Look at that column well, as it passes by, Remembering Bull Run and the cocksfeather hats, The congressmen, the raw militia brigades Who went to war with a flag and a haircloth trunk In bright red pants and ideals and ignorance, Ready to fight like picture-postcard boys While fighting still had banners and a sword And just as ready to run in blind mob-panic.⁠ ⁠… These men were once those men. These men are the soldiers, Good thieves, good fighters, excellent foragers, The grumbling men who dislike to be killed in war And yet will hold when the raw militia break And live where the raw militia needlessly die, Having been schooled to that end. The school is not A pretty school. They wear no cocksfeather hats. Some men march in their drawers and their stocking feet. They have handkerchiefs round their heads, they are footsore and chafed, Their faces are sweaty leather. And when they pass The little towns where the people wish them godspeed,