The Old Major Explains

Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I dont know as I can come:
For the farm is not half planted, and theres work to do at home;
And my leg is getting troublesome, it laid me up last fall,
And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball.

And then, for an old man like me, its not exactly right,
This kind o playing soldier with no enemy in sight.
The Union, that was well enough way up to 66;
But this Re-Union, maybe now its mixed with politics?

No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad,
Im deacon now, and some might think that the examples bad.
And week from next is Conference. . . . You said the twelfth of May?
Why, thats the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!

Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasnt it? Ye mind that narrow front:
They called it the Death-Angle! Well, well, my lad, we wont
Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say
I really cant engage to come upon the twelfth of May.

Hows Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now I want to know!
The first man in the rebel works! they called him Swearing Joe.
A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then
Well, short of heaven, there want a place he dursnt lead his men.

And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! its true
We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?
A little field below the hill, it must be green this May;
Perhaps thats why the fields about bring him to me to-day.

Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop
The tail-board out ones feelings; and the only ways to stop.
So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?
Well, Ive business down in Boston about the twelfth of May.

Bret Harte

Bret Harte was an American author and poet, renowned for his works about pioneering life in California. Born on August 25, 1836, he gained national fame with his short stories and poetry depicting life in the early mining camps. His most famous works include 'The Luck of Roaring Camp' and 'The Outcasts of Poker Flat.' Harte's writings played a crucial role in shaping the Western genre in American literature. He passed away on May 5, 1902.

Bret Harte

Coyote

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

The Ritualist

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

How are You, Sanitary?

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

The Aged Stranger

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

English

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The Idyl of Battle Hollow

No, I wont, thar, now, so! And it aint nothin, no!
And thars nary to tell that you folks yer dont know;
And its Belle, tell us, do! and its Belle, is it true?
And Wots this yer yarn of the Major and you?
Till Im sick of it all, so I am, but I spose
Thet is nothin to you. . . . Well, then, listen! yer goes!

It was after the fight, and around us all night
Thar was poppin and shootin a powerful sight;
And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed,
And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:
And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin was nigh
But the growlin of cannon low down in the sky.

And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring,
But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing,
And a bird said Kerchee! as it sat on a tree,
As if ...

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John Burns of Gettysburg

Have you heard the story that gossips tell
Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well:
Brief is the glory that hero earns,
Briefer the story of poor John Burns.
He was the fellow who won renown,
The only man who didnt back down
When the rebels rode through his native town;
But held his own in the fight next day,
When all his townsfolk ran away.
That was in July sixty-three,
The very day that General Lee,
Flower of Southern chivalry,
Baffled and beaten, backward reeled
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.

I might tell how but the day before
John Burns stood at his cottage door,
Looking down the village street,
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,
He heard the low of his gathered kine,
And felt their breath with incense sweet;
Or I...

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The Aged Stranger

I was with Grant the stranger said;
Said the farmer, Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore.

I was with Grant the stranger said;
Said the farmer, Nay, no more,
I prithee sit at my frugal board,
And eat of my humble store.

How fares my boy, my soldier boy,
Of the old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly
In the smoke and the battles roar!

I know him not, said the aged man,
And, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant Nay, nay, I know,
Said the farmer, say no more:

He fell in battle, I see, alas!
Thoudst smooth these tidings oer,
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosoms core.

How fell he?        With his face to t...

Bret Harte

Caldwell of Springfield

Heres the spot. Look around you. Above on the height
Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,
You may dig anywhere and youll turn up a ball.
Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment: youve heard
Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word
Down at Springfield? What, no? Come thats bad; why, he had
All the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the name
Of the rebel high priest. He stuck in their gorge,
For he loved the Lord God and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way
At the farms, where...

Bret Harte

The Centenarian's Story

Give me your hand, old Revolutionary;
The hill-top is nigh but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;)
Up the path you have follow'd me well, spite of your hundred and extra years;
You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done;
Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me.

Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means;
On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising;
There is the camp one regiment departs to-morrow;
Do you hear the officers giving the orders?
Do you hear the clank of the muskets?

Why, what comes over you now, old man?
Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively?
The troops are but drilling they are yet surrounded with smiles;
Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the women;
Whil...

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A Second Review of the Grand Army

I read last night of the grand review
In Washingtons chiefest avenue,
Two hundred thousand men in blue,
I think they said was the number,
Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet,
The bugle blast and the drums quick beat,
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street,
The cheers of people who came to greet,
And the thousand details that to repeat
Would only my verse encumber,
Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet,
And then to a fitful slumber.

When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand
In the lonely Capitol.        On each hand
Far stretched the portico, dim and grand
Its columns ranged like a martial band
Of sheeted spectres, whom some command
Had called to a last reviewing.
And the streets of the city were white and bare,
No footfall echoe...

Bret Harte