THREE CHEERS FOR THE FLAG
By Fannie True

"Elijah D. Jenkins, of Henry County, Ill., was shot 
at Cotton Plant. The Company to which he 
belonged attempted to take him with them,
although in a dying state. They stopped
at a house on the road and carried him in.
He grew pale, stared wildly around, and said to
his comrades -- "Raise me up boys, I want
to give three cheers for the old flag !" and instantly 
expired."

Raise me up, comrades, one moment I ask,
Raise me up, where I can see
Once more the old banner, our country's pride -
The glorious flag of the free.

Lift me up, boys, never mind the dark wound,
'Tis a soldier's death I shall die,
My soul is ablaze with a patriot fire,
At the rallying battle cry.

Raise me up, boys, ere my strength ebbs away,
I fear not the palsy of death,
But I give for our nation's grand old flag
Three cheers with my dying breath!

The bright eyes were closed, and the brave
white lips,
That crushed back all weakness and pain,
Grew silent and rigid; his stiffened arm
Will shoulder no musket again!
Around him they gathered, those dear, true boys,
Choking down their wild sobs to hear
A murmuring echo the winds have caught
From the breath of that dying cheer.

No longer they listen, 'tis lost to them
In the roar of the battle's din,
But the shout rings down the glorified ranks
As his hero soul "falls in !"

After All
William Winter

The apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodland redden
In the blood of the dying sun.
:
At the cottage door the grandsire
Sits pale in his easy-chair,
While the gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman beside him;
A fair young head is pressed,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance
The faltering echoes come
Of the flying blast of the trumpet
And the rattling roll of the drum.

And the grandsire speaks in a whisper;
"The end no man can see;
But we give him to his country,
And we give our prayers to Thee."

The violets star the meadows
The rose-buds fringe the door,
Over the grassy orchard
The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still;
There's a nameless grave in the battle-field,
And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid, tearless woman
By the cold hearth sits alone;
And the old clock in the corner
Ticks on with a steady drone.