THE DEATH OF LT. COL. HALPIN'S HORSE, AUGUST 25,

1864

EPITAPH ON A WAR HORSE

                                BEFORE ATLANTA, GEO., Aug. 14, 1864

In the midst of such perpetual fighting as has been going on around the doomed city of Atlanta for weeks, one would not hope to find other than serious faces among the combatants, nor expect to see fun rollicking among the graves of the heroic dead.  Yet, in war as in peace, the better part of men's nature shines out in many a comic act, illustrating the fact that war fails to blunt the finer feelings or mar the jollity that cannot be circumscribed by events.  These reflections were suggested by an incident that occurred yesterday.  While walking among our lines my attention was attracted to a grave, which was newly made, and from its "make up" led me to think that it must be the last resting place of a General, or some other man of note.  Fancy my surprise when I read the following epitaph on the head board:

          Here sleeps poor Billy, little gray,

          In camp, on march, so frisk and gay;

          Now, alas!  he sleeps alone,

          Without a feed or sculptured stone

          To glad his hide or tell the tale

          How Quartermasters ever fail

          To furnish grub whenever they can

          To weary horse and starving man.

          Know this truth, old honest Abe,

          That Billy sleeps like sucking babe,

          The victim of this sordid craw,

          Who fill their fobs with spoils from you.

          The only mourner at his head

          Is sable John, who never fed

          The faithful beast when he could shun

          The dreaded sound of hostile gun;

          The brush and comb he cast aside

          Through mercy on the horse's hide.

          But now he fills a lonely grave,

          Where oats nor corn can no more save;

          Here let him rest from sound of gun,

          Secure from jest and vulgar pun,

          He, living, was the soldier's pride,

          And for the want of care he died.

On inquiry I found the noble animal whose misfortunes were so pathetically apostrophized belonged to Colonel Halpin, 15th Kentucky.  "Billy," it appears, was the Colonel's fancy nag, and when he fell the gallant Colonel had him buried and the history of his misfortunes put at his head.  This is but one of thousands of funny things that occur from day to day, while rifles and their whizzing messengers plunge into the ranks of the army, and artillery thunders death among the victims of the god of war.

                              CHAPLAIN G.

Louisville Journal, August 25, 1864