Charles L. Sherwood

TWO I will plant at the edge of our camp

In the land where we go.

These, they are four, I will hold for the ridge

That our pennon shall know.

I think—yes, I think that these three

I will save, on the chance

That some of our boys may be called

Far away—out of France.

One is left; that is mine, all alone.

See, the number I bear

And the regiment, cut in the brown;

And this shall be there

In my pocket. Yes, more, it shall be

In my heart as I go.

My State! my own State, my home State,

Where the buckeyes grow!