Wearing The Gray
by John Moore, Jr.
Wearing the gray, wearing the gray,
Struggling alone in the world of to-day,
Battling for bread in the battle of life
With courage as grand as they rode to the strife;
Marching to beat of toil's merciless drum;
Longing for comrades who never shall come,
Comrades who sleep where they fell in the fray,
Dead and immortal, in jackets of gray!
Wearing the gray o'er the furrows of care,
Mortality's banner that time Planted there,
Wearing the gray while the tears upward start,
A gray that is buried down deep in the heart.
Wearing the gray, wearing the gray,
The old line marches in mem'ry to-day,
The old drums beat and the old flags wave,
How the dead gray jackets spring up from the grave.
They rush on with Forrest where young gods would yield!
They sweep with Cleburne the shell-harrowed field!
They laugh at the bolt from the batteries hurled,
Yet weep around Lee when the last flag is furled.
Wearing the gray o'er the foreheads of white,
Time's banner of truce for the end of the fight;
Wearing the gray that was worn long ago,
With their face to the front and their front to the foe.
Wearing the gray, wearing the gray,
Longing to bivouac over the way,
To rest o'er the river in the shade of the trees
And furl the old flag to eternity's breeze;
To camp by the stream of that evergreen shore,
And meet with the boys who have gone on before;
To stand at inspection mid pillars of light,
While God turns the gray into robings of white.
Wearing the gray o'er the temples of snow,
The drum beat is quick, but the paces are slow!
Wearing the gray for the camp of the blest
When life's fight is o'er and the rebel shall rest.
Wearing the gray, wearing the gray,
Almost in the valley, almost in the spray,
Waiting for taps when the light shall go out,
Yet hoping to wake with a reveille shout!
Leaving to Heaven the right and the wrong,
Praying for strength in the old battle song,
Praying for strength in the last ditch to stay
When Death turns his guns on the old head of gray.
Wearing the gray in the whiteness of death,
For the angel has swept with a garnering breath,
Wearing the gray when he wakes in the morn,
The old rebel jacket our dead boy had on!
