Dear Madam

author unknown

Bill, Here is the poem, as my sister remembers it:

Dear Madam, I'm a soldier.
 My speech is rough and plain.  
 I'm not much used to writing 
 And I hate to give you pain. 
 But I promised I would do it; 
 He thought it might be so. 
 And if it came from one who loved him, 
 Perhaps t'would ease the blow. 
 It seems so sad that one so loved 
 As he was should be gone, 
 While I should still living here 
 Who have no family to morn. 
 By this time you may surely guess 
 The truth I vain would hide, 
 And pardon a rough soldier's words
 While I tell you how he died.

T'was the night before the battle 
 And in our crowded tent, 
 More than one brave boy was sobbing 
 And many a knee was bent. 
 T'was not so much for self they cared 
 As for the loved at home, 
 Which was always worse to think of 
 Than to hear the cannon's boom. 
 So, as we left our crowded tent, 
 Your soldier boy and I, 
 We both breathed freely 
 Underneath the clear night sky. 
 Though I was more than ten years older 
 He seemed to turn to me, 
 And oftener than the younger ones, 
 He sought my company. 
 He seemed to want to talk of home 
 And those he loved so dear. 
 Though I had none to talk of, 
 I always loved to hear. 
 So then he told me of 
 The night he came away, 
 And how you sorely grieved for him, 
 But they would not let him stay. 
 And how his one fond hope has been 
 That when this war was through, 
 He might go back with honor 
 To his friends at home and you. 

He named his sisters one by one 
 And then a deep blush came 
 While he told me of another, 
 But he did not speak her name. 
 He said, "Dear Robert, it may be 
 That I shall fall. 
 And will you write to those at home 
 How I loved and spoke of all?" 
 I promised, but I did not think 
 The time would come so soon. 
 The fight was just three days ago. 
 He died today at noon. 
 It was in the morrow 's battle, 
 Fast rained the shot and shell. 
 He was fighting close beside me 
 And I saw him when he fell. 
 I took him in my arms 
 And laid him on the grass 
 That was going against orders, 
 But I think they let it pass. 
 It was a Mini ball the struck him, 
 It entered at his side. 
 They did not think it fatal 
 Til the morning that he died. 

And when he found that he must go, 
 He called me to his bed and said, 
 "Dear Robert, you will not forget to write 
 When you hear that I am dead. 
 Oh, tell them how I loved them 
 And bade them all goodbye. 
 And say I tried to do the best I could 
 And did not fear to die. 
 Last night I wanted so to live, 
 I seemed so young to go, 
 Last week I passed my birthday 
 I was but nineteen, you know. 
 And when I thought of all I planned to do, 
 It seemed so hard to die, 
 But now I've prayed to God for grace 
 And all of my cares have gone by. 
 Here underneath my pillow is 
 A lock of golden hair. 
 There's a name upon the paper, 
 Send it to my mother's care." 
 So then his voice grew weaker 
 And he partly raised his head, 
 And whispered, "Goodbye, Mother." 
 And then our boy was dead. 

I wrapped his coat around him 
 And we bore him out at night 
 And laid him in a clump of trees 
 When the moon was shinning bright. 
 I carved him out a headboard 
 Just a skillfully as I could, 
 And if you wish to see it, 
 I can show you where it stood. 
 I send you back his Bible, 
 The night before he died, 
 We turned the leaves together 
 As I read it by his side. 
 I send you back his hymnbook 
 And a cap he used to wear, 
 And a lock I cut the night before 
 From his bright and curling hair. 
 I keep the belt he always wore, 
 He told me so to do. 
 It has a hole upon the side-- 
 Tis where the ball went through. 
 So now I've done his bidding, 
 There's nothing more to tell. 
 But I will always morn with you 
 For the boy we loved so well. 
 But God hath called him 
 Who doth all things right, 
 And we hope to meet him in Heaven 
 Where there are no battles to fight. 

Last updated: Saturday, 11 October, 2003