Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THOROUGHBREDS (AN INCIDENT OF THE FIGHT AROUND ATLANTA), by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE Poet's Biography First Line: Straight at the breastworks, flanked with / fire Last Line: Will bethe sons of the thoroughbred! Subject(s): American Civil War; Camp-meetings; Fights; Militarism; Soldiers; U.s. - History; U.s. - Military Academy | ||||||||
STRAIGHT at the breastworks, flanked with fire, Where the angry rifles spat their ire, And the reeling cannon rocked with flame, Swift as his namesake, Bullet came. Young was his rider, fifteen and two, And yet the battles that he'd been through Were fifteen and tena braver lad Old Fighting Forrest never had! And as he rode down the rifled wind His brown curls bannered the breeze behind. "O, they are mother's," he had laughed and said When the men nicknamed him "Trundle Bed" Two years beforewhen he first ran away From mother and school to don the gray. "But that's all right"with a toss of his head "For Bullet is grownand he's thoroughbred!" But that was before the Shiloh fight Where he led the charge 'gainst Prentiss' right. And as he came through the smoke and flame Old Forrest himself was heard to exclaim: "Just look at Bullet and Trundle Bed! I tell you, boys, they're both thoroughbred!" And from that day on it became a law, "Follow Bullet and you'll go to war!" To-day he rode less erect, I ween, For he'd had a battle with General Gangrene In the hospital tent(a ball in his chest For riding too far over Kenesaw's crest). But even while tossing with fever and pain He had caught a whiff of battle again, Just smelt it afloat in the sulphurous air, And he knew, somehow, that Forrest was there And hard pressed, tooso, 'twixt crutches and crawl, That night he slipped out to Bullet's stall. A whinnying welcomea kiss on his ear, "I'm alive yet, BulletTrundle Bed's here!" A pattering gallop at first daylight, The boom of a gun on Johnston's right "That's Cleburne, Bullet! What a charming fight!" Straight at the sheeted and leaden rain He rodeAlas! not back again! For the hot fire scorched the curls of brown, And grapeshot mowed their owner down, And the heart that beat for mother and home Was dumb where it wept and wet the loam, And dim in the dust the blue eyes fine But Bullet charged over the Yankee line. Charged over the line!then he missed the touch Of the rider that always had loved him much, And he wheeled as the gray lines rose and fell 'Neath fire like fire from the pits of hell, And he rushed again on a backward track When he saw the Texas brigade fall back. But whose was the form that caught his eye With boots to the guns and face to the sky? And whose was the voice?"Tell mother good-bye!" And why were the curls red? His were brown He stopped as if a shot had brought him down! Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, And steel cursed steelyet he stood before The form he loved;for he knew the eyes Though their June had changed to December skies. Hell answered hell in the cannon's roar, And steel cursed steelyet he whinnied o'er The form he loved, while the grapeshot tore! And still he stood o'er the curly head For Bullet, you know, was thoroughbred Till a solid shot plowed a cruel rent, A last loving whinnyand Bullet was spent! The burying squad in blue next day Stopped to a man as they wiped away A tearfor there all calm 'mid the wreck Was Trundle Bed pillowed on Bullet's neck! O Union great, O Union strong, The South, you say, was in the wrong, And yet, some day, when the foe shall come, Some day at the beat of an insolent drum, When the glorious Stars and Stripes unfurl'd Shall stand for Home in Freedom's world, The first their blood in the cause to shed Will bethe sons of the thoroughbred! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WEST POINT by LATHAM CORNELL STRONG COLONEL MIDDLETON by PETER JAMES ULISSE A HARVEST SONG by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE A MEMORIAL DAY POEM FOR THE CONFEDERACY by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE A MEMORY by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE A MORNING RIDE by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE A RAY FROM CALVARY by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE BLUE JAY by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE |
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