JOHN W. MORTON
“No prison for me,” grim Forrest said,
And thousands followed where he led.
But other thousands because
They bowed to Buckner’s word and laws.
Whelmed by the girdling Northern men,
They marched to the captive’s dismal den,
And the lad who fired the first gun past
Into that solitude sad and vast.
A few months more, and the daring boy
Breathed the air that the free enjoy.
A few months more, and he gayly went
Where dauntless Forrest pitched his tent.
Saluting the hero, he quickly gave
To the South’s own “bravest of the brave”
A paper that said he was to be
The Wizard’s Chief of Artillery.
A derisive smile swept over the face
Of the stern commander, in his place.
“What!” he growled, “are you to wield
Command of my guns in war’s fierce field?
Nonsense, boy, go grow a beard!”
And this was what the stripling heard.
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