Daily Intelligencer

Touch tenderly the slain who fell
With the old guard, the brave, the true;
In the garb stern of shot and shell,
Where the thickest the fight grew.

The towering pine may mock their doom,
Fell with the oldest there;
Tenderly touch them in the tomb,
Tenderly touch them everywhere.

Touch tenderly those men of ours
Who breasted death for us;
Who, in the dark and evil hours,
Bore up with cheerfulness.

Who wrote at their own hearthstones dead
The names of those they loved;
And asked to be borne back again
To join the line above;

To go where Hancock's men had bled,
To follow Burnside, brave and true;
To watch and ward and charge and bleed
Where the wild flowers their odors shed,

Making the free air sweet.

Touch tenderly the war worn men
Who write at their own world o'erthrown;
Ask to be ordered back again,
To join the line alone;

To go where Hancock's men had bled,
To follow Burnside, brave and true;
To watch and ward and charge and bleed
Where the wild flowers their odors shed,

Making the free air sweet.

Touch tenderly the warrior dead
Is dear to mother, wife, and child,
Whose blood was poured out in the strife
Of many a well fought field;

For brave as on the battle plain
Are the defenders of the land,
Who hire a living bulwark there
Each one ruled with deeds sublime.