The
wintry blast goes wailing by,
The snow is falling
overhead;
I hear the lonely
sentry’s tread,
And distant watch-fires
light the sky.
Dim forms go flitting
through the gloom;
The soldiers cluster
round the blaze
To talk of other
Christmas days,
And softly speak
of home.
My sabre swinging
overhead
Gleams in the watch-fire’s
fitful glow,
While fiercely
drives the blinding snow,
And memory leads
me to the dead.
My thoughts go wandering
to and from,
Vibrating ‘twixt
the Now and Then;
I see the low-browed
home again,
The old hall wreathed
with mistletoe.
And sweetly
from the far-off years
Comes borne the
laughter faint and low,
The voices of the
Long Ago!
My eyes are wet
with tender tears.
I feel again
the mother-kiss,
I see the glad
surprise
That lightened
up the tranquil eyes
And brimmed them
o’er with tears of bliss.
As, rushing
from the old hall-door,
She fondly clasped
her wayward boy—
Her face all radiant
with the joy
She felt to see
him home once more.
My sabre swinging
on the bough
Gleams in the watch-fire’s
fitful glow,
While fiercely
drives the blinding snow
Aslant upon my
saddened brow.
Those cherished
faces all are gone!
Asleep within the
quiet graves
Where lies the
snow in drifting waves,--
And I am sitting
here alone.
There’s not a comrade
here tonight
But knows that
loved ones far away
On bended knees
this night will pray;
“God bring our
darling from the fight.”
But there are non
to wish me back,
For me no yearning
prayers arise,
The lips are mute
and closed the eyes—
My home is in the
bivouac.