The ladder of promotion, round by round, I soon ascended and henceforth was found Among the few selected favorites Whom fortune decks with stars and epaulettes. Though liking not the rôle of matador, Within the ruthless theatre of war, From private soldier every part I played, Until my sword directed a brigade. I wore, the night before I started west, Four medal decorations on my breast. The war progressed, for time rolls on the same In peace or war, and sixty-three became A chapter in the annals of the past. When sixty-four was ushered in at last, To write in characters of blood and fire Its page of human immolation, dire, The waiting army lay encamped, before The Rapidan's inhospitable shore. The first few weeks, devoid of incident, Were in the army's winter quarters spent, Until the winter, on his snowy wing, Retired before the genial breath of spring. In speculation on the moves to come, The tongue of prophecy remained not dumb, But showered prognostications of defeat, Succeeded by the usual retreat, When rumors of offensive action planned As spring approached, were spread through each command. Until the troops were mobilized and massed, Until the final orders had been passed, The veterans, who had remembrance still, Recounted Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. But soon the dreadful Wilderness campaign, With its long lists of wounded and of slain, Vied with the carnage of the year before, If it be possible to measure gore. The tactics had been changed, for no retreat Was ordered, as the sequel of defeat; Instead of faltering or turning back, There came another furious attack, Another movement with invasive tread, And, Spottsylvania claimed its heaps of dead. Defeated, but uncrushed and undismayed, The weakened corps, including my brigade, With sadly thinned and decimated ranks, Was hurled once more against the rebel flanks. There in a hurricane of shot and shell, One-half of its surviving numbers fell; 'Twas thus Cold Harbor's quarry made complete The trio of victorious defeat. Three Southern victories, yet like a knell Upon the Southern ear these triumphs fell; For those who perished in that dismal waste, Had fallen and could never be replaced. Though stubbornly contested inch by inch, The lines were tightened like a horse's cinch. We watched the Southern forces day by day, From natural abrasion, wear away. * * * * * One evening as the disappearing light, Unveiled the beauties of a cloudless night, With much diminished numbers, my brigade Its camp beside the Rappahannock made, Some five miles distant from the spot of earth Associated with my humble birth.