#basher things

Watchman, what of the night? Through the city's darkening street, Silent and slow the guardsmen go On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down Falleth the wintry rain; And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows, The sleet falls heavy and chill, And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.

Silent is all without, Save the sentry's challenge grim, And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town, And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night? Hark! from the old church-tower Rings loud and clear on the misty air, The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in, A summons deep and rude, The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum Of a gathering multitude.

And the dim and flickering torch Sheds a red and lurid glare, O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard: "Rest on your arms, my men." Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes Gaze down on that grim array, For a rumor hath spread that that column dread Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels," Whose camp lies heavy' and still, Where the driving sleet and cold rain beat On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint, - As she thinks of her darling one, Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too, Is the cheek of the fair young wife; And her eyes grow dim as she thinks of him She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons, Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is, There is each loving heart; And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze, And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp, None from that anxious throng? Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town— The way is dark and long.

No man is left behind, None that is brave and true, And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light With menace stern shine through.

Guarded is every street, Brutal the hireling foe; Is there one heart here will boldly dare So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room, Alone a woman kneels, With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face, And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow, A matron, she, and fair, Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer Her pale lips move, and then, Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way, Through the lonely, misty street, Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, aye, onward still, Far past the weary town, Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on, Breasting the cold, dank rain, And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears A dull and muffled tramp, But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam Shines out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge, Her work of love is done; She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, Who saved from a ruthless foe Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic How a noble Scottish maid Her own life gave, her king to save From the foul assassin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor, Shall live in lasting fame, Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children Shall cluster round our knee, With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days When we swore that we would be free.