But no, sir, he rallied. We bore him away, When we crossed o’er the river, ere break of the day, Where our surgeon soon healed up his wound, and I nursed The boy, and grew fond where I’d liked from the first, Till, ready for prison, but hating confine, He fled one dark night and got over the line; And I never laid eyes on my bold shaver since. That’s his sword, and a weapon would honor a prince. You smile at the story—I’ve seen you, but where? What name did you carry? “George Gaston!”—well—there! Let me grapple your fist, boy? I’d never have known You, with all of those whiskers. Why, how you have grown! Twelve years! well, it _does_ make a difference, I see, In you, as it probably _has_ made in me. I can’t tell how glad I’m to see you at last. Sit down; take a pipe; and we’ll talk o’er the past. _AN AMBUSCADE._ The incident which gave rise to the following poem happened about 1861, in Western Virginia, somewhere in the Gauley River region. The story may be correct, or not. I do not vouch for its accuracy. At all events, I have considered it to be _si non e vero, e ben trovato_, as the Italian proverb has it. If it be not true, it is well feigned. _THE CHARGE BY THE FORD._ Eighty and nine with their captain Rode on the enemy’s track, Rode in the grey of the morning: Nine of the ninety came back. Slow rose the mist from the river, Lighter each moment the way; Careless and tearless and fearless Galloped they on to the fray. Singing in tune, how the scabbard Loud on the stirrup-irons rang, Clinked as the men rose in saddle, Fell as they sank with a clang! What is it moves by the river, Faded and weary and weak? Grey-backs—a cross on their banner— Yonder the foe whom they seek. Silence! They see not, they hear not, Tarrying there by the marge; Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop! Charge like a hurricane! Charge! Ah! ’twas a man-trap infernal; Fire like the deep pit of hell! Volley on volley to meet them, Mixed with the grey rebels’ yell. Ninety had ridden to battle, Tracing the enemy’s track; Ninety had ridden to battle, Nine of the ninety came back. Honor the nine of the ninety, Honor the heroes who came Scathless from nine hundred muskets, Safe from the lead-bearing flame. Eighty and one of the troopers Lie on the field of the slain— Lie on the red field of honor: Honor the nine who remain. Cold are the dead there, and gory, There where their life-blood was spilt; Back come the living, each sabre Red from the point to the hilt. Give them three cheers and a tiger! Let the flags wave as they come! Give them the blare of the trumpet! Give them the roll of the drum! A NEW FOLK SONG.