Classic Poem

Doesn't it thrill a fellow—make a glitter in his eye
And a fidget in his footsteps—when the boys go marching by?
Old mem'ries throng around him—with no regret or sigh.
He hails the shining columns as the boys go marching by!

He seems to hear the rattle of the rifles once again,
As in the days God's daisies were reddened by the rain.
The clamor of the captains—the charge and the retreat,
And thinks of Love that listens for unreturning feet.

Doesn't it thrill a fellow? Wrinkled and gray he stands;
But oh! the gleam o' bayonets, and the banners and the bands!
The white hair falling over the brows of the old-time braves,
As they answer to the roll-call over their comrades' graves.

Love of a common country Peace on the plain and hill:
And peace where the boys are marching to the far tents, white and still.
North and South in the union, and never a tear or sigh;
But doesn't it thrill a fellow when the boys go marching by!