Maille of Lace

by john clare

With drochels of lace the grand army marches again,
Upon Olustee's piney fields the long ranks wend.
Folded in breast pockets, recalling the parting day,
Hovering mists shrouding in sand the aiming gray.

What crow calls to warn of this looming surprise?
Who shall close the eyes upturned to blue skies?
Oh Olustee! The day we marched through your pines!
Be kind my friend, the darling you hold once was mine.

On the field of molting rosin a red cross arises,
Cannon's thunder raining cones from the skies.
In dawns scream rose the battalions terrible yell,
Sickles harvesting man after man as they fell.

On pungent turpentine fields a victorious foe,
As nearer, dearer her perfumed lace grows.
Yet from arms of love one by one they fall,
Oh Olustee! Maille of lace protecting all!