(1841-1920)
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 blazeTo talk of other Christmas days,And softly speak of home and home.My sabre swinging overheadGleams 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 fro,Vibrating between the Now and Then;I see the low-browed home again,The old hall wreathed with mistletoe.And sweetly from the far-off yearsComes 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 again the glad surpriseThat lightened up the tranquil eyesAnd 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 joyShe felt to see him home once more.My sabre swinging on the boughGleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow,While fiercely drives the blinding snowAslant upon my saddened brow.Those cherished faces all are gone!Asleep within the quiet gravesWhere lies the snow in drifting waves,--And I am sitting here alone.
There's not a comrade here to-nightBut knows that loved ones far away
On bended knee this night will pray:"God bring our darling from the fight."But there are none to wish me back,For me no yearning prayers arise.The lips are mute and closed the eyes--My home is in the bivouac.