnd wielded blade and blade.For north and south, for blue and gray,Impartially it grieves,And lays on both their graves to-dayThe cerement of its leaves.
September came with harvest sun,The alchemist of old,Across the fields of green to runAnd turn them into gold.But here was neither corn nor grain,Nor need of alchemist,For verdant vale and upland plainNo busy plow had kissed.The men who once had turned the sodAnd scattered here the seedO’er other hills and valleys trodTo serve their dearest creed.A hotter sun shone overhead,The cannon’s sulphur breath;They sowed the seed whose bloom is redAnd final fruit is death.Here stood the Chickamauga oakThat cool September mornAnd from its night of sleep awokeTo hear the blare of horn,To hear the tramp of marching feet,The steady clank of steel,The hoofbeats of the horses fleetAnd rumble of the wheel.Around it broke the crimson gale,Up rose the clouds of war;Down poured the slanted sheets of hailOn Chickamauga’s shore.Red lightning flashed from barking gunWhile cannon thundered by,And son and sire and sire and sonExchanged their battle cry.Above them neutral still it stood,The Chickamauga oak,Nor questioned whose the purpose goodAnd whose the wrongful stroke;And, when the line of battle passedWhere broke the storm anew,Impartially its shade it castOn fallen gray and blue.The battle long is ended now,The fife and drum are still;Again the men of Georgia plowThe fertile field and hill.Again the bright September sunTurns waving grain to goldAnd still the crystal waters runAs in the days of old.Still stands the Chickamauga oak—But now beneath its shadeLie those who parried stroke and strokeAnd wielded blade and blade.For north and south, for blue and gray,Impartially it grieves,And lays on both their graves to-dayThe cerement of its leaves.
September came with harvest sun,The alchemist of old,Across the fields of green to runAnd turn them into gold.But here was neither corn nor grain,Nor need of alchemist,For verdant vale and upland plainNo busy plow had kissed.
September came with harvest sun,
The alchemist of old,
Across the fields of green to run
And turn them into gold.
But here was neither corn nor grain,
Nor need of alchemist,
For verdant vale and upland plain
No busy plow had kissed.
The men who once had turned the sodAnd scattered here the seedO’er other hills and valleys trodTo serve their dearest creed.A hotter sun shone overhead,The cannon’s sulphur breath;They sowed the seed whose bloom is redAnd final fruit is death.
The men who once had turned the sod
And scattered here the seed
O’er other hills and valleys trod
To serve their dearest creed.
A hotter sun shone overhead,
The cannon’s sulphur breath;
They sowed the seed whose bloom is red
And final fruit is death.
Here stood the Chickamauga oakThat cool September mornAnd from its night of sleep awokeTo hear the blare of horn,To hear the tramp of marching feet,The steady clank of steel,The hoofbeats of the horses fleetAnd rumble of the wheel.
Here stood the Chickamauga oak
That cool September morn
And from its night of sleep awoke
To hear the blare of horn,
To hear the tramp of marching feet,
The steady clank of steel,
The hoofbeats of the horses fleet
And rumble of the wheel.
Around it broke the crimson gale,Up rose the clouds of war;Down poured the slanted sheets of hailOn Chickamauga’s shore.Red lightning flashed from barking gunWhile cannon thundered by,And son and sire and sire and sonExchanged their battle cry.
Around it broke the crimson gale,
Up rose the clouds of war;
Down poured the slanted sheets of hail
On Chickamauga’s shore.
Red lightning flashed from barking gun
While cannon thundered by,
And son and sire and sire and son
Exchanged their battle cry.
Above them neutral still it stood,The Chickamauga oak,Nor questioned whose the purpose goodAnd whose the wrongful stroke;And, when the line of battle passedWhere broke the storm anew,Impartially its shade it castOn fallen gray and blue.
Above them neutral still it stood,
The Chickamauga oak,
Nor questioned whose the purpose good
And whose the wrongful stroke;
And, when the line of battle passed
Where broke the storm anew,
Impartially its shade it cast
On fallen gray and blue.
The battle long is ended now,The fife and drum are still;Again the men of Georgia plowThe fertile field and hill.Again the bright September sunTurns waving grain to goldAnd still the crystal waters runAs in the days of old.
The battle long is ended now,
The fife and drum are still;
Again the men of Georgia plow
The fertile field and hill.
Again the bright September sun
Turns waving grain to gold
And still the crystal waters run
As in the days of old.
Still stands the Chickamauga oak—But now beneath its shadeLie those who parried stroke and strokeAnd wielded blade and blade.For north and south, for blue and gray,Impartially it grieves,And lays on both their graves to-dayThe cerement of its leaves.
Still stands the Chickamauga oak—
But now beneath its shade
Lie those who parried stroke and stroke
And wielded blade and blade.
For north and south, for blue and gray,
Impartially it grieves,
And lays on both their graves to-day
The cerement of its leaves.