District of Columbia

The wind I can feel it still,

And the guns I hear the sound;

So very cold upon the hill,

My blood trickles on the ground.

A Yankee goes running past

And hardly pays me any mind,

Now I know I’ve fought my last

Upon my fate I am resigned.

The battle rages close at hand,

Men are dying next to me;

The terrible cries of the damned

Who of this war will soon be free.

“Hey Reb,” I hear from close behind.

“Any water in your canteen?”

And in the dirt my way I find

Amongst the corpses in between.

‘Twas a Yankee kid about my age

With his stomach blown half away,

While all around the war did rage

As I looked upon his face so grey.

To his mouth I helped him pour,

This sworn enemy of mine,

Who only moments before,

I’d fired upon across the line.

Now here we lay in the mud,

Time for us was running out;

The two of us awash in blood,

Close to death and filled with doubt.

“Where you from Reb?” He groaned at me.

And wracked with pain through and through,

I muttered, “Just outside of DC.”

And he winced and said, “Me to!”

And lying there close to death,

If he didn’t grab me by the hand,

And whispering faint of breath,

He said, “I’d like to understand.”

Then it was he up and died,

This Yankee from my home town;

And you’ll not believe how I cried,

For what was lost and won’t be found.