| |
| WILLIE, fold your little hands; | |
| Let it drop, that “soldier” toy: | |
| Look where father’s picture stands,— | |
| Father, who here kissed his boy | |
| Not two months since,—father kind, | 5 |
| Who this night may— Never mind | |
| Mother’s sob, my Willie dear; | |
| Call aloud that He may hear | |
| Who is God of battles; say, | |
| “O, keep father safe this day | 10 |
| By the Alma River.” | |
| |
| Ask no more, child. Never heed | |
| Either Russ or Frank or Turk, | |
| Right of nations or of creed, | |
| Chance-poised victory’s bloody work: | 15 |
| Any flag i’ the wind may roll | |
| On thy heights, Sebastopol; | |
| Willie, all to you and me | |
| Is that spot, where’er it be, | |
| Where he stands—no other word! | 20 |
| Stands—God sure the child’s prayer heard— | |
| By the Alma River. | |
| |
| Willie, listen to the bells | |
| Ringing through the town to-day. | |
| That ’s for victory. Ah, no knells | 25 |
| For the many swept away,— | |
| Hundreds—thousands! Let us weep, | |
| We who need not,—just to keep | |
| Reason steady in my brain | |
| Till the morning comes again, | 30 |
| Till the third dread morning tell | |
| Who they were that fought and fell | |
| By the Alma River. | |
| |
| Come, we ’ll lay us down, my child, | |
| Poor the bed is, poor and hard; | 35 |
| Yet thy father, far exiled, | |
| Sleeps upon the open sward, | |
| Dreaming of us two at home; | |
| Or beneath the starry dome | |
| Digs out trenches in the dark, | 40 |
| Where he buries—Willie, mark— | |
| Where he buries those who died | |
| Fighting bravely at his side | |
| By the Alma River. | |
| |
| Willie, Willie, go to sleep, | 45 |
| God will keep us, O my boy; | |
| He will make the dull hours creep | |
| Faster, and send news of joy, | |
| When I need not shrink to meet | |
| Those dread placards in the street, | 50 |
| Which for weeks will ghastly stare | |
| In some eyes—Child, say thy prayer | |
| Once again; a different one: | |
| Say, “O God, Thy will be done | |
| By the Alma River.” | 55 |
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