~Some Mother's Boy.~
The battle-cry is sounding loud, a bugle calls to arm,
The hills and dales are clouded o'er, troops gather in alarm;
With winds is mingled sighing prayer from many a sinking brave;
A youth obeying duty's call, a life his country gave.
A soldier boy's dying cry is heard amid the roar
Of battle strife; surround with slain he falls to rise no more.
Some mother's boy! it matters not if clad in blue or gray,
If fighting for the right or wrong, is hurried to his grave.
Amid the beats of drum and fife, his pillow but a sod,
With folded hands and marble brow, his soul returns to God.
Some mother's boy is resting where the lonely willows weep,
And voices waft with waving trees, while angels watch him sleep.
Now comes along the highway a dusty tramp forlorn,
A tattered coat conceals beneath a bent and aged form,
With hardened weary visage, a bell he faintly rings;
The air is rent with pitying notes, an angel softly sings.
Upon this frozen nature no love for years has shown;
His life is made of cruel words, and knows no kindly tone;
And could you see into his past, as mother clasped her boy,
He then was innocent and fair--her pride, her hope, her joy.
She never dreamed her darling child a weary tramp would be,
For o'er his tasks or youthful sports he laughed in childish glee;
Perhaps he sinned, but, O! forget, for suffering must repay,
And someone's boy has now become wretched, old and gray.
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