The Charge, Or Last Day At Gettysburg Poem by David Welch

Cannister shot explodes overhead,
stripping the leaves from the trees,
a rain of jagged steel above…
it takes courage not to flee.
The generals say we strike the center
and the Yankees will run hard,
if we break them here the war is won,
so we've got to make this charge.

We all step out, a long gray line,
and see what is a-waiting:
An open field, a mile's walk,
then a rock-wall with blue-coats, hated.
And worse still, it is a small hill
up which we have to march,
but our guns have broke the Yankees down,
so we're going to make this charge.

But their guns keep roaring endlessly,
as we trudge on in the hot sun.
The blue-coats have all found the nerve,
I don't see one of them run.
Shells crash down in fiery rage,
and tear in our ranks great scars,
but it's too late now, the die is cast,
we must continue with the charge.

People falling, to the left and right,
as we come up upon a fence.
Commander's cry, "Get over quick! "
amidst screams so violent.
Yankees rise up and they take aim,
they are in no mood to spar.
Volleys scythe down men like grass,
but we push on with the charge.

All I hear is pain and death,
as I drive up to the rock-wall.
Few Southrons left besides me,
endless Yankees, standing tall...
Armistead, he breaks through them!
But blue reserves come forward,
Armistead goes down, bayonets reign
at the end of this great charge.

I stab, I swing, I smash one,
but another stabs my thigh.
I fall and struggle in the mass
of good soldiers left to die.
A blue-coat sees me lying there,
says, "How did you ever get this far?
It matters not, you're a prisoner now,
for making this foolish charge."

The Yankees they walk me away,
my fight is over for good.
I don't entirely feel ashamed,
even though I know I should.
Out on the slope, the meadow is
by endless broken bodies marred.
I pray to God that he might damn
This futile, murderous charge.