"The Man I Knew I Killed"

Ezra Saunders, of Hopkins' Creek,
Was the next old soldier asked to speak.
He'd seen his share of the thousands slain
In the active days of the Umteenth Maine;
And we settled hack to hear him tell
His reasons for thinking that "War is Hell."

"Dear comrades of Keesuncook Post and ladies of the Corps,
I thank you for this invite and I'm proud to take the floor.
I was thinkin' as I set here of the battles that I've fought,
Of the suff'rin' and the slaughter--and the sudden, awful thought
Come across me that I'd taken very likely scores of lives,
--Taken fathers from their children, taken husbands from their wives.
While mad with heat of battle I was pumping reeking lead,
Not knowing, no, nor caring, where the bullet found its bed.
Now people they will ask us if we really, truly know
For a fact that while a-fightin' we have ever killed a foe.
But it's rare you find a soldier who has seen, in heat of strife,
That the bullet he had fired was the one to take a life.
Now, to-night, I'm going to tell you, though I hate to, boys, I swan,
That I know I've done my murder; that I know
I've killed my man.

"'Twas when we got our rapping at the fight of Hatcher's Run;
I was running hard as any;--yes, I threw away my gun
And the rest of my equipment, and proceeded, friends, to steer
Just as fast as legs would help me for protection at the rear.

I was quite a nervy sprinter--'bout as swift as you will find,
But I couldn't shake that Johnny who came slammin' on behind;
For he had the Georgy straddle and was sort of razor-edged,
And if nothin' special busted, I was spoke for, so I jedged.
He was hanging to his rifle, but he didn't try to shoot,
--He see he had me solid,--but I give the blame galoot
A standard mile or such-like and had druv him
'in the list,'
When I stepped upon a hubble, fell, and give my leg a twist.
And the tumble sort of stunned me so I laid there quite a spell,
Expectin' that he'd grab me; just a-harkin' for his yell.
But things stayed calm and quiet, so I peeked; he laid there sprawled
'Bout a dozen yards behind me. And he looked so queer I crawled
Slowly back to reconnoitre, got where I could see his head,
Saw his face was black's a stove-pipe. Apoplexy! He was dead.
And I stood and wept above him, stirred, dear comrades, to the peth
With the awful, awful pity for that man I'd run to death.

And my conscience always pricked me and my heart with grief is filled,
For there ain't no question, comrades, there's a man I know I killed."