Gettysburg, a poem written by Brad Osborne at



written by: Brad Osborne


I see their ghosts in morning mist
That washes across battlefield
Where Confederates do persist
And Union soldiers will not yield

Across the fields of Sherfy’s farm
Marchs an army in rebel grey
Intent on doing warring harm
To any Blues that fight that day

And in that dawn, I hear the roar
Union grapeshot sent from Culp’s Hill
It echoes with a death assured
Down valley where their blood does spill

The mist rises like cannon smoke
Ghostly screams of the dying shrill
And with the light that dawn has broke
You can see they stand there still

The long rows of ancient headstones
Great lives carved into monument
A hallowed place filled with young bones
Turning point of the great dissent

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