The Northern Blue--The Southern Gray



Wherever comrades may repose,

free from the bugle's call,

As heroes, they in mem'ry live,

torn, scar'd by steel and ball;


There let us meet and mingle tears

in unison to-day,

And scatter floral wreaths, alike,

upon the blue and gray.


The few remaining "Vets," with pride

and trembling, tottering tread

All join to decorate the graves

of our heroic dead.


The breach of peace that once prevailed,

from age, has died away,

The tears of love are shed the same

upon the blue and gray.


With din of battle on their ear,

the scenes of war in mind,

Our brave defenders, aged, gray,

are dropping out of line.


E're long the "taps," will call the last

true Soldier boy away,

Who may have worn the Northern blue--

perhaps the Southern gray.


No slab of granite marks the spot

where the warriors rest;

No loving hands with garlands fair

to lay upon their breast;


But yet the stars that guard each mound

of consecrated clay,

Smile down with equal rays of love

on both the blue and gray.


They laid their guns and swords aside

with many a manly shout;

From earthly service, one by one,

were gently mustered out.


And as the flowers of May adorn

their silent graves to-day,

Our Nation clasps the hands of peace

o'er both the blue and gray.


Source:  Crittenden Record-Press. (Marion, Ky.), May 27, 1909, Image 3 - Chronicling America - The Library of Congress.