Some years ago, my mother gave me some papers that belonged to my Great-Grandfather, Edmund Dayton. These papers were cut outs from "Regimental Losses in the Civil War", copies of applications for Pensions, letters from the G.A.R and some personal correspondence from old war buddies. But there was also a poem he wrote, perhaps just after the war, there was no date on it but it was on Bird Island, Minnesota so maybe that is where he mustered out.
The poem was short, 3 pages on small notepaper (4' w X 16" long) and written in pencil. He asks the editor if he would publish the verses. Well, the poem wasn't very good and I doubt the editor would have considered it for publication.
I would like to honor my Great-Grandfather by printing it here. I could not find the last page and I could kick myslf for not taking better care of the papers. but since it is not that good, it is perhaps well that I lost the last page.
The punctuation is mine and because the writing was bad, I had to take some literary license to make it readable. My apologies to Pvt. Dayton.Editor will you please print these verses
by
E.W. Dayton
Co. D
36th Wisconsin Infantry
Army of the Potomac
Location: Bird island, Minnesota
“I am a Soldier of Sixty-one”
(the title is mine)
I am a soldier of '61
One of the first ,you see,to rally.
I ran with the rest at the first Bull Run
and carried a gun with Banks in the Valley.
I fired my twenty rounds away
When Shields gave Stonewall such a kicking.
The boot was changed at a later day
and we took our turn at the double quicking.
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And so it passed for a year or more
when we woke one morning, bright and balmy,
Part and parcel of the old First Corps,
The bulliest Corps in the grand old army.
And how we fought and how we
Tramped- too long a tale perhaps I'd spin ya.
But first- and last- I think we camped
In every field of Old Virginia.
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'Twas a gay old life but then
'Twas hard, no rest for the wicked:
When you didn't fight, you were put on guard,
And when you came off, you were put on picket.
Yet, still somehow it struck my mind,
No single step so much amounted
Of a score of things done.
You were lucky to find that two
Of the number had ever counted.
But war is war and one must be as patient
As The Game is uncertain
'Tis little of the play you see-
The biggest part is behind the curtain.
We beat the dust from Taneytown
To the Battlefield of Gettysburg
To crush the front of Archer's men at Willeby's Run.
Our guns were heard-
it was on the Cashtown road you know-
Stewart's bloody guns so loud did roar,
We of the old Iron Brigade
reckoned them a part of the old First Corps.
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Too long the silken gloves we wore
And {?} we throve on milk and water
Till Cool and Grim, our Grant stepped in
And brayed bold Dixey in his mortar, Ah!
Ignorance may live and learn
And Folly may give ear to reason,
But turn, whichever way you turn,
Force alone can deal with Treason
For he who swells with the brutal brag,
That he hates the Charter that made him free,
That he hates his Country and his Flag'
And protests the war with a devilish glee.
As for myself, I stood up stout
Until Coal (sic) Harbor, dark snf cruel,
There my leg was counted out-
At last- your Uncle had got his gruel.
I had been scratched three times before,
But not enough to hurt my beauty,
for five days in the Wilderness
I was every hour kept on duty.
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Last page lost.
This poem was instrumental in getting me interested in the Civil War and particularly responsible for my joining this club. I also did not know why he had applied as an invalid until the poem revealed to me that he had lost a leg. I wish I had that last page.