The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame,
All took the sight's electric stirring,
And hats were waved and staves were sung,
And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.
They only saw a gallant show
Of heroes stalwart under banners,
And, in the fierce heroic glow,
'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.
The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But glancing down beside the road
He saw a little maid sit weeping.
"And how is this?" he gruffly said,
A moment pausing to regard her;--
"Why weepest thou, my little chit?"
And then she only cried the harder.
"And how is this, my little chit?"
The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
"When all the village cheers us on,
That you, in tears, apart are seated?
"We march two hundred thousand strong,
And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song
And glorify the soldier's duty."
"It's very, very grand, I know,"
The little maid gave soft replying;
"And Father, Mother, Brother too,
All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;
"But think--O Mr. Soldier, think,--
How many little sisters' brothers
Are going all away to fight
And may be _killed_, as well as others!"
"Why, bless thee, child," the Sergeant said,
His brawny hand her curls caressing,
"'Tis left for little ones like thee
To find that War's not all a blessing.
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