Henry Fairfield marching along with his sword, All the old company marching after him Back in McClellan’s army, back by the known Potomac, back in the safe and friendly East; All the papers telling how brave they were And how, as soon as the roads dried up in the spring, “The little Napoleon” would hammer the South to bits With a blue thunderbolt. And here he was A lost pea, spilt at random in a lost war; A Tennessee war that had no Tribunes or polish, Where he was the only Easterner in the whole Strange-swearing regiment of Illinois farmers, Alien as Rebels, and rough as all outdoors.