And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry!
Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he 'll come and dress his
wound!"
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow,
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.

Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came
was,
Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door,
He could not speak to tell us; but 't was one of our brave fellows,
As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.

For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,--
And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother
do?"
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing,
He faintly murmured, "Mother!"--and--I saw his eyes were blue.

"Why, grandma, how you 're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinking
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along;
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother,
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-checked, and strong.

And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,--
"Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,--
There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted,
That--in short, that's why I 'm grandma, and you children all are here!