Classic Poem

A soldier laid him down to die:
His wound was deep, his life a-failing:
He called a comrade charging by:
The shells were flying, balls a-hailing.

" O brother, take this purse of gold: "
The steeds were rushing, cannon leaping:
" And bear it to my mother old: "
His voice was shaken here with weeping.

" O brother, " said the comrade then:
The turf was red with blood a-streaming:
" Your errand fits but wounded men:
The bayonets came on a-gleaming.

" I came to fight, and not to fly:
I shall not live to see your mother:
So pray that I may bravely die,
And trust your treasure to another. "