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WHEELER AT SANTIAGO
by Gordon, James Lindsay

Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,
Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;
But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,
Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.
Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells—
Wounded boys from the Vermont hills and the Alabama dells;
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"Put them into this ambulance; I'll ride to the front," he said,
And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old ex-Confed.
From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,
And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,
As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,
Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!
Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,
For he heard the song of the yester-year in the deep-mouthed cannon's bay—
He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,
Where his country's best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red, White and Blue.
Fevered body and hero heart! this Union's heart to you
Beats out in love and reverence—and to each dear boy in blue
Who stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the foe,
As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting Joe!
James Lindsay Gordon.

Source: Project Gutenberg

Source: Project Gutenberg