Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
Charles Graham Halpine 18291868
Charles Graham Halpine169 The Thousand and Thirty-Seven
T
We raised our hands to Heaven,
And, on the rolls of muster,
Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,
As we took our oath of service
With our right hands raised to Heaven.
In memory still adored. That day of our sun-bright nuptials With the musket and the sword! Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared, And beneath a cloudless heaven Far flashed a thousand bayonets, And the swords were thirty-seven. Two hundred march to-day; Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps, And hundreds in Maryland clay; While other hundreds—less happy—drag Their mangled limbs around, And envy the deep, calm, blessed sleep Of the battle-field’s holy ground. The remnant, just eleven— Gathered around a banqueting-board With seats for thirty-seven. There were two came in on crutches, And two had each but a hand, To pour the wine and raise the cup As we toasted “Our Flag and Land!” As we looked at the vacant seats, And with choking throats we pushed aside The rich but untasted meats; Then in silence we brimmed our glasses As we stood up—just eleven— And bowed as we drank to the Loved and the Dead Who had made us thirty-seven!