The Trumpeter’s “Last Call” at Fort Maciu. (By John J. Reidy.)
Bleeding, sore, and wounded, and by my foes surrounded,
The Trumpet once I sounded, no longer can be heard,
For it lies dust-stained and gory, and by the dust corroding,
Where once I blew melodious that call that cowards dread.
No longer in the battles will I call the boys to rally
Through dark ravines or valleys, for freedom and for right,
For my life’s blood fast is flowing, and I am left alone
To die and to bemoan my fate at Maciu’s fight.
“Stay, Comrade, do not leave me alone upon the field
Where the savage Moros wield their bolos and their spears,
For I may yet survive to see Maciu’s tribe—
Like savage cowards—beat a long retreat.”
Again I see in fancy the scenes in dear old Boston,
Where in childhood days I wondered free from care and strife;
The unforgotten homestead, surrounded by the foliage.
Where oft my welcomed footsteps have echoed through the night.
My last hour is approaching: death’s dismal cloud is o’er me;
But being a true-blue soldier, I murmur not to die.
To-morrow’s sun shall find me far from the skirmish line—
So to comrades left behind, I bid a long Good-bye.