The Rifleman’s “Fancy Shot”
“Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot,
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
Ring me a ball on the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet.”
“Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead;
There’s music around when my barrel’s in tune.”
Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.
“Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood:
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud.”
“Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track,
When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette;
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
“But I snatched off the trinket—this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”
“Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket—’tis she!
My brother’s young bride; and the fallen dragoon.
Was her husband. Hush, soldier!—’twas heaven’s deer
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon.
“But hark! the far bugles their warning unite;
War is a virtue, and weakness a sin;
There’s a lurking and lopping around us to-night:
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!”
“All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night.”
By Lamar Fontaine.
[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues silent on the subject.]
“All quiet along the Potomac to-night!”
Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
’Tis nothing! a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of a battle;
Not an officer lost! only one of the men
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night!
Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard o’er the army while sleeping.
There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed,
Far away, in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother—“may heaven defend her!”
The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then—
That night, when the love, yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers his gun closer up to his breast,
As if to keep down the heart’s swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
And his footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary, good-by!”
And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.
“All quiet along the Potomac to-night!”
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
And the picket’s off duty forever!