  The aged sire in thoughtful mood, Sits by the hearth stone bright, And seems to see with pensive glance, In soaring flames of light The old camp ground with tents outspread, Where comrades good and true, Are waiting for the bugle call, The call they all well knew. Ere the notes die o’er the valley, And smould’ring fires grow dim, To arms, to arms, attention all, He hears with strength and vim, Then forward march, away they go, The enemy to meet, Through fire and smoke he sees them fall, Aye, dying at his feet. The old man wakes as from a dream, His eyes are wet with tears, Then his dauntless spirit rises As in the by gone years, And a smile lights up his visage, Old and wan though it be, For visions of the old camp ground, In the firelight he sees. |
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