Poem entitled, "The Roundhead's Reunion" by T.C. Harbaugh, Casstown, Ohio dedicated to the Roundheads and Published in the Friday, August 18, 1905 Edition of the Grove City Reporter

(from Col. Norman J. Maxwell's Scrapbook and transcribed by Tami McConahy for the 100th PA Webpage)

The Roundhead's Reunion.

By T.C. Harbaugh, Casstown, O.


It seems to me that every year

A lot of whiter heads appear;

It seems that as we onward go

Some cherished footsteps feebler grow,

And furrows come ‘neath locks of gray

Where none were seen but yesterday.


But when I think that since the gun

Rebellion fired in Sixty-one

O’er forty years have fled, I know

Why locks are white and steps are slow.

Your ranks to-day are not as strong

As when in youth you marched along

The dusty road to rattling drum

And lusty shout, “We come! We come!”


I need not here in humble verse

The story of your deeds rehearse ;

They’ve written in that mighty tomb,

Which Freedom treasures in her dome ;

Where each immortal historic page

Glows with the valor of the age.

Old Carolina’s sacred sod

Amid the smoke of war you trod,

South Mountain’s name is on your shield,

And Fredericksburg’s immortal field ;

Blue Springs and Jackson, Knoxville, too,

And red Antietam shine for you ;

‘Neath Vicksburg’s rampart held by foes

You plucked a crimson battle rose.

To-day the wilderness doth spread

It’s shadows o’er your gallant dead.

At Spottsylvania in the wood

A wall of stone the Roundheads stood.

Bethesda and Cold Harbor form

The edge of Petersburg’s dark storm,

And linger in your memory still

Old Poplar Grove and Squirrel Hill.


These are not all the fields you won

With trusty bayonet and gun.

Nay, other stars adorn your wreath--

You won them on the field of death.

To-day the summer gladly weaves

For you her crown of golden leaves ;

The cannon’s rut with dew is wet,

There’s rust upon the bayonet ;

The sabre of its strength is shorn,

The blades of peace are blades of corn ;

The plowshare turns the yellow mold,

The year to-day is growing old.

And so are you who marched away,

With young hearts ready for the fray.


Where are the comrades, tried and true

Who marched beside you clad in blue?

Where are the boys beloved of yore

Who came from battle nevermore?

I ask the warm and balmy breeze

That kisses Southland’s orange trees;

I ask the rivers as they run

Thro’ land of shade to seas of sun.

Methinks that e’re my words are fled

I hear the roll-call of your dead ;

Methinks I hear each gallant name

Proclaimed by Freedom’s trump of fame.


They sleep in long and ghastly lines

Beneath Virginia’s spreading pines ;

They’ve pitched their tents forevermore

Among the sands of Ocean’s shore,

And over many a gallant’s breast

The Southern blue-bird builds her nest.

These are the comrades who to-day

Are sweetly dreaming far away--

These are the boys of camp and march

Who rest beneath the starry arch.


Though they are dead to-day, I know

You see their forms as long ago ;

You feel again the hand you took

Perhaps beside the bloody brook,

And said “Farewell,” whilst far and wide

Around you rolled the battle tide ;

You hear and feel, despite Time’s flow,

The voice of “Bill,” the hand of “Joe.”


God rest your hero dead whom fame

Has proudly linked to Country’s name ;

Sweet memory weaves for them to-day

A never fading wreath of bay ;


We lay upon each stormless breast

A love which many years have blest ;

The years that come will only prove

How deeply flows the tide of love,

And once a year the flowers will fall

Upon the hallowed graves of all.


We welcome all who gather here

To grasp the hand of comrade dear-

To greet the well remembered face

And Recollection’s paths to trace.

Back to the past your thoughts return,

Deep in your breast old camp-fires burn ;

You’re living o’er the midnight march

Beneath the star-bespangled arch--

The lonely guard by ghostly bridge,

The weary tramps o’er rugged ridge;

The river waded in the morn,

The cautious raids on fields of corn--

The battle through whose smoke and fire

You bore the flag of your desire,

And crowned it with affection’s wreath

Made holy by your comrades’ death.


You did not fight and bleed in vain,

O men, who stood on hill and plain.

We gave to you in Sixty-one

The fairest banner ‘neath the sun.

You kept its stainless honor bright,

You rallied ‘round it in the fight ;

And when from your last battle plain

In triumph you come home again,

You brought us from the fields of war

A flag without a missing star.


A few more years and one and all

Will answer to Death’s bugle call ;

Forevermore your flags are furled,

Such flags ! the envy of the world !

And larger grows the silent camp

Which honor guards with stately tramp.

Think not that you have ceased to march

Beneath the heaven's starry arch.

Thought frosted by the hand of age,

You're marching still o'er history's page,

And down the corridors of time

Forever in this glorious clime

Imagination oft will see

The Roundheads--Sons of victory !

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