Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DON, by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Black as a crow, with a satin sheen
Last Line: The master you carried at gettysburg.
Alternate Author Name(s): Van Deth, Gerrit, Mrs.
Subject(s): Childhood Memories; Old Age


BLACK as a crow, with a satin sheen
On his well-brushed coat,—with plenty to eat,
Oats and corn and, along between,
The daintiest pasture, rich and sweet,—
In his old age Don leads an easy life,
Though he spent his youth in the thick of the strife.
Now, watch him while the procession comes:
Ah, yes, good fellow, you hear the drums,
Bugles, and trumpets; you 're brave to-day;
Head up, ears pricked, you are back in the fray.
He carried his master at Gettysburg.

Poor Tom! I've his diary here on the shelf,—
My dearest treasure, a bit of himself,—
Pencilled at night by the bivouac,
Pencilled in saddle on Don's broad back,
Some of it scrawled in the hospital,
Some inside of the prison's wall.
It tells of pain and hunger and thirst,—
Terse and brief when it tells of the worst,
Jolly and bright with a boy's delight
When the boys are safe over march and fight.
Scraps of Latin are here and there,
And once a tress of bonny brown hair.
There's never the breath of a weak complaint,
Nor the sign of a word that would vex a saint,
For Tom was bold and tender and true!
I tell you, lady, his mother knew:
From the cradle onward, Tom, my son,
Was a lad you could pin your faith upon.

Did I hear the cannon? Ay, far and away,
As I sat at my sewing, its dull, faint boom,
Ever and often, that weary day,
Over miles of clover, came straight to my room.
At times I would drop my seam, and pray,
For a shudder crept o'er me again and again;
But I was as calm as a statue when
I learned, at last, the terrible price
I had paid for my country. Cold as ice
I waited to see my dear, dead son;
'T was a comfort that father brought home poor Don.

Do you wonder I've taken care of him
All these years, till his eye is dim,
And his fire has fled, and his vigor wanes?
Tho' naught but the memory remains
Of the steed he was, yet a sudden flash
Will waken the thrill of the cavalry dash,—
As now, when grand with bugles and drums
Gaily the holiday regiment comes!
Ah! Don, good Don, you may eat your fill,
And browse in the meadow lot at will,
For Tom is asleep, just over the hill,
The master you carried at Gettysburg.





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