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The Battle of the Staunton
By: Patricia Kell Kendrick

Tread softly upon this soil
where blood and sweat have lain,
where men have cried and boys have cheered,
where history’s mark was laid.
A battle was fought not long ago
took husband, son, and father,
and left its mark upon the hearts
of wife, young child, and mother.
Grant set his eyes upon the map
of the mighty Staunton bridge,
and Lee, he sent the order
to the men upon the ridge.
“Rally round,” Ben Farinholt cried,
both North and South to wonder,
as the train pushed back and came again,
forcing Wilson and Kautz asunder.
The mighty Staunton flowed in peace
‘neath the battle and its thunder.
Its calm so precious as to wage
a battle in its honor.
Reflections of the battle
can be seen, I’ve heard some say,
if you look upon the water
as it moves along its way.
The river rolls on slowly,
paying honor to the name
of the trestle high above it
threatened by the Northern flame.
The bridge above a lifeline
tween those who posed to fight.
They dug in deep and held their ground,
encamped throughout the night.
Mixed voices on the night air
filtered round the low ground plain
as wounded cried and leaders feared
what tomorrow’s light would bring.
Yet morning brought us victory-
forty-two and eight, less arms-
the gallantry of men and boys,
now returning to their farms.
The battle fought that hot June day
o’er river water as it churned
is a story of determination
and of a bridge that would not burn
In humble recollection,
‘tis a moral to this tale
of the thousands who fought against us
and of the hundreds who prevailed.

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