In the great Un-Civil War
dividing our country
over a century ago
my great grandfather's buddy
lay dying
his limbs and body grieviously torn

Said, as he tugged out a crumpled letter
'One thing I ask.
Should I die from these wounds,
take this letter to my sister
'tis carefully thought out.
On this one thing I want your Promise,
To me, your firm word.'

War over, friend dead.
my great grandfather set out
to keep that Promise he'd made

Hip wounded, on crutches he trudged many miles,
found his good buddy's house.
Handed that note to
the prettiest brown-eyed lass
he'd laid eyes on in all of his life.

As she read and reread the letter.
his hip was forgot, his pulse all aflutter.
Courtship began.
His heart lost, hers won,
they soon wed.

He never knew, nor asked,
what urgent message his buddy had sent
His promise had been kept.
His word, good enough for him.

One late spring day
six children deep into those vows,
Anne pulled out that letter
now yellowed and creased with age
Handed it over at last,
for great grandfather to see.

'There won't be many men left, dear sister,
when this great war ends,' it began.
'Men dead can no longer wed
or woo bonny lasses like you.
W.B. does  not boast of the fine lineage
our family has.
but I can tell you he's a good man.
My advice to you?
Marry him if you can.'

Anne took back the letter
refolded it with care, smiled
Took great grandfather's hand.

The secret of that Promise finally revealed
and the greater promise drawn from it
made his chest swell

To know their hearts had been joined  these long years
Bourne of his buddy's great love,
Spawned from his shed blood
But, most of all,
the result of  promises faithfully made,
and Honour so carefully kept.

Pris Campbell
copyright 1/19/2001

Music: Gentle Annie, a Civil War tune
Photograph: William Baylis and Anne Harris Dickson

Published in The Dead Mule, Journal of Southern Literature, December 2001

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