Speech by R.N. Stubbs

"THE OLD SOLDIERS"
written and delivered by,
REV. Robert Newton Stubbs
at
THE RECEPTION OF CO. A. 16TH REGT. P. N. G. at Corry, Pa,
February, 1886

R-r-r-r-tat, roll of drum, blast of bugle, squeak of fife--sound the notes of the Reveille! "Fall in!" "Fall in!" and from blanket and tent rise countless ranks of brave youth. Lithe of limb, gay of heart; eyes aflame at smoke of battle; nostrils trembling at the bresth of fray; ears erect to catch the din and roar of strife. No lines of care or character have carved their siguet on the face. Hope lights the brow; the kiss of Home is u[pon the lips, like the touch of an Angel from Heaven. Like champing steeds, pawing the ground, Impatient for the charge, stands the mighty army. From Baltimore to Mexico's Gulf stretches the line. The watch fires glow upon the mountain top; the valley echoes with the sentinels' tread. The crack of rifle tells the picket is feeling for the enemy, like hungry wolf for the throat of its prey. Onward surges the line of battle. Here it smites the mountain of the foe and is burled back, shivered into spray, and roar, and gloom, and seems lost; there it rolls engulfing armies, and cities, and states, spreading so far and wide as to fairly vanish. Mists are over all the lands. Notes of sadness, warning, despair, like a nameless horror, strike the heart dumb. The Angel of Doom is aboard. Like spirits from the vasty deep roll up visions of terror. There, upon many a well fought field, are piled the slain, or writhe in gore the wounded and mangled. Thro' the mists float visions of prisons, and naked, starving soldiers. Look! There they are; emaciated, ragged, naked, distorted, toothless; fingers, toes or limbs rotted off; scurvy eaten, in those festering sores riot the maggots. There there are soldiers crawling, wriggling, staggering towards the dead line, in despair, or to that living spring, the only reminder of God amidst all the loathsome sights. Our hearts, riven the anguish, cry out, "These are our loves!"The land with a whisper like thunder says, "These are our sons!" Old Soldiers! No! You've not seen the Old Soldiers yet. Other visions come from the darkening mists. There in the heart of a great city rises a gloomy prison. The pangs of hunger have seized the vitals of those boys. The arm of thier country seems palsied, and these poor victims are to perish--not amid the glory of battle, but starved in a foul prison. In this night, rayless, hopeless, a strange wild chant floats from that prison out over the city, and makes the hearts of rebels tremble, as if an earthquake were rocking the city to dust. How it rises and falls on the trembling air; then swells into a grand wave of glory. O'er and o'er they chant it, till it is like a pean of victory. Hear it: "John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave, But his soul goes marching on." These are the Old Solsiers that chanted the song of liberty and God while they were starving by inches. Away where the darkness gathers deeper, rises another scene. It is an awful sight within that prison pen. The stench from the stream of death flowing thro' that stockade is horrible. Soldiers are dying daily by hundreds. It is the most pitiable sight earth and heaven ever saw. It has been noised to these creatures that their government will never release them. It is promised if they will but swear allegience to Rebels, deliverance, abundance of food, and honors are at hand. What is it so strangely moves that loathsome, dying mass of stench and corruption? They wriggle, they writhe, they creep; they crawl, they stagger, they stumble. God only knows how the poor creatures get together. Hatless, coatless, pantless, shoeless, or naked. Some strange, mighty inspiration has seized them . One impulse thrills them. There are those whose eyes are already glassy. With desperate effort they whisper, withexpiring breath, "Rally!" "Rally!" It is caught up by others. Stronger, hoarser voices shout it out "Rally!" "Rally!" While clearer voices, not yet robbed of their sweetness and richness, roll it up into a mighty anthem: "Rally round the flag, boys, rally once again; Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah! Down with the traitors, up with the stars, While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!" These are the Old Soldiers! Starving, they spurned the bribe of the foe; forsaken, forgotten of country, they chanted the Battle Cry of Freedom; dying, they swore fealty to the stars and stripes. These are the Old Soldiers! Here are heroisom, devotion, loyalty, courage, glory! These are the two sublimest scenes enacted in the progress of Humas Liberty. Besides these your Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and Wilderness sink into insignificance. Still the mists hang heavily over the land. But there are bursts of light that, while they make more ominous the darkness, yet give hope, for the sun seems to be rising. Listening for tidings thro' the gloom, a strange sound thrills upon the ear. It comes faint, but is like the rush and roar of some impetuous wave that engulfs and overwhelms. It is the tramp, tramp of Sherman's mighty hosts from Atlanta to the sea. While from Virginia as the iron lines of Grant enfold Richmond in the grip of death, as tho' there were a kind of fatality in the name, there rolls up the solemn chant "His Soul Goes Marching On" These are the Old Soldiers that chanted their songs of Liberty, and Country, and Victory in the night. And now the mists are clearing away; the lines are marching home. The "Fall in," "fall in" for home raises the gladness shout that ere went up to the skies. But, oh, those ranks. Thin? They are but ghosts, while the shades from unnumbered fields rise to fill the ranks. The flush of the morning is no longer on their cheeks. There is no more blooming of youth. Three years have made these boys Old Soldiers. Three years ago, smooth of brow, and not a line furrowed in their cheeks; now every face is cut and carved as tho' some genius sculptor had been at work. Every face a war map in bold relief. Would you know of Gettysburg, or Vicksburg, or Look Out Mountain, or the Wilderness? Look into the faces of these Old Soldiers, there read the story of how battles are fought and won. Old Soldiers! Father Time is thinning your ranks; giving you crutch and cane for musket and sword, and strapping upon some of your shoulders unseen knapsacks, for your forms are bent, and your gait is shuffling. Your temples he hath gently frosted. What of it Old Soldiers? Your Camp Fires are burning brightly in posts scattered from Maine to California, and song, and joke, and repartee, and fun are dancing like the flames that lighted Sherman to the sea. Who says your old? Let him come to the Camp Fires and he'll think he's with the boys. "We drink from the same canteen." How is that from these war-scarred, time-stained forms there come laughter and song? The Fraternity born of battle fields is immortal. Your hearts are light and gay, boys, but ever brave and true. the bond of union welled by the old camp fires will ne'er be broken, and i expect you'll light your camp fires on the Hills of Eternity. Old Soldiers! Time has touched you, as it touches all. War has scarred you as it will never scar the face of man again. When you were boys the kiss of love was upon your lips, as you swore leal homage to the old flag. Few indeed are the chaplets your country hath woven for your scarred brows; but a new generation is springing up whose warm kiss of love will be on your cheeks; whos chaplets of honor will crest your frosted temples ere you vanish to answer to the roll call of Eternity.