Colonel William Hoskins glories In unsullied reputation, Both as citizen and soldier, Both as friend and as companion. Served the Union in its struggle, Served his county's legislature; Is a genial, polished courtier, Ever welcome at the fireside, Ever welcome in all circles. Whether lifting up his voice in Measures for the public welfare, Whether shouldering the bayonet, For the bloody field of battle, Whether drawing strains of music, From the violin's sweet echoes, Colonel Hoskins wins a greeting, Claims a welcome in all circles. Major M. H. Owsley, leader In "the Cavalry" of Kentucky, Was advanced from rank of Captain In eighteen hundred one and sixty. Since those times of manly trial, He has step by step ascended, From the youthful lawyer's office, Up the grade of politicians, To the bench of legal power. A. G. Daniel, Junior, Captain Of the Home Guard nightly patrol, Served the Government thereafter, In responsible positions. W. A. Yantis ranked Lieutenant, Led the military music On the march of Wolford's cavalry. R. L. Cochran was Lieutenant, Also, R. Leslie McMurtry, Officers from brave Lancaster, In the army of the Union. Other men perchance from Garrard, From the inland hillside city, Took up arms to save the Union, Fought the desperate seceders. Far and near the slogan sounded, Long and loud the fatal summons, Till around each fireside lonely, Soon a "vacant chair" was standing; Till the only free retainers Were the women and the children; Till the crippled and the aged Were the guardians of the homesteads. * * * * * How the shadows of the picture Darken o'er the southern landscape! How the "Lost Cause" sheds a gloaming On the erst illumed horizon! All about the stricken region Hangs the doom of vanquished power; All throughout the conquered country Sounds the knell of fruitless bloodshed. Mothers mourn their slaughtered first-born, Wives lament their martyred husbands, Sisters guard the worn grey jackets, Maidens prize the blood-stained tresses. Farmers, planters, cultivators-- All the men of thrift and profit, Grieve above the desolation, Deep bewail the fruits so bitter. Furrows in the soil may ripen, With a renovated harvest; Furrows in the heart are open, With a ceaseless, arid planting. Wind and rain and shower and sunshine, Soon give back the laborer's treasure; None of nature's sweet restorers, Bring alas! the mourner's idols. From the North were foreign legions, Swarming on to bayonet charges; From the South the fostered nurselings Of the native born American. Every drop of blood a rending Of the ties of pure affection; Every pillowed head a token Of "Somebody's Darling," stricken; Every "Picket Guard" on duty, Joined in dreams an absent "Mary," Every hospital and barrack, Held the hope of some fond household.