E ^.^V:i f 013 709 241 4 ^ IN COMMEMORATION WW/M- ///l/fm mm€^no 4. December 5, 1883. Utt^ G, l\'^, 5 I want to be a Dragoon, And with the Dragoons stand — To charge a loaded table, With knife and fork in hand ! To hear the crj' of onset. The clash of blade and spear. And see through flame and battle-smoke, The viands disappear! II. To him — our earliest chieftain. Our leader tli rough the war — Send greeting from his comrades Who won for him the star ! Though distant, stern, unlovely, His head was cool and clear, And few would shrink from following Our wily Brigadier ! III. Hail Belts ! our modest idol ! Once corporal in the line, The eagles never lighted On worthier straps than thine ! In war the fearless leader. By rebel balls shot ihrou^h — In peace the perfect gentleman. Kind, courteou.s, faithful, true! IV. What figure rises yonder ? ' Tis Buzby, gallant man ! AVho rode with Colonel Palmer — So proudly in the van. He tells lu)W Stoneman, swearing, Calls Palmer to the fray. To clear the town of rebels Who hold the van at bay ; And how the Tetinesseeans — A lierd of beaten loons — Exclaim with pride as up we ride, " Here come the bold Dragoons !" Lo ! from the smoke emerging Appears Falstaffian Browne, Who was, though but a private, A general of renown ; For he, at Murfreesboro, In spite of threats and sneers. Sent Colonels to the right-about, And swore at Brigadiers ! YI. Alas ! the comic minstrel, Poor Smyth, is gone before 1 His voice is still, like Yorick's ; His songs are sung no more. Let's fill our glasses sadly. And toast eternal rest To all the Dragoons who have reached The camp-ground of the blest ! YII. For you, surviving comrades, We sound the supper-call ! Too soon, alas ! will follow Tattoo and taps for all ; A few decades will empty These chairs that throng the room, And lay the last old vet'ran In his last bunk, the tomb ! YIII. Then forward, snbreurs, forward ! Draw knives and forks and spoons ; Praj' Heaven no worse engagements Be yours again. Dragoons I We want no more the battle-roar, — Let roars of lauirhter echo ! The blood we spill is of the still ! Uur smoke is of tobacco ! J. A. B. Williams. 013 709 LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 013 709 241 4