“A Toledo!” No doubt of it; here on the blade Is the name of the Spaniard by whom it was made, And the place where they forged it; its metal can tell It was made where such weapons they fashioned right well; But that, after all, has slight interest—I Well know how I got it, the where and the why; And thence comes a story—a memory, too. Will I tell it? Why, yes, I don’t care if I do. I was merely lieutenant—I never wore stars, Though it rained brigadiers at the time; and my scars Were got in the hours when I fought on my feet, And lucky to keep them at moments when sleet From some thousands of muskets upon us fell fast, And each breath that we drew seemed like drawing the last, And the foeman kept plying his bullets and shell, And to right and to left comrades they staggered and fell. ’Twas at Fredericksburg Heights, where we charged like such fools, And learned by experience—that saddest of schools— An experience that brought us a fire-rain beneath— Not to crack a hard nut, nor to try, with our teeth, That I got this old sabre, and with it a scar, From a small pistol bullet, my beauty to mar; And a narrow escape, for an inch t’other way, And a narrow earth-jacket I’d worn the next day. I hated the enemy, then—no offence, If you held ’tother side, each man acts on his sense— And I thought they were wrong, as I thought we were right; No doubt they thought otherwise. And they could fight. No man can deny it; and there well intrenched They awaited our coming, while none of us blenched, Though we knew it was madness to charge up that hill, That a child might have held had it courage and will. At the word we were off. It was glorious to see How we marched to the charge with a step fast and free. Flags flying, throats cheering, and every rank dressed To an inch in its straightness; when quick from the crest Opened loudly a hundred of cannon or more, And the path of the balls was mapped out in our gore. We were brave, but some tasks are too fearful for man; We faltered, we turned—who could help it?—we ran. We tried it again with another rebuff; And again, till we found we’d been hammered enough; And then by the river at close of the day, With the wounded, the men who came out of the fray— And I tell you right glad to be certainly back— Lay there on the ground. ’Twas a mournful bivouac, With few of us sure as we talked o’er our loss If they’d suffer us safely the river to cross.