Her Father

She awoke upon her tender bed one day she could not name,
And looking out the window, fled; to the door she breathless came.
Her mother stood within the gap, and stared into the road,
And there they heard the rat-tat-tat! the cruel drum bestowed.
There issued from the darkling mist a host of grimmest men,
Each one's spear haft in his fist, each one the others' friend.

Already they had traveled long, to recruit a few men more,
Who'd sing the mirthless marching song, upon the road to war.
Their precious homes to God they gave-a hope for which they'd die.
For none of them would live a slave, nor loyalty deny.

Upon the brink, she stood in awe-her mother shedding tears.
Their fates she pondered as she saw the stalwart volunteers:
Of those triumphant on the field, or slain within the fray;
Some may be borne upon a shield, and some ten thousands slay.
She thought of each who left a bride, whose tears ran on the ground.
Of who would stand at eventide, or ne'er again be found.

Already they had battled long, and buried some before,
Who would sing no more their marching song, upon that road to war.
They all were true, with not a knave-none dreaded now to die.
But each man fought, as strong as brave, at every battle cry.

Then as she watched, he passed without, and kissed her mother's face,
His love ('twas true) she did not doubt, but cherished his embrace.
He seemed a king, to those behind, with armor and with blade,
But the look he gave, did her remind-with them he'd rather stay'd.
Into the ranks he disappeared, amongst the army's best,
Just one more man who volunteered, though to her he shamed the rest.

The days ahead held battles long, and beyond her little door,
He'd sing for her that marching song, both to and from the war.
Though years would pass before the end, with many fathers slain,
Still through the fight he would transcend, and hold her once again.