THE ADJUTANT'S CALL-Written by Andrew J. Gleason for the 34th Annual Reunion in Cambridge, Ohio Sept. 17, 1908
Come, Bugler, blow the Assembly. Aye, sound it loud and shrill,
Mind ye how Iler blew it, who fell at Pickett's Mill
Where we charged those strong entrenchments and met defeat so sore,
And by cruel blunder, a hundred shed their gore.
The flower and pride of the Regiment fell in that battle storm,
And our flag was dyed a deeper red 'neath Norton's lifeless form.
Who knows! The old horn's echoes may rouse that phantom throng
Who have not answered roll call, as the years have swept along.
I think I see them trooping from Southland far or near,
As to the Orderly's last call, lost comrades answer Here!
From Shiloh and Stone River, from Chickamauga's hell,
Where they hemmed us in the Kelly Field and noble Fowler fell;-
Hold! Liberty Gap's worth naming, where Smiley's life went out;-
But we turned that strong position and drove the foe in rout.
That charge straight up old Mission Ridge, the rank and file's assault,
Was grand and irresistible, and won with a fault.
The General couldn't stop it, we that time had our way,
Though we lost brave old Jim Cummins and many more that day.
At Rocky Face, Resaca, on Dallas' bloody fields,
Two hundred paid the tribute that War to Moloch yields.
Then we flanked them at Big Shanty and partly evened up,
When Levy and his men were "scooped" by plucky Peter Cupp.
Then next Bald Knob we captured, brave Askew led the way,
"You took the Knob right from their teeth," said Howard mid the fray.
Grim Kennesaw took costly toll ere we its protals passed,
But Bishop Polk was killed the day our Hadden breathed his last.
Crossing the Chattahoochie and Peach Tree Creek likewise,
We drew around Atlanta-the grand objective prize.
Besieging the "Gate City" with many a bloody bout,
At Jonesboro and Lovejoy, we fairly "flanked 'em out."
Hood tried same game on Sherman, by striking at his base,
But "Tecumseh" sent "Pap" Thomas the rebel horde to face.
We met them at Columbia and foiled them at Spring HIll,
Six thousand slew at Franklin, which broke their iron will.
Hood followed us to Nashville, two weeks he hung around,
Till "Pap" got good and ready and whipped him good and sound.
"Tis true we lost poor Hanson and Rodig on that hill,
But victories like that cost blood:--the Johnnies shot to kill.
We chased Hood to "The Land of Rest" beyond the Tennessee,
Then pitched our tents at Huntsville, from hostile foeman free.
With early spring we hastened to Eastern Tennessee,
The gaps to guard and circumvent the flight of "Bobby" Lee.
Then came the great surrender, Lincoln was basely slain,
The war was o'er; we thought to clasp our dear ones once again.
Not yet, alas! we marched away on only reach Nashville,
To be ordered straight to Texas, sadly against our will.
Floated adown the rivers,--a most dejected band,--
We crossed the Gulf and landed on Indianola's strand,
We met the foe (Gal-hip-per) while struggling o'er the plain
And slaughtered some ten millions, more of less, of him in vain.
We finally reached Mission Lake, when nearly dead with thirst,
All had the same opinion--"that march was far our worst."
We shot the Alligator in his own chosen lair,
"Til General Willich swore in Dutch, "the sport must stop right there."
So we tackled the Tarantula while resting by the shore,
The Horn-ed Toad and Centipede and Scorpions galore,
Then marched to San Antonio, that quant old Texan town,
And played "Proveo" all Autumn the Greasers to keep down.
The "Lone Star State" grew peaceful, our order came at last,
"Twas read at once on dress parade and joy was unsurpassed.
I need not say how speedily our rolls were then prepared,
Nor how light our foot steps were, as we the Gulf coast neared,
The dreaded "Norther" struck us there and ne'er relaxed its hold
Until Columbus and Camp Chase gave welcome to their fold.
Twas Christmas Tide, yet tarried we until good Uncle Sam,
Could open up his strong box, our pockets all to cram.
Oh! many sad farewells were said as home our footsteps turned
And we found the peace we fought for, where family altars burned.
Now, where's that gray old Bugler? It's nearly time for taps,'
But first we'll have the "Dutch tatoo" ere we don slumber's wraps.
Those sweet old German bugle calls, one never can forget,
We love them evermore, but taps!, don't blow the taps just yet.
