Lt William Cullen served in the 48th PA Regiment under Captain Winlock. He was killed at the Battle of Antietam Creek.
This poem was written about William Cullen on September 18, 1862 during the Civil War.
Ode to William Cullen:
Attention ye brave to this mournful story,
That I am going to pen of a soldier so brave:
Who started to reap a rich harvest of glory,
But is now lying dead in his cold narrow grave.
His name was Bill Cullen as fearless of danger
As the shining steel sword he held in his hand:
He left his fond wife to the cold hearted strangers,
While he went to fight for his dear native land.
A lieutenant he was under brave Captain Winlock
In the 48th Regiment of Schuykill's brave sons;
He never was daunted by cannon or firelocks,
But like a true soldier stood firm by his guns.
He fought at Bull Run on the first of September,
Where Burnside so valiantly beat back the foe;
The day that the rebels will ever remember,
And the Northern men look to with wonder and woe.
It was there that he seemed like an angel
Of mercy sent down from a high;
As the wounded he carried away from the danger
And cared for the poor sufferers left there to die.
But alas I must tell you in heart rendering numbers,
His sad fate at the Battle of Antietam Creek;
'Twas there he fell in deaths slumbers.
Cut down in his prime not a word could he speak.
With his sword waving high in the battle,
While cheering his men to the action once more;
A cursed rebel shell in death dealing rattle,
Striking brave Cullen laid him in his gore.
As next morning his comrades gathered around him,
Laid him down gently in his hallow bed;
Every one dropped a true soldiers tear o'er him,
Saying, Peace to the ashes of the gallant dead.
This poem was written about William Cullen on September 18, 1862 during the Civil War.
Ode to William Cullen:
Attention ye brave to this mournful story,
That I am going to pen of a soldier so brave:
Who started to reap a rich harvest of glory,
But is now lying dead in his cold narrow grave.
His name was Bill Cullen as fearless of danger
As the shining steel sword he held in his hand:
He left his fond wife to the cold hearted strangers,
While he went to fight for his dear native land.
A lieutenant he was under brave Captain Winlock
In the 48th Regiment of Schuykill's brave sons;
He never was daunted by cannon or firelocks,
But like a true soldier stood firm by his guns.
He fought at Bull Run on the first of September,
Where Burnside so valiantly beat back the foe;
The day that the rebels will ever remember,
And the Northern men look to with wonder and woe.
It was there that he seemed like an angel
Of mercy sent down from a high;
As the wounded he carried away from the danger
And cared for the poor sufferers left there to die.
But alas I must tell you in heart rendering numbers,
His sad fate at the Battle of Antietam Creek;
'Twas there he fell in deaths slumbers.
Cut down in his prime not a word could he speak.
With his sword waving high in the battle,
While cheering his men to the action once more;
A cursed rebel shell in death dealing rattle,
Striking brave Cullen laid him in his gore.
As next morning his comrades gathered around him,
Laid him down gently in his hallow bed;
Every one dropped a true soldiers tear o'er him,
Saying, Peace to the ashes of the gallant dead.
Lt William Cullen served in the 48th PA Regiment under Captain Winlock. He was killed at the Battle of Antietam Creek.
This poem was written about William Cullen on September 18, 1862 during the Civil War.
Ode to William Cullen:
Attention ye brave to this mournful story,
That I am going to pen of a soldier so brave:
Who started to reap a rich harvest of glory,
But is now lying dead in his cold narrow grave.
His name was Bill Cullen as fearless of danger
As the shining steel sword he held in his hand:
He left his fond wife to the cold hearted strangers,
While he went to fight for his dear native land.
A lieutenant he was under brave Captain Winlock
In the 48th Regiment of Schuykill's brave sons;
He never was daunted by cannon or firelocks,
But like a true soldier stood firm by his guns.
He fought at Bull Run on the first of September,
Where Burnside so valiantly beat back the foe;
The day that the rebels will ever remember,
And the Northern men look to with wonder and woe.
It was there that he seemed like an angel
Of mercy sent down from a high;
As the wounded he carried away from the danger
And cared for the poor sufferers left there to die.
But alas I must tell you in heart rendering numbers,
His sad fate at the Battle of Antietam Creek;
'Twas there he fell in deaths slumbers.
Cut down in his prime not a word could he speak.
With his sword waving high in the battle,
While cheering his men to the action once more;
A cursed rebel shell in death dealing rattle,
Striking brave Cullen laid him in his gore.
As next morning his comrades gathered around him,
Laid him down gently in his hallow bed;
Every one dropped a true soldiers tear o'er him,
Saying, Peace to the ashes of the gallant dead.
This poem was written about William Cullen on September 18, 1862 during the Civil War.
Ode to William Cullen:
Attention ye brave to this mournful story,
That I am going to pen of a soldier so brave:
Who started to reap a rich harvest of glory,
But is now lying dead in his cold narrow grave.
His name was Bill Cullen as fearless of danger
As the shining steel sword he held in his hand:
He left his fond wife to the cold hearted strangers,
While he went to fight for his dear native land.
A lieutenant he was under brave Captain Winlock
In the 48th Regiment of Schuykill's brave sons;
He never was daunted by cannon or firelocks,
But like a true soldier stood firm by his guns.
He fought at Bull Run on the first of September,
Where Burnside so valiantly beat back the foe;
The day that the rebels will ever remember,
And the Northern men look to with wonder and woe.
It was there that he seemed like an angel
Of mercy sent down from a high;
As the wounded he carried away from the danger
And cared for the poor sufferers left there to die.
But alas I must tell you in heart rendering numbers,
His sad fate at the Battle of Antietam Creek;
'Twas there he fell in deaths slumbers.
Cut down in his prime not a word could he speak.
With his sword waving high in the battle,
While cheering his men to the action once more;
A cursed rebel shell in death dealing rattle,
Striking brave Cullen laid him in his gore.
As next morning his comrades gathered around him,
Laid him down gently in his hallow bed;
Every one dropped a true soldiers tear o'er him,
Saying, Peace to the ashes of the gallant dead.
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