The Last Salute.
Yes, the ranks are growing smaller
With the coming of each May,
And the beards and locks once raven
Now are mingled thick with gray;
Soon the hands that strew the flowers
Will be folded still and cold,
And our story of devotion
Will forever have been told.
Years and years have passed by, comrades,
Though it seems but yesterday
Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions
Marched to meet the Southern Gray—
But a day since Massachusetts
Bade her soldier boys good-bye—
But a day since Alabama
Heard her brave sons’ farewell cry.
Those are days we all remember,
In our hearts we hold them yet;
And the kiss we got at parting,
Who can ever that forget?
And it may have been a mother,
A fond father, or a wife,
Or a maid whose love was dearer
To the soldier’s heart than life.
Then the silent midnight marches,
And the fierce-fought battle’s roar,
And the sailor’s lonely watches,
Gone, please God, forevermore:
Though these ne’er can be forgotten
While the dew our graves shall wet,
Yet the color of our jackets
Let each gallant heart forget;
For the ranks are growing smaller,
And though decked in blue or gray,
Soon both armies will be sleeping
In their shelter-tents of clay.
But the loud reverberation
Of the last salute shall be
Oft re-echoed through the ages
As the tocsin of the free!
For we both but did our duty,
In the Great Jehovah’s plan,
And the world has learned a lesson
That all men may read who can;
And when gathered for the muster
On the last and dreadful day,
May that God extend His mercy
Sweet, alike to Blue and Gray.