Fair Nellie outrivalled the daises; and so, it was plain, thought young Jim,
Or else that such dainty hay-making required much assistance from him;
And if ever the lost joy of Eden came back to this earth long forgot,
It came to these blissful young lovers, a raking the new meadow-lot.
"What's this that you ax for—my Nellie?—Wal, if I ain't beat—can it be
It wasn't my hay but my darter made you mighty obleegin' to me?
You don't desarve her, you rascal, but"—the shrewd gray eyes twinkled—"I guess—
Considerin' the help you'll be hayin'—I s'pose—I shall hev to say—yes."
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
As I lay with my blanket on,
By the dim firelight, in the moonlit night,
When the skirmishing fight was done.
The measured beat of the sentry's feet,
With the jingling scabbard's ring!
Tramp! tramp! in my meadow-camp
By the Shenandoah's spring!
The moonlight seems to shed cold beams
On a row of pale grave-stones:
Give the bugle breath, and that image of Death
Will fly from the reveille's tones.
By each tented roof, a charger's hoof
Makes the frosty hillside ring:
Give the bugle breath, and a spirit of Death
To each horse's girth will spring.