Bivouac of the Dead By Martin Rice Written for and read at the twenty-ninth anniversary of the Battle of Lone Jack No muffled drum proclaims to-day The gallant soldiers’ fall, But on this anniversary We should their deeds recall. Go to yon elevated ground, Brave men are sleeping there, As brave as ever have been crowned With laurels bright and fair. There sleeping in their lowly bed, They heed not war’s alarms; No midnight dream or fearful dread Of call to clashing arms, No threat of an advancing foe, No rumor of defeat, No storms that come, no winds that blow, Can haste or stay their feet. Long was the struggle, fierce the strife, Courageous men on either side. How great the sacrifice of life! How many brave men died! No fiercer conflict in the strife That then convulsed the land Than that in which they laid down life At duty’s stern command. Fierce was the battle-storm that swept Across the prairie swell, And long the struggling ranks were kept Exposed to shot and shell; And as the roaring of the storm Was borne upon the wind, As often as the ranks would form, As often were they thinned. And when the storm had spent its rage, Its fury passed away, There mixed together, youth and age In Death’s own image lay; While others, wounded unto death, Lay waiting for the hour When they should yield their latest breath To war’s destroying power. The father and the husband, who Left wife and child behind To watch and wait and hope as few Can do and live resigned, Sleep there beside the stripling youth, Some mother’s darling boy, Her pride, her stay, her all, forsooth, The widow’s hope and joy. Long have they lain upon that field, The mourner’s sobs are hushed, And passing time has partly healed The hearts that then were crushed. The pitying rain, like woman’s tears, Has fallen on their graves, And oft the passing breeze appears To sigh o’er fallen braves. There sleeping in their lowly bed, They heed not war’s alarms; No midnight dream, no fearful dread Of call to clashing arms, The thunder of the cannonade, The musket’s awful roar, Will not disturb them where they’re laid, They’ll hear them never more. The stains of blood upon the brow Have all been wiped away; They feel no pain nor anguish now, Nor memory of the fray; No longer on life’s march will they Be hurried to and fro- They watch by night, their march by day Have ended long ago. And on their last camping-ground They’ve pitched their sleeping-tents, And roll of drum nor bugle sound Will ever call them hence. Upon that gory battle-field, By patriotism led, They’ve laid them down as on their shield- A bivouac of the dead. And fame and honor guard the spot On which those worthies rest; And never shall Detraction’s foot Or impious hand molest. The rusty sword and bayonet, The murdering lance and gun, They’ll need no more until shall set The world’s last setting sun. Together now those warriors sleep Who fought each other then; Their enmity all buried deep, To rise no more again. And whether clad in blue or gray, Or whether right or wrong, Respect and honor we will pay, For these to them belong. Sons of Columbia, brother all, Ye sleep in the same clay; There rest ‘till the same bugle-call Together you obey. No sounds shall e’er disturb again Your silent bivouac, While sleeping ‘neath the sun and rain, Where grew the tree Lone Jack. There martial glory guards the spot, And marble stone will tell How stubbornly that day you fought, How gloriously you fell. Let truth your eulogy proclaim And spread it far abroad, And history, with pen aflame, Your heroic deeds applaud.