THE STORMING OF MISSION RIDGE.

THE autumn sun rose clear and bright

On mountain-top and town,

And through the hazy morning light

The Rebel horde looked down.

On Lookout's side, in the valley's mist,

We rose, a loyal band,

From hilly East, from prairie West,

Pride of the Northern land.

We waved our hats in joy and pride,

As morn revealed above,

Against the green of the smooth hillside,

The starry flag we love.

Then Hooker's boys were put in trim

To charge the rocky height,

Where double-shotted cannons grim

Thrust muzzles black in sight.

Along the plain our muskets bright

In line of battle lie;

With eager eyes we watch the fight

Up in the southern sky.

Then charged the bristling battle-lines,

The gray coats and the blue;

And these the God of War assigns

The Laurel, those the Rue.

Quick, boys! Who scales to yonder height

The ladder in the cleft?

Stern "boys" went up and won the fight,

The great black guns were left.

But ah! thou crested mountain-head,

An altar was thy sod;

Six hero-souls, the first who led,

Hence went to meet their God.

We saw the rebel wagons wind

Along the mountain-road,

And, quickly closing up behind,

The ragged gray-coats strode.

Their solid ranks passed o'er the plain,

And down the woody glen,

Through Chattanooga valley came

The tramp of armed men.

But mile by mile a race was run,

We gave them rank for rank,

And when the Rossville road was won

We closed upon their flank.

They gained the Ridge, and marched across

To charge our bold array,

Where brave and ready Sherman's loss

Had wellnigh won the day.

Observing all from Orchard Knoll,

With confidence and trust,

The master-mind that planned the whole

Then calmly said "We must."

And, charging up the steep ascent,

Brave Sherman led the way;

The pine-trees by the cannons rent

Across his pathway lay.

The storm that raged on Tunnel Hill

Then crept along the right,

The hail that swept from out the dell

Was answered from the height.

Above, the cannon's snowy breath,

That puffed the iron ball,

Shrouding the busy hand of Death,

Hung o'er us like a pall.

But onward, upward toiling still

Over the fallen logs,

'Gainst whistling shot and shrieking shell,

We took their "brazen dogs."

And one by one with steel and lead

We stopped their savage roar;

The Rebels from their ramparts fled,

And down the hillside tore.

We turned his guns along the line

Upon the flying foe,

While southern wind through moaning pine

Bewailed his bitter woe.

Then o'er the field our torn flag tossed,

And Chattanooga's slain

Washed out, with the blood of loyal lost,

Dark Chicamauga's stain.

C. W. S., '76.