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BUENA VISTA BATTLEFIELD
O
N Buena Vista battlefield A dying soldier lay, His thoughts were on his mountain home Some thousand miles away. He called his comrade to his side, For much he had to say, In briefest words to those who were Some thousand miles away.
" My father, comrade, you will tell About this bloody fray; My country's flag, you'll say to him, Was safe with me to-day. I make a pillow of it now On which to lay my head, A winding sheet you'll make of it When I am with the dead.
" I know 'twill grieve his inmost soul To think I never more Will sit with him beneath the oak That shades the cottage door; But tell that time-worn patriot, That, mindful of his fame, Upon this bloody battlefield I sullied not his name.
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