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THE STORMING OF MISSION RIDGE.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

Above, the cannon's snowy breath,

That puffed the iron ball,

Shrouding the busy hand of Death,

Hung o'er us like a pall.

But onward, upward toiling still

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Over the fallen logs,

'Gainst whistling shot and shrieking shell,

We took their "brazen dogs."

And one by one with steel and lead

We stopped their savage roar;

The Rebels from their ramparts fled,

And down the hillside tore.

We turned his guns along the line

Upon the flying foe,

While southern wind through moaning pine

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