Classic Poem

Hardly at rifle range,
Of half a league or so,
Was the battle wrought by the brave who fought
Up in New Mexico, —
Was the bloody work at Albuquerque,
Up in New Mexico.

The carbines sputtered once,
And the carbines stood at ease,
Watching the strife, of the Bowie knife,
With the mad, black batteries, —
The bomb's flash to the battle crash
Of the bellowing batteries.

Up to the crater's rim
Into the cannon's breath,
Silently, with the grim,
Blue blade of utter death, —
With the terrible light of the bare and bright
Blue blade of utter death.

Up from the sulphur mist,
Out from the crater's flame,
From the lion's lair, to the light and air
Of everlasting fame, —
To the mountain height, to the morning light,
Of everlasting fame!

Laurels for all who dare:
Laurels of greenest life,
For the brave to win and wear
With the terrible Bowie knife; —
In freedom's fight, with the deadly might
Of the terrible Bowie knife!