The Copse Of Trees Poem by John F. McCullagh

We started out like Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
The wind whipped by like a Fusillade,
the high grass at our knees..


The wind blew cold that autumn day
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.


The flower of Virginia once
Paraded where we stepped
Until the double canister
Decimated those still left

Our force of two, no longer young
Stumbled up the hill
Numb with cold and short of breath
Proceeding forth on will.

No enfilading fire now
From the ghosts behind stone walls
Just wood post fences six feet high
Might our progress stall..

Brave Dick Gannett was unhorsed
Upon this very spot
Kemper, wounded mortally,
Was retrieved from shell and shot


We made it past the final fence
And up the grassy knoll
Defiant in the cannons mouth
(They’re unloaded, so we’re bold)

We passed the stone that marks the spot
Where Armistead left life
Where Rebel forces crested
Like the storm wave at its height.


The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg
As the Crimson tide retraced
Half in Anger, Half in relief
that the challenge had been faced.


The hill before the copse of trees
Pocked with the dead and dying
While the remnants of Picketts men
Towards Longstreets line were filing


The victors and the vanquished both
long since have passed away.
And left mute stones and monuments
to mark brave deeds that day.


And we, the heirs of Union, stand.
Upon the very spot
That marks the high tide of the South
- what might have been was not.