Classic Poem

Down London Lanes, with swinging reins
And clash of spur and sabre,
And bugling of the battle horn,
Six score and eight we rode at morn,
Six score and eight of Southern born,
All tried in love and labor.

Full in the sun at Hamilton,
We met the South's invaders;
Who, over fifteen hundred strong,
'Mid blazing homes had marched along
All night, with Northern shout and song
To crush the rebel taiders.

Down London Lanes, with streaming manes,
We spurred in wild March weather;
And all along our war-scarred way
The graves of Southern heroes lay,
Our guide-posts to revenge that day,
As we rode grim together.

Old tales still tell some miracle
Of saints in holy writing—
But who shall say while hundreds fled
Before the few that Moshy led,
Unless the noblest of our dead
Charged with us then when fighting?

While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,
Of troops at Harper's Ferry,
While Sheridan led on his Huns,
And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,
We felt the South still had some sons
She would not scorn to bury.