"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
⁠By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing—a private or two, now and then,
⁠Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost—only one of the men,
⁠Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
⁠Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
⁠Or the light of the watch-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh as the gentle night-wind
⁠Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
⁠Keep guard—for the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
⁠As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundle-bed,
⁠Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack—his face, dark and grim,
⁠Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,—
⁠and their mother,—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
⁠That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips,—when low murmured vows
⁠Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
⁠He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
⁠As if to keep down the heart-swelling!

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—
⁠The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
⁠Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
⁠Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle—"Ha! Mary, good-by!"
⁠And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,—
⁠No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—
⁠The picket's off duty forever.