Classic Poem

From hill and plain to the State of Maine
The veterans toiled along,
And they rent the air with the tuneful blare
Of trumpets and of song;
That their throats were dry there will none deny,
But little they recked, I ween,
As they gathered round on the old camp-ground
To drink from the same canteen.

The tales of old were again retold,
And they sang of the war once more—
Till the word went round like a thunder sound,
“Let us drink to the days of yore!”
A rapturous glee that was fair to see
Enveloped the martial scene—
But there came a change that was pitiful strange
When they drank from the old canteen.

The veteran throng sings now no song
That is keyed in the grand old strain,
And the air is blue with the hullabaloo
Of the soldiers who marched to Maine.
Not even beer is the proffered cheer,
Nor a jug nor a flask is seen;
But it 's lemonade of a watery grade
That they drink from the same canteen!