Spent yesterday in the hospital by the bedside of Nathan
Newton, our little Alabamian. I closed his eyes last night at ten o'clock,
after an illness of six weeks. His body, by his own request, will be sent to
his mother. Poor little boy! He was but fifteen, and should never have left his
home. It was sad to pack his knapsack, with his little gray suit, and coloured
shirts, so neatly stitched by his poor mother, of whom he so often spoke,
calling to us in delirinm, “Mother, mother,” or, “Mother, come here.” He so
often called me mother, that I said to him one day, when his mind was clear, “Nathan,
do I look like your mother?” “No,
ma'am, not a bit; nobody is like my mother.” The packing of his little knapsack
reminds me of
THE JACKET OF GRAY.
Fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride,
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore,
The jacket of gray, our loved soldier-boy wore.
Can we ever forget when he joined the brave band
Who rose in defence of our dear Southern land,
And in his bright youth hurried on to the fray—
How proudly he donned it, the jacket of gray?
His fond mother blessed him, and looked up above,
Commending to Heaven the child of her love;
What anguish was hers, mortal tongue may not say,
When he passed from her sight in his jacket of gray.
But his country had called him, she would not repine,
Though costly the sacrifice placed on its shrine;
Her heart's dearest hopes on the altar she lay,
When she sent out her boy in his jacket of gray.
Months passed, and war's thunders rolled over the land,
Unsheathed was the sword, and lighted the brand;
We heard in the distance the sound of the fray,
And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray.
Ah, vain, all in vain, were our prayers and our tears;
The glad shout of victory rang in our ears;
But our treasured one on the battle-field lay,
While the life-blood oozed out on the jacket of gray.
Fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride,
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore,
The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore.
His young comrades found him, and tenderly bore
The cold lifeless form to his home by the shore:
Oh, dark were our hearts on that terrible day
When we saw our dead boy in the jacket of gray.
Ah, spotted and tattered, and stained now with gore,
Was the garment which once he so proudly wore;
We bitterly wept as we took it away,
And replaced with death's white robes the jacket of gray.
We laid him to rest in his cold, narrow bed,
And 'graved on the marble we placed o'er his head,
As the proudest of tributes our sad hearts could pay,
He never disgraced the poor jacket of gray.
Fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride,
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore,
The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 104-6
