FORWARD.
A soldier laid him down to die: His wound was deep, his life a-failing: He called a comrade charging by: The shells were flying, balls a-hailing.
"O brother, take this purse of gold:" The steeds were rushing, cannon leaping: "And bear it to my mother old:" His voice was shaken here with weeping.
"O brother," said the comrade then: The turf was red with blood a-streaming: "Your errand fits but wounded men: The bayonets came on a-gleaming.
"I came to fight, and not to fly: I shall not live to see your mother: So pray that I may bravely die, And trust your treasure to another."