Their words come tumbling out of a frightened mouth. In a field, far off, a peaceable farmer puts His hands to his ears, still hearing that one sharp shot That he will hear and hear till he dies of it. It is Hill and Ewell now against Hancock and Howard And a confused, wild clamor⁠—and the high keen Of the Rebel yell⁠—and the shrill-edged bullet song Beating down men and grain, while the sweaty fighters Grunt as they ram their charges with blackened hands.