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Updated: May 17, 2025
What a row Napoleon could have kicked up with half a million of these sagebrush boys to fling foeward under his cannon-clouds! We reached the cottage of the Great Man with the fresh laurels. He met us at the gate. He called us Jim and Bill and Frank and Kid something or other. We called him Charlie.
Right in the van, On the red ramparts slippery swell, With heart that beat a charge, he fell, Foeward, as fits a man; But the high soul burns on to light men's feet Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet; His life her crescent's span Orbs full with share in their undarkening days Who ever climbed the battailous steeps of praise Since valor's praise began.
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