LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 I 
 
 Class 
 
PO UTR V 
 
 LYRICAL, NARRATIVE, AND SATIRICAL 
 
 OF 
 
 T TT E C 1 V I L W A 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED 
 
 BY RICHARD GRANT WHITE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY 
 111) & 121 NASSAU STKEEX 
 1866 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
 
 THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 JT is generally true that great events do not 
 inspire great poems. Upon the Reformation, 
 the Cromwellian Rebellion, the French Rev 
 olution, our own War of Independence, nothing im 
 portant and enduring has been written in verse. Bar 
 low s " Columbiad " is a fair type of the poetry pro 
 duced upon such subjects. There is little hope for a 
 poem, if the poet trusts for the interest of his work to 
 the dignity of his theme. To the poet pertains the 
 power of elevating his subject ; nay, the very essence 
 of his poetry is in that elevation, in his adding him 
 self to his subject The choice of a great event as 
 the theme for a poem is unwise, because the poet can- 
 hardly fail to fall short of the mental elevation pro 
 duced by the relation of such an event in simple prose. 
 He will find himself compelled to assume the position 
 of a decorator rather than that of a_creatox.; and his 
 decorations will only call attention to their littleness 
 and the grandeur of the reality to which they have 
 been appended. The " Iliad," and the " Gerusalemme 
 Liberata," are not exceptions to this rule ; and the 
 Paradise Lost" may be one only in seeming. It 
 
 224130 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 was no mere poetical formula, that prayer of Milton s 
 that he might have strength to rise to the height of 
 bis great argument; and with all the beauty and no 
 bility of thought and sustained power in his chief 
 epic, another generation must pass ere it can be safely 
 said that the fame which he owes to the criticism of 
 the Queen Anne school of literature will endure 
 in its present proportions, and that he did indeed 
 soar high enough to be above his theme. And unless 
 he did so, the chief merit of his poem is not in its 
 poetry, which is his, but in the facts narrated in it, 
 which he derived from others. " The Iliad " is a 
 marked instance of the power of a poet s genius to 
 aggrandize the subject of his song. The bloody strife 
 between the chiefs of a few petty semi-barbarous 
 tribes about a wanton woman have been made by 
 the genius of Homer to assume such dignity and pro 
 portion that for centuries they have filled the minds 
 of men as the ideal of great and martial enterprise ; 
 and two little streams that would hardly more than 
 turn a village mill, and which are associated with no 
 event or function so important to mankind, (unlike 
 the Jordan or the Rubicon, for instance,) have a place 
 in the world s memory unequalled by that of rivers 
 that have fertilized half a continent, and have been 
 for centuries the highways of commerce and the chan 
 nels of civilization. 
 
 But although great poems are rarely inspired by 
 great events, in modern days the feelings of civilized 
 
PREFACE. v 
 
 people in periods of national peril or great political 
 excitement have generally found expression in verse, 
 which has not only an historical value as a contempo 
 rary record, but a peculiar and sometimes a very high 
 value as poetical literature. The ballads and lyrical 
 pieces that were written during the civil wars of our 
 forefathers in England, during the Scotch civil wars, 
 the British Revolution of 1G88, in France during 
 the war of the Fronde, and during the great Revo 
 lution and its successors, not only tell us of the act 
 ors in those scenes, what they did, and how their 
 souls were stirred by the events w r hich passed before 
 them, but they have an intrinsic poetical charm which 
 pertains to every elevated and skilful rhythmical ex 
 pression of human experience or emotion. The strug 
 gle which has just decided that the Anglo-American 
 commonwealths lying between the Great Lakes arid -" 
 the Gulf of Mexico form one republic and not thirty- 
 six, or even two, and which, beginning in a deter 
 mination on one side that slavery should be, and on 
 the other that it should not be propagated, ended in 
 the utter demolition of the original bone of contention, 
 has been remarkably fruitful of what in the last gen 
 eration was well styled occasional poetry. It was 
 inevitable that it should be so, from the education of 
 the people who were the actors in the strife, from 
 their general ability, not only to write and read, but 
 to express themselves with readiness, and from their 
 acquaintance with the rich poetical literature of their 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 mother tongue. And as in no other war that ever 
 was fought were there among the actual combatants, 
 the rank and file, and among their mothers, wives, 
 and daughters, so many persons capable of writing, 
 so of no other war are there such voluminous con 
 temporary records, in verse as well as in prose, writ 
 ten by those who could say, with Virgil s hero, that, 
 either in action or in suffering, they were part of 
 what they told. 
 
 From as much of the mass thus produced as I 
 could gather for examination, I have selected for this 
 volume all that appeared worthy of preservation on 
 any account. In the making of this selection poet 
 ical merit has not been the only consideration. 
 Verses which celebrated at all worthily, or with spirit, 
 any important event in the war, which expressed 
 truthfully any mood of popular feeling, or which em 
 bodied any type of character, whether enduring or the 
 transitory creation of the circumstances of the day, 
 have been deemed peculiarly fit for this collection, al 
 though merely for their intrinsic excellence they might 
 not be worthy of permanent preservation. No poem of 
 conspicuous worth elicited by the war will be found 
 lacking in these pages ; but some of moderate merit 
 have been omitted in favor of others of no greater po 
 etical value, because from their subject, or from their 
 embodiment of character or revelation of feeling, the 
 latter presented claims not found in the former. Nor 
 have I been at all fastidious as to the quarter in which 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 I looked for this poetry, or as to the subjects of the 
 verses. In the formation of a volume which aims to be 
 a poetical reflex of the mind of a whole people under 
 the excitement of a war lasting four years, fastidious 
 ness in these respects would be much out of place. 
 I have looked through the street ballads as well as the 
 monthly magazines, and have taken as readily what 
 was printed upon a broadside, or written for negro 
 minstrels, as what came from Bryant, Longfellow, 
 Lowell, or Boker. Consequently there may be found 
 among these poems pieces which some readers will 
 pronounce decidedly vulgar, and others which will be 
 thought objectionable by other readers because of the 
 views they express on public affairs, or of their esti 
 mates of public characters. As to the question of vul 
 garity, that I shall leave to be settled by the genteel 
 people who may be offended ; as to the other point, I 
 will only say that this collection would not have been 
 worthy of the attention which I hope, it may receive, 
 if it did not contain somewhat of which I cannot ap 
 prove myself. For example, I have read all that I 
 could discover of the war-poetry written by the con 
 federated enemies of my government, and have pre 
 served here all that in the most catholic spirit I 
 deemed of any intrinsic merit or incidental interest. 
 It was my original purpose to embody this with the 
 substance of the volume, giving each piece its place 
 in the order of time ; but finding so little of this 
 poetry which possessed any kind of interest, instead 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 of scattering it sparsely through the collection, I have 
 put it by itself in an appendix. The secessionists 
 fought much better than they wrote ; and it is worthy 
 of remark that the best poem on their side, " The 
 Confederate Flag," was published in a New York 
 newspaper, " The Freeman s, Journal." When they 
 next fight, may it be long ere then, and may we stand 
 together ! they will fight as well, and write better, 
 and in a better cause. Aside, moreover, from the sen 
 timent which they express or their poetical merits, 
 there is undoubtedly a quality in certain songs which 
 insures popularity, and which seems to be a certain 
 rhythm, or lilt, which seizes upon the memory and 
 bewitches without always pleasing the ear ; and I 
 have not passed over compositions of which this was 
 the only merit. It may be that some people com 
 placently thought, as they listened to that nonsensical 
 farrago, " Old John Brown," that here was proof that 
 " the great popular heart of this country beat in 
 unison the impulses of humanity toward universal 
 freedom." But the truth was that the alternate jig 
 and swing of the air caused it to stick in the unedu 
 cated ear as burrs stick to a blackberry girl. Evi 
 dence of this appears in the fact that the song, already 
 unheard and passing rapidly into oblivion with us, is 
 now just as popular in London as it ever was here. 
 The " Pall Mall Gazette " of October 14th, 1865, tells 
 us that " the street boys of London," not, it may perhaps 
 be safely assumed, from views of broad philanthropy 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 have decided in its favor against " My Maryland," and 
 " The Bonnie Blue Flag." The " Gazette " goes on to 
 say that " the great Federal war-song [meaning Old 
 "John Brown ] is the favorite of the people, of 
 " those who sing in the highways. The somewhat 
 " lugubrious refrain Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 " has excited their admiration to a wonderful degree, 
 "and almost threatens to extinguish that hard-worked, 
 "exquisite eifort of modern minstrelsy, Slap Bang. 
 " The slight flavor of blasphemy which Old John 
 " Brown contains does not apparently give any offence 
 " to the popular appetite, rather the contrary effect 
 " is observable." When neither patriotic nor party 
 feeling is involved, and the question is between Glory 
 Hallelujah ! and Slap Bang ! and the doxology carries 
 the day, we need be in no doubt as to the reason for 
 the preference. 
 
 The poetry elicited by any civil war is found either 
 to relate the events of the war or the acts of person 
 ages more or less distinguished in it, and so to be in 
 the nature of the ballad, to describe or celebrate 
 some character or type individual brought by the war 
 into prominence, to express the feelings of the par 
 tisans, or to attack one side or the other with ridi 
 cule and satire. Our civil war did not fail to produce 
 poetical compositions having all these motives, although 
 it was inevitable that in our case, as in others, many 
 of them partook in such a marked degree of the 
 characteristics of two classes that they could not with 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 propriety be assigned to either. Such is the first 
 piece in this volume, " Brother Jonathan s Lament 
 for Sister Caroline," in which Dr. Holmes gave ex 
 pression to the feeling throughout the North on the 
 passage of the so-called secession ordinance by South 
 Carolina, and with certain foreknowledge told, not 
 only the consequences of that act to our " wayward 
 sister," but the spirit in which she would be received 
 in her time of suffering and her sorrow, if riot her re 
 pentance, such are " The Flag," by Mr. Woodman, 
 " The Present Crisis," by Mr. Lowell, and " On the 
 Hill before Centreville," which not only tells vividly 
 the story of the battle of Bull Run, but puts in living 
 lines the shame and the anguish which overwhelmed 
 us upon hearing of the senseless panic which closed 
 that battle ; although now, understanding the vicissi 
 tudes of that day and knowing the fortunes of war 
 better, we can hold up our heads while we talk of the 
 behavior of our raw, peacefully-bred soldiers, even on 
 that disastrous occasion. Such also is Mr. S ted man s 
 " Wanted A Man," which embodies the mingled 
 sickness of heart and suppressed wrath which, justly 
 or unjustly, filled people s souls at the events of the 
 battle summer of 1862. The poems by Mr. Long 
 fellow and Mr. Boker upon the Unflinching contest 
 of the Cumberland with her invulnerable assailant, 
 and Lieutenant Brownell s " River Fight," and " Bay 
 Fight," Mr. Whittier s " Barbara Fritchie," with many 
 others in the collection, are almost purely narrative in 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 character, and may be regarded as ballads. In some 
 of them the simplicity of the narration and the men 
 tion of the names of the actors give great vitality to 
 the composition. This is particularly the case with 
 " Barbara Fritchie," which is interesting no less for its 
 portrait of Stonewall Jackson than for its celebration 
 of its heroine, and its description of the stirring inci 
 dent to which, as it has been told by Mr. Whit tier, 
 she will owe an enduring fame. The rebel " Stone 
 wall Jackson s Way " is a very spirited, and, it would 
 seem, faithful piece of figure-painting somewhat of the 
 same kind. And what an air of truth, and a pres 
 ence of real flesh and blood, is given to Mr. Brownell s 
 descriptions by his telling, with their deeds, the names 
 of Admiral Farragut s subordinates, Craven and 
 Drayton, Bell and Bailey, Kimberly, Marchand, and 
 Strong, and Jouett, the mate of the flag-ship. In Mr. 
 Bayard Taylor s " Chicago Surrender," written imme 
 diately upon the adjournment of the Chicago Conven 
 tion, we have a reflex of the feeling which the pro 
 ceedings of that assembly excited throughout the Free 
 States ; a feeling which, enduring in spite of all the 
 claims of party interests, and the effect of party dis 
 cipline, manifested itself in a manner unprecedented 
 in the election which this convention assembled to 
 carry. Therefore the presence of that poem in such 
 a collection is insured in spite of a palpable plagia 
 rism in the first stanza from Mr. Dickens, speaking in 
 the person of his own creature, Elijah Pogram ; a 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 slip the more surprising, even in this fugitive compo 
 sition, as Mr. Taylor shows us his best points, sim 
 plicity and manliness of style, when he is writing 
 verse. In such pieces as Lieutenant De Forest s 
 " In Louisiana, " we get clear glimpses of the country 
 over which this great struggle raged for four long 
 years ; and appearing in Mr. Whittier s " At Port 
 Royal," and Mrs. Gray s " Fisherman of Beaufort," 
 and one or two other pieces of lighter character, the 
 negro, " causa teterrima hiijus belli" occupies his 
 subordinate, though important place, upon the scene 
 which his inherited captivity has deluged witli frater 
 nal blood. 
 
 Of the pictures of life and character in these poems 
 a striking specimen is " The Brier- Wood Pipe," in 
 which that singular worthy, the New York volunteer 
 fireman, appears drawn to the life. This sketch is 
 the more valuable because the subject of it has now 
 vanished into the past ; his life having ended with, 
 although not because of, the war, his behavior in which, 
 in his collective capacity, did not justify all the expec 
 tations of his friends. Other compositions of this kind 
 are " Uncle Sam," and " The Bounty Jumper," both 
 of which, even if the " Brier- Wood Pipe " escapes, 
 will be voted exceedingly low by certain people. 
 
 It would have been strange, indeed, if the position 
 taken by the British Government and the bulk of the 
 British governing classes toward our republic, as soon 
 as it seemed to them that there was a fair chance, if 
 
PREFACE. xiii 
 
 the rebellion were nursed, that we might be destroyed,* 
 being, as it was, the mere supplement of two defeated 
 attempts at oppression, and sixty years of continued 
 insult, had not produced a feeling which sought ex 
 pression in satire and invective. And here again Mr. 
 Whittier and Mr. Lowell speak for their countrymen 
 just as we would have them speak. The spirit which 
 produced " Punch s Run from Manassas Junction " 
 meets its proper rebuke in the address " To English 
 men," and gets a Roland for its Oliver in Mr. Lowell s 
 " Jonathan to John." But the " New Song to an Old 
 Tune " tells the whole truth upon this subject. Our 
 British cousins who continually speak as if the feeling 
 which their conduct has awakened in this country 
 
 * This is no supposition based upon a mere concurrence of 
 events which might have been fortuitous. Halt this volume might 
 be tilled with extracts from British newspapers, vituperating " the 
 slaveholders " without measure, when it was thought that their 
 rebellion was only strong enough to derange trade and hinder the 
 export of cotton, and the pages of Punch (Britannia s rose-tinted 
 mirror) will be found lull at this period of savage ridicule of the 
 secessionists. But when it appeared that there really was a chance 
 for the destruction of the great republic, how sudden and how 
 shameless was the change ! One candid Briton, who has since seen 
 the error of his ways, said to me, frankly. " There s no use lying 
 about it and denying that we all felt a secret satisfaction at the 
 possible destruction of a successful rebel against the British govern 
 ment, and a great commercial and manufacturing rival." Arid Mr. 
 Rosetti, a British painter and writer of repute, writing in the At 
 lantic magazine upon British feeling in regard to our war, says: 
 " The first of the four motives in question . . . and by far the most 
 powerful of all: The English as a nation dislike the Americans as 
 a nation. . . . The second is a natural, though assuredly not a 
 laudable feeling, the residual soreness left by our defeat in the 
 old American War of Independence." 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 were a new one, or at least had its source in the 
 events of the present day, and as if what they call 
 the Trent outrage were without a precedent, and also 
 as if we were always eager for a quarrel with them, 
 would do well to read the unpretending production 
 of this anonymous parodist, and then take the little 
 trouble that will be needful to discover, if they do not 
 know already, the facts about this matter. 
 
 Perhaps the most interesting of these little poems 
 are those which express the feelings and emotions of 
 the actors and sufferers in the struggle, and portray 
 the various phases of our social and political life 
 during those four years of eventful memory. The 
 variety of these is very great, and their general faith 
 fulness to fact very noteworthy. From Mr. Cutler s 
 " Lullaby," so simple, so tender, and so true, that it 
 seems hardly more than a literal record of what must 
 have been sung in twilight hours by thousands of sad- 
 hearted women in farmsteads and cities the country 
 over, to Lieutenant Realf s " lo Triumphe ! " in 
 which the whole nation s faith and hope, repentance 
 and rejoicing, struggle into words that, in their alternate 
 pause and rush, reflect the turbulence of the time, 
 from the cry, in " The Potomac, 1861," of the girl 
 bereaved of her lover, to the " Horatian Ode," in 
 which Mr. Stoddard tells, in prolonged but well-sus 
 tained quatrains, the style of which smacks rather of 
 England in the first quarter of the seventeenth cen 
 tury than of Rome in the first, a people s sober, deco- 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 rous grief at the violent death of Abraham Lincoln, 
 the gradation is full and perfect. No man, no woman, 
 lacks a representative voice, and it would seem that 
 no passing emotion, more than any abiding sentiment, 
 fails of expression. How unexaggerated in all their 
 strength most of these poems now are seen to be by 
 us ! The writers seem to have found in their imagi 
 nations the real facts, and in their fancies the words 
 that most truthfully expressed them. Even the ter 
 rible threat which closes General Lander s " Rhode 
 Island to the South," and which might have been not 
 without reason looked upon by a mere spectator of the 
 struggle as a poetical hyperbole pushed to the verge 
 of extravagance, proved to be hardly more than a 
 literal announcement of what was to happen. And 
 yet, striking as are such utterances (and there are 
 others like this) of a determination to maintain the 
 republic at whatever cost of life, there is throughout 
 these compositions a notable absence of sanguinary or 
 revengeful feeling, or even of hatred, a negative 
 trait rendered the more remarkable by the single 
 manifestation of that feeling among the many loyal 
 pieces, and its frequent recurrence among the few 
 written by rebel pens. Coming under this class, and 
 yet having characteristic traits of their own, are the 
 poems which paint the home life and the daily trials 
 of the people that furnished the volunteer soldiers 
 who did the fighting of this war. Such are " Driv 
 ing Home the Cows," " A Woman s Waiting," " The 
 
xvi PREFACE. 
 
 Song of the Camps," " After All," and " The Heart 
 of the War." No painted picture, no long-drawn de 
 scription, could give a more faithful and vivid por 
 traiture of rural life in the Free States during the 
 war than these compositions, and some others like 
 them, scattered through this volume, most of them 
 anonymous, and written for the columns of a news 
 paper oi 1 a magazine by people who lived among the 
 scenes which they describe. " Driving Home the 
 Cows " might be called as faithful as a photograph, 
 were it not that in addition to its faithfulness it tells 
 a tale that can only be told by human lips, and em 
 bodies a feeling that will only take form under the 
 touch of human hands. It is noteworthy that the 
 rebel poetry furnishes no corresponding pictures of 
 life and character in whatever class. I have looked 
 for them in vain. 
 
 Whether we have reason to be proud or ashamed 
 of the poetry produced by our civil war, most of it 
 written by unpractised hands, it will be for each reader 
 to decide for himself after perusal of this volume ; but 
 this I may venture to say from knowledge, that these 
 poems being arranged in the order of time, the book 
 tells the story of the war like a rhymed chronicle. 
 
 My thanks are due to the authors of many of the 
 following poems for permission that they should ap 
 pear in these pages. Some are printed without such 
 permission, because I knew not where or how to 
 address their authors, and others because they had 
 
PREFACE. xvii 
 
 been already so often quoted as to be almost common 
 property. My acknowledgments are also due to the 
 proprietors of" Harpers Magazine," " Harpers Weekly 
 Journal," and the " Atlantic Monthly " magazine, for 
 permission to make selections from their pages ; and 
 to those useful collections, Mr. Frank Moore s " Re 
 bellion Record," and Littell s " Living Age," I am 
 also indebted. Many of the compositions of those 
 owned by their authors as well as of those which 
 have remained anonymous I have been unable to 
 trace to papers in which they first appeared. 
 
 R. G. W. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Brother Jonathan s Lament for Sister Car- PA(IE 
 
 oline Oliver Wendell Holmes 1 
 
 A Psalm of the Union Anonymous 2 
 
 God for our Native Land G. W. Bethune, D. D 4 
 
 The Flag Horatio Woodman 5 
 
 Apocalypse Clarence Hutler 7 
 
 The Massachusetts Line Robert Lowell 9 
 
 Our Country s Call William Cullen Bryant 11 
 
 United States National Anthem William Ross Wallace 13 
 
 The Seventh Fitzjames O Brien 14 
 
 South Carolina Gentleman Anonymous 17 
 
 Army Hymn Oliver Wendell Holmes 19 
 
 The Stars and Stripes James T. Fields 20 
 
 The Present Crisis James Russell Lowell 20 
 
 The Two Furrows C. II. Webb 23 
 
 Out in the Cold Lucy Lareom 25 
 
 Ho . Sons of the Puritan Anonymous 27 
 
 The Universal Cotton Gin Au. of the " Cotton States " 30 
 
 Upon the Hill before Centre ville George H. Boker 33 
 
 The Run from Manasses Junction Anonymous 43 
 
 The Brier- Wood Pipe Charles Dawson Shanly 46 
 
 Jonathan to John James Russell Lowell 49 
 
 A New Song to an Old Tune Anonymous 52 
 
 To Englishmen John Grcenleaf WUittier . . 53 
 
 The London Times 1 1 on American Affairs Anonymous 55 
 
 God Save John Bull R. G. W 57 
 
 The Potomac. 1861 Anonymous 58 
 
 " E/> Feste Burg Tst Unser Gott .... John G. Whittier 60 
 
 Jeff. Davis Sigma G2 
 
 Yankee Pride Brig. -General Lander 64 
 
 Pacific Macaronics Anonymous 65 
 
 John Brown s Song Anonymous (56 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic Mrs. Julia Ward Howe 68 
 
 The Nation s Hymn Anonymous 69 
 
xx CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " E Pluribus Unum " Rev. John Pierpont 71 
 
 United States National Hymn Jonathan 72 
 
 Union R. G. W 75 
 
 Overtures from Richmond FrancLs James Child 76 
 
 All ioe ask is to be Let Alone II. II. Brownell 79 
 
 Tardy Geor% P. Anon vmo us 81 
 
 The Cumberland Henry W . Longfellow 83 
 
 On Board the Cumberland George II. Boker 84 
 
 Marching Along William B. Bradbury JO 
 
 A Yankee Soldier s Song Anonymous 91 
 
 The Irish Picket Barney 93 
 
 "Words that can be sung to the * Hallelu 
 jah Chorus 1 1 II. If. Brownell 96 
 
 Lul aby Jefferson Cutler 97 
 
 The River Fight H. H. Brownell 98 
 
 The Ballad of the Crescent City Anonymous 108 
 
 New Orleans won back Robert Lowell 112 
 
 The Varuna George II. Boker 114 
 
 The Ntw Ballad of Lord Lovell Anonymous 115 
 
 Gineral Butler , Charity Grimes 117 
 
 Rhode Island to the. South Gen . F. VV. Lander 118 
 
 The Picket Guard Anonymous 119 
 
 The March of the Regiment II. H. Brownell 121 
 
 The Loyal Democrat A. J. II. Duganne 125 
 
 Three Hundred Thousand More Anonymous 127 
 
 The Day of God George S. Burleigh 128 
 
 The Battle Autumn of 1832 John G. Whittier 130 
 
 The Cripple at the Gate Anonymous 132 
 
 Wanted A Man Edmund C. Stcdman 134 
 
 Fredericksburgh \V.F.\V 13n 
 
 My Maryland Anonymous 138 
 
 Boston Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson 139 
 
 Treason s Last Device Edmund C. Stedman 142 
 
 Larry s Return from the War Will S. Hays 144 
 
 At Port Royal John Greenleaf Whittier . . 146 
 
 Left on the Battle Field Sarah T. Bolton 149 
 
 In Louisiana J- W. De Forest 151 
 
 Song of New England Spring Birds Anonymous . . 153 
 
 The Wood of Chancellorsville Anonymous 155 
 
 Song of the Copperhead Anonymous 157 
 
 At Gettysburg Anonymous 158 
 
 How are you. General Lee Anonymous 160 
 
 Hymn for it/i of July, 1863 George H. Boker 161 
 
 Left on the Battle Field Howard Glyndon 163 
 
CONTENTS. xxi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lay of the Modern " Konservativs " Charity Grimes 164 
 
 Says Private Maguire T. B. Aldrich 166 
 
 Spring at tke Capital Anonymous 167 
 
 A Woman s Waiting Anonymous 169 
 
 Barbara Fritckie John Greenleaf \Vhittier. . . 171 
 
 Thanksgiving Railroad Ballad E Plurihus Ununi 174 
 
 The Dead Drummer Boy Anonymous 176 
 
 The Sentinel on Morris Island Anonymous 177 
 
 " Sho-ddy " Anonymous 179 
 
 Lint Anonymous 180 
 
 Peace Democracy Charity Grimes 182 
 
 The Latest War News Anonymous 183 
 
 Cavalry Charge Edmund C. Stedman 185 
 
 The Fisherman of Beaufort Frances D. Gage 186 
 
 Seward A. D. F. Randolph 187 
 
 The Song of the. Camps J . R. M 188 
 
 Soldiers Talk Charles G. Halpin 190 
 
 Per Tenebras Lumina Mrs. Whitney 192 
 
 The Confederate Primer Anonymous 193 
 
 An Idyl II. Bedlow 194 
 
 The Old Sergeant Anonymous 198 
 
 In the Sepulchre Anonymous 204 
 
 Uncle Sam Anonymous 207 
 
 When Johnny comes marching Home Anonymous 208 
 
 Sonnet George II. Boker 209 
 
 Sonnet George II. Boker 210 
 
 The Brave at Home Thomas Buchanan Read . . . 210 
 
 When this Cruel War is over Anonymous 211 
 
 April 20, 1864 Charles G. Halpin 213 
 
 Grant George II. Boker 214 
 
 The Bounty- Jumper J . Cross Casten 215 
 
 Song of Ktlpatrick l s Troopers Anonymous 217 
 
 The Song of Grants Soldiers Anonymous 218 
 
 Driving home the cows Anonymous 220 
 
 On Picket Duty Anonymous 222 
 
 The Heart of the War Anonymous 225 
 
 The Drummer Boy^s Burial Anonymous 228 
 
 The Bay Fight II. H. Brownell 232 
 
 The C/i icago Surrender Bayard Taylor 249 
 
 Sheridan s Ride T. Buchanan Rend 251 
 
 After All William Winter 253 
 
 The, Year of Jubilee Anonymous 254 
 
 Abolition of Slavery Anonymous 255 
 
 Brother Jonathan and Taxes Anonymous 257 
 
xxii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Little Jeu D Esprit Anonymous 258 
 
 A Hair-dressed s Story A. M. W 259 
 
 Sherman s March, A Soldier 2^1 
 
 The Craven Alfred Andhison 262 
 
 The Hour of Northern Victory Fanny Kemble 263 
 
 Cotton and Corn Anonymous 265 
 
 The Frcedman s Song Anonymous 265 
 
 Abraham Lincoln Edmund C. Stedman 267 
 
 Abraham Lincoln William Cullen Bryant 268 
 
 Reunion John Nicol 268 
 
 Abraham Lincoln Anonymous 270 
 
 Abraham Lincoln Alice Carey 273 
 
 In State Anonymous 274 
 
 An Horatian Ode Richard Henry Stoddart ... 275 
 
 South Carolina, 1865 Anonymous 282 
 
 lo Triumphe Richard Realf 283 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Farewell to Brother Jonathan Caroline 289 
 
 Call all! Call all Georgia 291 
 
 Maryland James R. Randall 292 
 
 The Despot s Song Ole Secesh 294 
 
 Rebels Anonymous 296 
 
 Flight of the Doodles Anonymous 297 
 
 Another Yankee Doodle Anonymous 299 
 
 Justice our Panoply De G 301 
 
 The Stars and Bars A. J. Requier 302 
 
 The Irish Battalion Anonymous 304 
 
 Bombardment of Vicksburg Anonymous 306 
 
 A Southern Scene Anonymous 308 
 
 Beyond the Potomac Paul II. Hayne 310 
 
 The Old Rifleman Frank Ticknor 312 
 
 Southrons Anonymous 314 
 
 The Guerillas Anonymous 315 
 
 There s Life in the Old Land yet James R. Randall 318 
 
 Epigram ^ Anonymous 319 
 
 Thinking of the Soldiers Anonymous 320 
 
 Stonewall Jackson s Way Anonymous 321 
 
 Song for the Irish Brigade Shamrock 323 
 
 The Confederate Flag Anonymous 325 
 
BROTHER JONATHAN S LAMENT FOR SISTER 
 CAROLINE.* 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL. HOLMES. 
 
 SHE has gone, she has left us in passion and pride, 
 Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side ! 
 She has torn her own star from our firmament s glow, 
 And turned on her brother the face of a foe ! 
 
 O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
 We can never forget that our hearts have been one, 
 Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty s name, 
 From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame ! 
 
 You were always too ready to fire at a touch ; 
 But we said, " She is hasty, she does not mean much." 
 We have scowled, when you uttered some turbulent threat ; 
 But Friendship still whispered, " Forgive and forget ! " 
 
 Has our love all died out ? Have its altars grown cold ? 
 Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold ? 
 Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain 
 That her petulant children would sever in vain. 
 
 They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil, 
 Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, 
 
 * Written upon the announcement of the passage of the " Ordi 
 nance of Secession," on the 20th of December, 1860, by the Con 
 vention of South Carolina, the first State which attempted to secede. 
 
2 A PSALM OF THE UNION. 
 
 Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, 
 And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves : 
 
 In vain is the strife ! When its fury is past, 
 Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, 
 As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow 
 Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below. 
 
 Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky : 
 Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the die ! 
 Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, 
 The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal ! 
 
 O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
 There are battles with Fate that can never be won ! 
 The star-flowering banner must never be furled, 
 For its blossoms of lidit are the hope of the world ! 
 
 Go, then, our rash sister ! afar and aloof, 
 
 Run wild in the sunshine, away from our roof; 
 
 But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, 
 
 Remember the pathway that leads to our door ! 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 A PSALM OF THE UNION. 
 
 i. 
 GOD of the Free ! upon thy breath 
 
 Our flag is for the Right unrolled ; 
 Still broad and brave as when its stars 
 
 First crowned the hallowed time of old : 
 For Honor still its folds shall fly, 
 
 For Duty still their glories burn, 
 
A PSALM OF THE UNION. 
 
 Where Truth, Religion, Freedom guard 
 The patriot s sword and martyr s urn. 
 Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! 
 
 O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; 
 And in our Union s heritage 
 
 Together lift the Nation s psalm ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 How glorious is our mission here ! 
 
 Heirs of a virgin world are we ; 
 The chartered lords whose lightnings tame 
 
 The rocky mount and roaring sea : 
 We march, and Nature s giants own 
 
 The fetters of our mighty cars ; 
 We look, and lo ! a continent 
 
 Is crouched beneath the Stripes and Stars ! 
 Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! 
 
 O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; 
 And in our Union s heritage 
 
 Together lift the Nation s psalm ! 
 
 in. 
 No tyrant s impious step is ours ; 
 
 No lust of power on nations rolled : 
 Our Flag for friends a starry sky, 
 
 For foes a tempest every fold ! 
 Oh ! thus we 11 keep our nation s life, 
 
 Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled : 
 The blood of all the world is here, 
 
 And they who strike us, strike the world. 
 Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! 
 
 O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; 
 And in our Union s heritage 
 
 Together lift the Nation s psalm ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 God of the Free ! our Nation bless 
 In its strong manhood as its birth ; 
 
GOD FOR OUR NATIVE LAND. 
 
 And make its life a Star of Hope 
 
 For all the struggling of tlie Earth : 
 Thou gav st the glorious Past to us ; 
 
 Oh ! let our Present burn as bright, 
 And o er the mighty Future cast 
 
 Truth s, Honor s, Freedom s holy light! 
 Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! 
 
 O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; 
 And in our Union s heritage 
 
 Together lift the Nation s psalm ! 
 
 Harpers Montldy, December, 1861. 
 
 GOD FOR OUR NATIVE LAND. 
 
 BY REV. G. W. BETHUNE, D. 1). 
 
 GOD S blessing be upon 
 
 Our own, our native land ! 
 
 The land our fathers won 
 
 By the strong heart and hand, 
 The keen axe and the brand, 
 
 When they felled the forest s pride, 
 
 And the tyrant foe defied, 
 
 The free, the rich, the wide : 
 God for our native land ! 
 
 Up with the starry sign, 
 
 The red stripes and the white ! 
 Where er its glories shine, 
 
 In peace, or in the fight, 
 
 We own its high command ; 
 For the flag our fathers gave, 
 O er our children s heads shall wave, 
 And their children s children s grave ! 
 
 God for our native land ! 
 
THE FLAG. 
 
 Who doth that flag defy, 
 
 We challenge as our foe ; 
 Who Avill not for it die, 
 
 Out from us he must go ! 
 
 So let them understand. 
 Who that dear flag disclaim, 
 Which won their fathers fame, 
 We brand \vith endless shame! 
 
 God for our native land ! 
 
 Our native land ! to thee, 
 
 In one united vow, 
 To keep thee strong and free, 
 
 And glorious as now 
 
 We pledge each heart and hand ; 
 By the blood our fathers shed, 
 By the ashes of our dead, 
 By the sacred soil we tread ! 
 
 God for our native land ! 
 
 THE FLAG.* 
 
 BY HORATIO WOODMAN. 
 
 WHY flashed that flag on Monday morn 
 
 Across the startled sky ? 
 Why leapt the blood to every cheek, 
 
 The tears to every eye ? 
 
 * Fort Sumter, after being occupied by Major Anderson four 
 months with ninety men, was evacuated after bombardment on 
 Saturday, April 14th, 1861. On the following Monday, as if by 
 one consent, the flag of the Republic was raised throughout the 
 Free States, so that wherever the eye turned the national colors 
 were in sight; and the demand for flags was so great that the 
 price of bunting quadrupled in a few days. 
 
THE FLAG. 
 
 The hero in our four months woe, 
 
 The symbol of our might, 
 Together sunk for one brief hour, 
 
 To rise forever bright. 
 
 The mind of Cromwell claimed his own, 
 
 The blood of Naseby streamed 
 Through hearts unconscious of the fire 
 
 Till that torn banner gleamed. 
 The seeds of Milton s lofty thoughts, 
 
 All hopeless of the spring, 
 Broke forth in joy, as through them glowed 
 
 The life great poets sing. 
 
 Old Greece was young, and Homer true, 
 
 And Dante s burning page 
 Flamed in the red along our flag, 
 
 And kindled holy rage. 
 God s Gospel cheered the sacred cause, 
 
 In stern, prophetic strain, 
 Which makes His Right our covenant, 
 
 His Psalms our deep refrain. 
 
 Oh, sad for him whose light went out 
 
 Before this glory came, 
 Who could not live to feel his kin 
 
 To every noble name ; 
 And sadder still to miss the joy 
 
 That twenty millions know, 
 In Human Nature s Holiday, 
 
 From all that makes life low. 
 
 Boston Transcript, April, 18G1. 
 
APOCALYPSE. 
 APOCALYPSE.* 
 
 BY CLARENCE BUTLER. 
 
 STRAIGHT to his heart the bullet crushed, 
 Down from his breast the red blood gushed, 
 And o er his face a glory rushed. 
 
 A sudden spasm rent his frame, 
 And in his ears there went and came 
 A sound as of devouring flame. 
 
 Which in a moment ceased, and then 
 The great light clasped his brows again, 
 So that they shone like Stephen s, when 
 
 Saul stood apart a little space, 
 And shook with shuddering awe to t 
 God s splendor settling o er his face. 
 
 Thus, like a king, erect in pride, 
 Raising his hands to heaven, he cried, 
 " All hail the Stars and Stripes ! " and died. 
 
 Died grandly ; but, before he fell, 
 (O blessedness ineffable ! ) 
 Vision apocalyptical 
 
 Was granted to him, and his eyes, 
 All radiant with glad surprise, 
 Looked forward through the centuries, 
 
 * After the bombardment and evacuation of Fort Sumter, the 
 6th Regiment of Massachusetts militia was the first that moved to 
 the defence of Washington. It was attacked on the 19th of April 
 by a mob in the streets of Baltimore, and two of its members 
 killed and eight wounded; one of the former, Luther C. Ladd, 
 cheered the flag with his dying breath. 
 
APOCALYPSE. 
 
 And saw the seeds that sages cast 
 In the world s soil in cycles past, 
 Spring up and blossom at the last : 
 
 Saw how the souls of men had grown, 
 And where the scythes of Truth had mown, 
 Clear space for Liberty s white throne ; 
 
 Saw how, by sorrow tried and proved, 
 The last dark stains had been removed 
 Forever from the land he loved. 
 
 Saw Treason crushed, and Freedom crowned, 
 And clamorous faction gagged and bound, 
 Gasping its life out on the ground ; 
 
 While over all his country s slopes 
 Walked swarming troops of cheerful hopes, 
 Which evermore to broader scopes 
 
 Increased, with power that comprehends 
 The world s weal in its own, and bends 
 Self-needs to large, unselfish ends. 
 
 Saw how, throughout the vast extents 
 Of earth s most populous continents, 
 She dropped such rare heart-affluence, 
 
 That, from beyond the farthest seas, 
 The wondering peoples thronged to seize 
 Her proffered pure benignities ; 
 
 And how, of all her trebled host 
 
 Of widening empires, none could boast 
 
 Whose strength or love was uppermost, 
 
THE MASSACHUSETTS LINE. 
 
 Because they grew so equal there 
 Beneath the flag, which, debonnaire, 
 Waved joyous in the golden air ; 
 
 Wherefore the martyr, gazing clear 
 
 Beyond the gloomy atmosphere 
 
 Which shuts us in with doubt and fear, 
 
 He, marking how her high increase 
 Ran greatening in perpetual lease 
 Through balmy years of odorous peace. 
 
 Greeted, in one transcendent cry 
 Of intense, passionate ecstacy, 
 The sight that thrilled him utterly : 
 
 Saluting, with most proud disdain 
 Of murder and of mortal pain, 
 The vision which shall be again. 
 
 So, lifted with prophetic pride, 
 Raised conquering hands to heaven, and cried, 
 "All hail the Stars and Stripes ! " and died. 
 
 THE MASSACHUSETTS LINE. 
 
 BY ROBERT LOWELL. 
 
 Am: " Yankee Doodle" 
 
 I. 
 
 STILL first, as long and long ago, 
 
 Let Massachusetts muster ; 
 Give her the post right next the foe ; 
 
 Be sure that you may trust her. 
 
10 THE MASSACHUSETTS LINE. 
 
 She was the first to give her blood 
 
 For freedom and for honor ; 
 She trod her soil to crimson mud : 
 
 God s blessing be upon her ! 
 
 ii. 
 She never faltered for the right, 
 
 Nor ever will hereafter : 
 Fling up her name with all your might, 
 
 Shake roof-tree and shake rafter. 
 But of old deeds she need not brag, 
 
 How she broke sword and fetter ; 
 Fling out again the old striped flag ! 
 
 She 11 do yet more and better. 
 
 in. 
 In peace her sails fleck all the seas, 
 
 Her mills shake every river ; 
 And where are scenes so fair as these 
 
 God and her true hands give her ? 
 Her claim in war who seek to rob ? 
 
 All others come in later ; 
 Hers first it is to front the Mob, 
 
 The Tyrant and the Traitor. 
 
 IV. 
 
 God bless, God bless the glorious State ! 
 
 Let her have her way to battle ! 
 She 11 go where batteries crash with fate, 
 
 Or where thick rifles rattle. 
 Give her the Right, and let her try, 
 
 And then, who can, may press her ; 
 She 11 go straight on, or she will die ; 
 
 God bless her ! and God bless her ! 
 
 Duanesburyh, May 7, 1861. 
 
OUR COUNTRY S CALL. 
 
 OUR COUNTRY S CALL. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 LAY down the axe, fling by the spade : 
 
 Leave in its track the toiling plough ; 
 The rifle and the bayonet-blade 
 
 For arms like yours were fitter now ; 
 And let the hands that ply the pen 
 
 Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
 The horseman s crooked brand, and rein 
 
 The charger on the battle-field. 
 
 Our country calls ; away ! away ! 
 
 To where the blood-stream blots the green. 
 Strike to defend the gentlest sway 
 
 That Time in all his course has seen. 
 See, from a thousand coverts see 
 
 Spring the armed foes that haunt her track ; 
 They rush to smite her down, and we 
 
 Must beat the banded traitors back. 
 
 Ho ! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, 
 
 And moved as soon to fear and flight, 
 Men of the glade and forest ! leave 
 
 Your woodcraft for the field of fight. 
 The arms that wield the axe must pour 
 
 An iron tempest on the foe ; 
 His serried ranks shall reel before 
 
 The arm that lays the panther low. 
 
 And ye who breast the mountain storm 
 By grassy steep or highland lake, 
 
 Come, for the land ye love, to form 
 A bulwark that no foe can break. 
 
12 OUR COUNTRY S CALL. 
 
 Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock 
 The whirlwind ; stand in her defence : 
 
 The blast as soon shall move the rock, 
 As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 
 
 And ye, whose homes are by her grand 
 
 Swift rivers, rising far away, 
 Come from the depth of her green land 
 
 As mighty in your march as they ; 
 As terrible as when the rains 
 
 Have swelled them over bank and bourne, 
 With sudden floods to drown the plains 
 
 And sweep along the woods uptorn. 
 
 And ye who throng beside the deep, 
 
 Her ports and hamlets of the strand, 
 In number like the waves that leap 
 
 On his long murmuring marge of sand, 
 Come, like that deep, when o er his brim 
 
 He rises, all his floods to pour, 
 And flings the proudest barks that swim 
 
 A helpless wreck against his shore. 
 
 Few, few were they whose swords of old 
 
 Won the fair land in which we dwell ; 
 But we are many, we who hold 
 
 The grim resolve to guard it well. 
 Strike for that broad and goodly land 
 
 Blow after blow, till men shall see 
 That Might and Right move hand in hand, 
 
 And glorious must their triumph be. 
 
UNITED STATES NATIONAL ANTHEM. 13 
 UNITED STATES NATIONAL ANTHEM. 
 
 BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. 
 
 GOD of the Free ! upon Thy breath 
 Our Fag is for the Right unrolled 
 
 As broad and brave as when its Stars 
 First lit the hallowed time of old. 
 
 For Duty still its folds shall fly, 
 
 For Honor still its glories burn, 
 Where Truth, Religion, Valor, guard 
 
 The patriot s sword and martyr s urn. 
 
 No tyrant s impious step is ours ; 
 
 No lust of power on nations rolled : 
 Our Flag for friends, a starry sky ; 
 
 For traitors, storm in every fold. 
 
 O, thus we 11 keep our Nation s life, 
 Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled ; 
 
 The blood of all the world is here, 
 
 And they who strike us strike the world ! 
 
 God of the Free ! our Nation bless 
 In its strong manhood as its birth ; 
 
 And make its life a Star of Hope 
 For all the struggling of the earth. 
 
 Then shout beside thine Oak, O North ! 
 
 O South, wave answer with thy Palm ! 
 And in our Union s heritage 
 
 Together sing the Nation s Psalm ! 
 
14- THE SEVENTH. 
 
 THE SEVENTH.* 
 
 BY FITZJAMES O BRIEN. 
 
 AIR " Gilla Machree." 
 
 I. 
 
 Ocu ! we re the boys 
 That hearts desthroys 
 Wid making love and fighting ; 
 We take a fort, 
 The girls we court, 
 But most the last delight in. 
 To fire a gun, 
 Or raise some fun, 
 To us is no endeavor ; 
 So let us hear 
 One hearty cheer 
 The Seventh s lads forever ! 
 Chorus For we re the boys 
 
 That hearts desthroys, 
 Wid making love and fighting ; 
 We take a fort, 
 The girls we court, 
 But most the last delight in. 
 
 * The Seventh Regiment New York Militia left the city of New 
 York, on its way to the defence of the National Capital, April 19th, 
 1861. The news of the attack upon the Sixth Massachusetts reached 
 the city just before they left their armory. No one who was in the 
 city at that time will ever forget the excitement, solemn, tender, 
 and enthusiastic, in the midst of which this favorite regiment set 
 out upon a march which it was supposed would be bloody, and 
 which proved to be eventful. A prolonged cry, which seemed to 
 be both cheer and wail, accompanied every step of its march down 
 Broadway. War was new to us then. In the event this regiment 
 never went into action as a bodj r ; but its highly disciplined ranks 
 furnished more officers than came from any other to the national 
 army. The above lines were written by a young Irishman, one 
 of its members. 
 
THE SEVENTH. 15 
 
 ii. 
 
 There s handsome Joe, 
 
 Whoso constant flow 
 Of merriment unfailing, 
 
 Upon the tramp, 
 
 Or in the camp, 
 Will keep our hearts from ailing. 
 
 And B and Chat., 
 
 Who might have sat 
 For Pythias and Damon, 
 
 Och ! whin they get 
 
 Their heavy wet, 
 They get as high as Haman. 
 For we re the boys 
 That hearts desthroys, &c. 
 
 in. 
 
 Like Jove above 
 
 We re fond of love, 
 But fonder still of victuals ; 
 
 Wid turtle-steaks 
 
 An cod-fish cakes 
 We always fills our kittles. 
 
 To dhrown aich dish 
 
 We dhrinks like fish, 
 And mum s the word we utther ; 
 
 An thin we swill 
 
 Our Leoville, 
 
 That oils our throats like butther. 
 For we re the boys 
 That hearts desthroys, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We make from hay 
 A splindid lay, 
 
 From beans a gorgeous coffee ; 
 Our crame is prime, 
 Wid chalk and lime 
 
1 6 THE SEVENTH. 
 
 In fact, t is quite a throphy. 
 Our chickens roast, 
 Wid butthered toast, 
 I m sure would timpt St. Payther ; 
 Now you 11 declare 
 Our bill of fare 
 It could n t be complayther. 
 For we re the boys 
 That hearts desthroys, &2. 
 
 v. 
 
 Now silence all, 
 While I recall 
 
 A memory sweet and tender ; 
 The maids and wives 
 That light our lives 
 With deep, enduring splendor 
 We 11 give no cheer 
 For those so dear, 
 But in our hearts we 11 bless them, 
 And pray to-night, 
 That angels bright 
 May watch them and caress them. 
 For we re the boys 
 That hearts desthroys, 
 Wid making love and fighting ; 
 We take a fort, 
 The girls we court, 
 Buf. most the last delight in. 
 
SOUTH CAROLINA GENTLEMAN. ij 
 
 SOUTH CAROLINA GENTLEMAN. 
 
 AIR: " The Fine Old English Gentleman. 1 
 
 DOWN in a small Palmetto State the curious ones may 
 find, 
 
 A ripping, tearing gentleman, of an uncommon kind, 
 
 A staggering, swaggering sort of chap, who takes his 
 whiskey straight, 
 
 And frequently condemns his eyes to that ultimate ven 
 geance which a clergyman of high standing has 
 assured must be a sinner s fate : 
 
 This South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. 
 
 You trace his genealogy, and not far back you 11 see, 
 
 A most undoubted octoroon, or mayhap a mustee, 
 
 And if you note the shaggy locks that cluster on his 
 
 brow, 
 You 11 find that every other hair is varied with a kink 
 
 that seldom denotes pure Caucasian blood, but on 
 
 the contrary betrays an admixture with a race 
 
 not particularly popular now : 
 This South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. 
 
 He always wears a full-dress coat, pre- Adamite in cut, 
 
 With waistcoat of the loudest style, through which his 
 ruffles jut, 
 
 Six breastpins deck his horrid front, and on his fingers 
 shine 
 
 Whole invoices of diamond rings which would hardly 
 pass muster with the Original Jacobs in Chatham- 
 street for jewels gen-u-5ne : 
 
 This South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. 
 
 He chews tobacco by the pound and spits upon the floor 
 If there is not a box of sand behind the nearest door, 
 
1 8 SOUTH CAROLINA GENTLEMAN. 
 
 And when he takes his weekly spree he clears a mighty 
 track, 
 
 Of everything that bears the shape of whiskey-skin, gin 
 and sugar, brandy sour, peach and honey, irre 
 pressible cock-tail rum, and gum, and luscious 
 apple-jack : 
 
 This South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. 
 
 He takes to euchre kindly, too, and plays an awful hand, 
 
 Especially when those he tricks his style don t under 
 stand, 
 
 And if he wins, why then he stoops to pocket all the 
 stakes, 
 
 But if he loses, then he says to the unfortunate stranger 
 who had chanced to win : " It s my opinion you 
 are a cursed abolitionist, and if you don t leave 
 South Carolina in one hour you will be hung 
 like a dog." But no offer to pay his loss he 
 makes : 
 
 This South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. 
 
 Of course he s all the time in debt to those who credit 
 give, 
 
 Yet manages upon the best the market yields to live ; 
 
 But if a Northern creditor asks him his bill to heed, 
 
 This honorable gentleman instantly draws two bowie- 
 knives and a pistol, dons a blue cockade, and 
 declares that in consequence of the repeated 
 aggressions of the North, and its gross violations 
 of the Constitution, he feels that it would utterly 
 degrade him to pay any debt whatever, and that 
 in fact he has at last determined to SECEDE : 
 
 This South Carolina gentleman, one of the present time. 
 
ARMY HYMN. 19 
 
 ARMY HYMN. 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 " Old Hundred." 
 
 O LORD of Hosts ! Almighty King ! 
 Behold the sacrifice we bring ! 
 To every arm Thy strength impart, 
 Thy spirit shed through every heart ! 
 
 Wake in our breasts the living fires, 
 The holy faith that warmed our sires ; 
 Thy hand hath made our Nation free : 
 To die for her is serving Thee. 
 
 Be Thou a pillared flame to show 
 The midnight snare, the silent foe ; 
 And when the battle thunders loud, 
 Still guide us in its moving cloud. 
 
 God of all nations ! Sovereign Lord ! 
 In Thy dread name we draw the sword, 
 We lift the starry flag on high 
 That fills with light our stormy sky. 
 
 From Treason s rent, from Murder s stain, 
 Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall reign, 
 Till fort and field, till shore and sea 
 Join our loud anthem, PRAISE TO THEE ! 
 
20 THE PRESENT CRISIS. 
 
 THE STARS AND STRIPES. 
 
 BY JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 RALLY round the flag, boys, 
 Give it to the breeze ! 
 
 That s the banner we love 
 On the land and seas. 
 
 Brave hearts are under it ; 
 
 Let the traitors brag ; 
 Gallant lads, fire away ! 
 
 And fight for the flag. 
 
 Their flag is but a rag 
 Ours is the true one ; 
 
 Up with the Stars and Stripes ! 
 Down with the new one ! 
 
 Let our colors fly, boys, 
 Guard them day and night ; 
 
 For victory is liberty, 
 
 And God will bless the right. 
 
 THE PRESENT CRISIS. 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 WHEN a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad 
 
 earth s aching breast 
 Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to 
 
 west ; 
 And the slave, where er he cowers, feels the soul within 
 
 him climb 
 
THE PRESENT CRISIS. 21 
 
 To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
 Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of 
 Time. 
 
 Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan 
 taneous throe, 
 
 When the travail of the Ages wrings earth s systems to 
 and fro ; 
 
 At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start. 
 
 Nation wildly looks on nation, standing with mute lips 
 apart, 
 
 And glad Truth s yet mightier man-child leaps beneath 
 the Future s heart. 
 
 For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears 
 
 along, 
 Hound the earth s electric circle, the swift flash of right 
 
 or wrong ; 
 Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity s vast 
 
 frame, 
 Through its ocean-sundered fibres, feels the gush of joy 
 
 or shame ; 
 In the gain or loss of one race, all the rest have equal 
 
 claim. 
 
 Once, to every man and nation, comes the moment to 
 
 decide, 
 In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or 
 
 evil side ; 
 Some great cause, God s new Messiah, offering each the 
 
 bloom or blight, 
 Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon 
 
 the right, 
 And the choice goes by forever twixt that darkness and 
 
 that light. 
 
22 THE PRESENT CRISIS. 
 
 Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou 
 
 shalt stand, 
 Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust 
 
 against our land ? 
 Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet t is Truth alone 
 
 is strong; 
 And albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her 
 
 throng 
 Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all 
 
 wrong. 
 
 We see dimly, in the Present, what is small and what is 
 great ; 
 
 Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm 
 of Fate ; 
 
 But the soul is still oracular amid the market s din, 
 
 List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave 
 within : 
 
 " They enslave their children s children who make com 
 promise with Sin ! " 
 
 Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant 
 
 brood, 
 Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched 
 
 the earth with blood, 
 
 Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, 
 Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey ; 
 Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children 
 
 play? 
 
 T is as easy to be heroes, as to sit the idle slaves 
 
 Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers graves ; 
 
 Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a 
 
 crime. 
 Was the Mayflower launched by cowards ? steered by 
 
 men behind their time ? 
 Turn those tracks toward Past, or Future, that make 
 
 Plymouth Rock sublime ? 
 
THE TWO FURROWS. 23 
 
 They were men of present valor stalwart old icono 
 clasts ; 
 
 Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the 
 Past s ; 
 
 But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that has 
 made us free, 
 
 Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender 
 spirits flee 
 
 The rude grasp of that, great Impulse which drove them 
 across the sea. 
 
 JN ew occasions teach new duties ! Time makes ancient 
 good uncouth ; 
 
 They must upward still, and onward, who would keep 
 abreast of Truth ; 
 
 Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires ! we ourselves must 
 Pilgrims be, 
 
 Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the des 
 perate winter sea, 
 
 Nor attempt the Future s portal with the Past s blood- 
 rusted key. 
 
 THE TWO FURROWS. 
 
 BY C. H. WEBB. 
 
 THE spring-time came, but not. with mirth ; 
 
 The banner of our trust, 
 And, with it, the best hopes of earth 
 
 Were trailing in the dust. 
 
 The farmer saw the shame from far, 
 
 And stopped his plough a-field ; 
 " Not the blade of peace, but the brand of war, 
 
 This arm of mine must wield. 
 
24 THE TWO FURROWS. 
 
 " When traitor hands that flag would stain, 
 Their homes let women keep ; 
 
 Until its stars burn bright again, 
 Let others sow and reap." 
 
 The farmer sighed "A lifetime long 
 The plough has been my trust ; 
 
 In truth it were an arrant wrong 
 To leave it now to rust." 
 
 With ready strength the farmer tore 
 
 The iron from the wood, 
 And to the village smith he bore 
 
 That ploughshare stout and good. 
 
 The blacksmith s arms were bare and brown, 
 And loud the bellows roared ; 
 
 The farmer flung his ploughshare down 
 " Now forge me out a sword ! " 
 
 And then a merry, merry chime 
 
 The sounding anvil rung ; 
 Good sooth, it was a nobler rhyme 
 
 Than ever poet sung. 
 
 The blacksmith wrought with skill that day ; 
 
 The blade was keen and bright ; 
 And now, where thickest is the fray, 
 
 The farmer leads the fight. 
 
 Not as of old that blade he sways, 
 To break the meadow s sleep, 
 
 But through the rebel ranks he lays 
 A furrow broad and deep. 
 
 The farmer s face is burned and brown, 
 But light is on his brow ; 
 
" OUT IN THE COLD: 25 
 
 Right well he wots what blessings crown 
 The furrow of the Plough. 
 
 But better is to-day s success," 
 
 Thus ran the farmer s word ; 
 For nations yet unborn shall bless 
 
 This furrow of the Sword." 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 "OUT IN THE COLD."* 
 
 BY LUCY LARCOM. 
 
 WHAT is the threat ? " Leave her out in the cold ! " 
 Loyal New England, too loyally bold : 
 Hater of treason, ah ! that is her crime ! 
 Lover of Freedom, too true for her time ! 
 
 Out in the cold ? Oh, she chooses the place, 
 Rather than share in a sheltered disgrace ; 
 Rather than sit at a cannibal feast ; 
 Rather than mate with the blood-reeking beast ! 
 
 Leave out New England ? And what will she do, 
 
 Stormy-browed sisters, forsaken by you ? 
 
 Sit on her Rock, her desertion to weep ? 
 
 Or. like a Sappho, plunge thence in the deep ? 
 
 No ; our New England can put on no airs, 
 Nothing will change the calm look that she wears : 
 
 * Among the many propositions for compromise after the out 
 break of the rebellion, perhaps none was more persistently urged 
 by a certain class of politicians than the formation of a new 
 " Union, " from which New England was to be excluded, left 
 out in the cold, was the phrase. The proposers forgot that New 
 England had stretched westward along the banks of the Ohio to 
 the Mississippi. 
 
2b "OUT IN THE COLD." 
 
 Life s a rough lesson she learned from the first, 
 Up into wisdom through poverty nursed. 
 
 Not more distinct on his tables of stone 
 
 Was the grand writing to Moses made known, 
 
 Than is engraven, in letters of light, 
 
 On her foundations the One Law of Right. 
 
 She is a Christian : she smothers her ire, 
 Trims up the candle, and stirs the home fire ; 
 Thinking and working and waiting the day 
 When her wild sisters shall leave their mad play. 
 
 Out in the cold, where the free winds are blowing ; 
 Out in the cold, where the strong oaks are growing ; 
 Guards she all growths that are living and great, 
 Growths to rebuild every tottering State. 
 
 " Notions " worth heeding to shape she has wrought, 
 Lifted and fixed on the granite of thought : 
 What she has done may the wide world behold ! 
 What she is doing, too, out in the cold ! 
 
 Out in the cold ! she is glad to be there, 
 Breathing the north wind, the clear healthful air ; 
 Saved from the hurricane passions that rend 
 Hearts that once named her a sister and friend. 
 
 There she will stay, while they bluster and foam, 
 Planning their comfort when they shall come home ; 
 Building the Union an adamant wall, 
 Freedom-cemented, that never can fall. 
 
 Freedom, dear-bought with the blood of her sons, 
 See the red current ! right nobly it runs ! 
 Life of her life is not too much to give 
 For the dear Nation she taught how to live. 
 
110 1 SONS OF THE PURITAN. 
 
 Vainly they shout to you, sturdy Northwest ! 
 
 T is her own heart that beats warm in your breast ; 
 
 Sisters in nature as well as in name ; 
 
 Sisters in loyalty, true to that claim. 
 
 Freedom your breath is, O broad-shouldered North ! 
 Turn from the subtle miasma gone forth 
 Out of the South land, from Slavery s fen, 
 Battening demons, but poisoning men ! 
 
 Still on your Rock, my New England, sit sure, 
 Keeping the air for the great country pure ! 
 There you the " wayward " ones yet shall enfold : 
 There they will come to you, out in the cold ! 
 
 Taunton Gazette. 
 
 HO! SONS OF THE PURITAN. 
 
 The Cavaliers, Jacobites, and Huguenots, who settled the South, 
 naturally hate, condemn, and despise the Puritans who settled the 
 North. The former are master races; the latter, a slave race, 
 descendants of the Saxon serfs. D& Bo 
 
 who through a cloud, 
 
 Not of war only but detractions rude, 
 
 Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
 
 To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed. 
 
 Milton 1 ? Sonnet to Cromwell. 
 
 Ho ! sons of the Puritan ! sons of the Roundhead, 
 
 Leave your fields fallow and ily to the war ; 
 The foe is advancing, the trumpet hath sounded, 
 
 * This nonsense had been so long talked and written in the 
 Slave States before the rebellion, that many of the people there 
 actually believed it, although the population of those States is as 
 purely Anglo-Saxon as that of the Free States, or of England. 
 The Huguenot blood at the South is so small in quantity as to be 
 
28 HO! SONS OF THE PURITAN. 
 
 To the rescue of freedom, truth, justice, and law ! 
 Hear His voice bid ye on 
 Who spake unto Gideon : 
 " Rend the curtains of Midian 
 From Heshbon to Dor ! " 
 
 From green-covered Chalgrave, from Naseby and Marston, 
 
 Rich with the blood of the Earnest and True, 
 The war-cry of Freedom, resounding hath passed on 
 The wings of two centuries, and come down to you : 
 " Forward ! to glory ye, 
 Though the road gory be ! 
 Strong of arm let your story be 
 And swift to pursue ! " 
 
 List ! list ! to the time-honored voices that loudly 
 
 Speak from our Mother-land o er the sad waves, 
 From Hampden s dead lips, and from Cromwell s who 
 
 proudly 
 
 Called freemen to palaces, tyrants to graves : 
 
 " Sons of the Good and Pure ! 
 
 Let not their blood endure 
 
 The attaint of a brood impure 
 
 Of cowards and slaves ! " 
 
 And old Massachusetts hills echo the burden : 
 " Sons of the Pure-in-heart never give o er ! 
 
 Though blood flow in rivers, and death be the guerdon, 
 All the sharper your swords be, death welcome the 
 more ! 
 
 of no account; and if there ever were a master-race, it is the 
 Anglo-Saxon, as every other which has been brought into contact 
 with it knows. And what shall be said of the ignorance that 
 could be presumed not to know that the Cavaliers were utterly 
 overthrown by the Puritans, and that the party which overcame 
 the Jacobites, and brought in William of Orange, and maintained 
 the new dynasty, was composed in great measure of the noblest 
 families in England V 
 
HO! SONS OF THE PURITAN. 29 
 
 Swear ye to sheathe your swords 
 Not till the heathen hordes 
 On their craven knees breathe the words, 
 The Lord s we restore ! " 
 
 Accursed be the land that shall give ye cold greeting, 
 
 Cursed in its coffers, and cursed in its fame ! 
 And woe to the traitors, feigning friendship and meeting 
 Your trust with assassins dark weapons of shame. 
 As did Fennel s high 
 Parapets lowly lie, 
 And the Princes of Succoth die, 
 So fare these the same ! 
 
 Though sharp be the throes of these last tribulations, 
 
 Look ye ! a brighter dawn kindles the day ! 
 O, children of Saints, and the hope of the Nation, 
 Look aloft ! your deliverance cometh for aye ! 
 Soon, from those fairer skies, 
 White-winged, the herald flies 
 To the warders of Paradise, 
 To call them away ! 
 
 Then on to the battle-shock ! and if in anguish, 
 
 Gasping, and feeble-pulsed, low on the field, 
 Struck down by the traitor s fell prowess ye languish, 
 In Jehovah behold ye your Refuge and Shield ! 
 Or, if in victory, 
 Doubts shall come thick to ye, 
 Trust in Him, He shall speak to ye 
 The mystery revealed. 
 
 Ho ! sons of the Puritan ! sons of the Roundhead, 
 Leave your fields fallow, your ships at the shore ! 
 
 The foe is advancing, the trumpet hath sounded, 
 
 And the jaws of their Moloch are dripping with gore 
 
30 THE UNIVERSAL COTTON-GIN. 
 
 Raise the old pennon s staff! 
 Let the fierce cannons laugh, 
 Till the votaries of Ammon s calf 
 Blaspheme ye no more ! 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL COTTON-GIN. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " COTTON STATES." 
 
 HE journeyed all creation through, 
 A pedlar s wagon trotting in ; 
 
 A haggard man of sallow hue, 
 
 Upon his nose the goggles blue, 
 
 And in his cart a model U- 
 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 
 
 His seedy garb was sad to view 
 
 Hard seemed the strait he d gotten in ; 
 Pie plainly could n t boast a sou, 
 And meanly fared on water-gru 
 el, or had swallowed whole a U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 
 
 To all he met Turk, Christian, Jew 
 He meekly said, " I m not in tin ; 
 
 In fact, I m in a serious stew, 
 
 And therefore offer unto you, 
 
 At half its worth, my model U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 
 
 " As sure as four is two and two, 
 
 It rules the world we re plotting in ; 
 
THE UNIVERSAL COTTON-GIN. 31 
 
 It made and ruined Yankee Doo 
 dle, stuck to him like Cooper s glue, 
 And so to you would stick this U- 
 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 
 iiiversal nigger-cotton-gin." 
 
 Now Johnny Bull the pedlar knew, 
 
 And thus replied with not a grin : 
 " Hi loves yer gin like London brew 
 ed ale, but loathes the hinstitu- 
 tion vitch propels your model U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 
 
 " Hi know such coves as you a few, 
 
 And, zur, just now, hi m not in tin ; 
 Hi tells you vot, great Yankee Doo 
 dle might hincline to put me through, 
 Hif hi should buy your model U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin." 
 
 Then spoke smooth Monsieur Parlez-vous, 
 
 Whose gilded throne was got in sin 
 (As was he, too, if tales are true :) 
 " I does not vant your model U-" 
 (He sounds a V for a W) 
 
 " niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 ni versa! nigger-cotton-gin." 
 
 A negar in de fence I view, 
 
 Your grand machine lie s rotting in ; 
 I smells him now ; he stinketh lo-h-e-w ! 
 Give me a good tobacco chew, 
 And you may keeps your model U- 
 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin." 
 
32 THE UNIVERSAL COTTON-GIN. 
 
 The pedlar then sloped quickly to 
 The land he was begotten in ; 
 With woeful visage, feelings blue, 
 He sadly questioned what to do, 
 When none would buy his model U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 
 
 From out his pocket then he drew 
 
 A rag that blood was clotting in ; 
 It had a field of heavenly blue, 
 Was flecked with stars the very few 
 That glimmered on his model U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 
 
 He gazed long on its tarnished hue, 
 
 And mourned the fix he d gotten in ; 
 Then filled his eyes with contrite dew, 
 As in its folds his nose he blew, 
 And thus addressed his model U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 
 
 " Then, crownless king, thy days are few ; 
 
 The world thou art forgotten in ; 
 Ere thou dost die, thy life review, 
 Repent thy crimes, thy wrongs undo, 
 Give freedom to the dusky crew 
 Whose blood now stains the model U- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin- 
 niversal nigger-cotton-gin." 
 
UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTRE VILLE. 33 
 UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE. 
 
 July 21, 1861.* 
 
 BY GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 I LL tell you what I heard that day : 
 I heard the great guns, far away, 
 Boom after boom. Their sullen sound 
 Shook all the shuddering air around ; 
 And shook, ah me ! my shrinking ear, 
 And downward shook the hanging tear 
 That, in despite of manhood s pride, 
 Rolled o er my face, a scalding tide. 
 And then I prayed. O God ! I prayed, 
 As never stricken saint, who laid 
 His hot cheek to the holy tomb 
 Of Jesus, in the midnight gloom. 
 
 " What saw I ? " Little. Clouds of dust ; 
 Great squares of men, with standards thrust 
 Against their course ; dense columns crowned 
 With billowing steel. Then, bound on bound, 
 The long black lines of cannon poured 
 Behind the horses, streaked and gored 
 With sweaty speed. Anon shot by, 
 Like a lone meteor of the sky, 
 A single horseman ; and he shone 
 His bright face on me, and was gone. 
 All these with rolling drums, with cheers, 
 
 * The day of the battle of Bull Run, in which the reserve of 
 the Union Army rested upon Centreville. In regard to the mere 
 time at which it was written, this poem is here out of place, as will 
 be seen by an allusion toward its close. But it paints so faithfully 
 that disastrous, shameful day, and so truthfully expresses the feel 
 ings which it roused throughout the Free States, that this is its 
 proper position. 
 
 3 
 
34 UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREV1LLK. 
 
 With songs familiar to my ears, 
 Passed under the far-hanging cloud, 
 And vanished, and my heart was proud ! 
 
 For mile on mile the line of war 
 Extended ; and a steady roar, 
 As of some distant stormy sea, 
 On the south-wind came up to me. 
 And high in air, and over all, 
 Grew, like a fog, that murky pall, 
 Beneath whose gloom of dusty smoke 
 The cannon flamed, the bombshell broke, 
 And the sharp rattling volley rang, 
 And shrapnel roared, and bullets sang, 
 And fierce-eyed men, with panting breath, 
 Toiled onward at the work of death. 
 I could not see, but knew too well, 
 That underneath that cloud of hell, 
 Which still grew more by great degrees, 
 Man strove with man in deeds like these. 
 
 But when the sun had passed his stand 
 At noon, behold ! on every hand 
 The dark brown vapor backward bore, 
 And fainter came the dreadful roar 
 From the huge sea of striving men. 
 Thus spoke my rising spirit then : 
 " Take comfort from that dying sound, 
 Faint heart, the foe is giving ground ! " 
 And one, who taxed his horse s powers, 
 Flung at me, " Ho ! the day is ours ! " 
 And scoured along. So swift his pace, 
 I took no memory of his face. 
 Then turned I once again to Heaven ; 
 All things appeared so just and even ; 
 So clearly from the highest Cause 
 Traced I the downward-working laws : 
 
UPON THE II ILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE. 35 
 
 Those moral springs, made evident, 
 In the grand, triumph-crowned event. 
 So half I shouted, and half sang, 
 Like Jephtha s daughter, to the clang 
 Of my spread, cymbal-striking palms, 
 Some fragments of thanksgiving psalms. 
 
 Meanwhile a solemn stillness fell 
 
 Upon the land. O er hill and dell 
 
 Failed every sound. My heart stood still, 
 
 Waiting before some coining ill. 
 
 The silence was more sad and dread, 
 
 Under that canopy of lead, 
 
 Than the wild tumult of the war 
 
 That raged a little Avhile before. 
 
 All Nature, in her work of death, 
 
 Paused for one last, despairing breath ; 
 
 And, cowering to the earth, I drew 
 
 From her strong breast my strength anew. 
 
 When I arose, I wondering saw 
 
 Another dusty vapor draw 
 
 From the far right, its sluggish way 
 
 Toward the main cloud, that frowning lay 
 
 Against the western-sloping sun ; 
 
 And all the war was re-begun, 
 
 Ere this fresh marvel of my sense 
 
 Caught from my mind significance. 
 
 And then why ask me ? O my God ! 
 
 Would I had lain beneath the sod, 
 
 A patient clod, for many a day, 
 
 And from my bones and mouldering clay 
 
 The rank field grass and flowers had sprung, 
 
 Ere the base sight, that struck and stung 
 
 My very soul, confronted me, 
 
 Shamed at my own humanity. 
 
 O happy dead ! who early fell, 
 
 Ye have no wretched tale to tell 
 
36 UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREV[LLE. 
 
 Of causeless fear and coward flight, 
 Of victory snatched beneath your sight, 
 Of martial strength and honor lost, 
 Of mere life bought at any cost, 
 Of the deep, lingering mark of shame, 
 Forever scorched on brow and name, 
 That no new deeds, however bright, 
 Shall banish from men s loathful sight ! 
 Ye perished in your conscious pride, 
 Ere this vile scandal opened wide 
 A wound that cannot close or heal. 
 Ye perished steel to levelled steel, 
 Stern votaries of the god of war, 
 Filled with his godhead to the core 1 
 Ye died to live, these lived to die, 
 Beneath the scorn of every eye ! 
 How eloquent your voices sound 
 From the low chambers under ground ! 
 How clear each separate title burns 
 From your high set and laurelled urns ! 
 While these, who walk about the earth, 
 Are blushing at their very birth ! 
 And, though they talk, and go, and come, 
 Their moving lips are worse than dumb. 
 Ye sleep beneath the valley s dew, 
 And all the nation mourns for you ; 
 So sleep till God shall wake the lands ! 
 For angels, armed with fiery brands, 
 Await to take you by the hands. 
 
 The right-hand vapor broader grew ; 
 It rose, and joined itself unto 
 The main cloud with a sudden dash. 
 Loud and more near the cannon s crash 
 Came toward me, and I heard a sound 
 As if all hell had broken bound, 
 
UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTRE VLLLE. 37 
 
 A cry of agony and fear. 
 
 Still the dark vapor rolled more near, 
 
 Till at my very feet it tossed 
 
 The van ward fragments of our host. 
 
 Can man, Thy image, sink so low, 
 
 Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bow 
 
 Across the storm and raging main ; 
 
 Whose laws both loosen and restrain 
 
 The powers of earth, without whose will 
 
 No sparrow s little life is still ? 
 
 Was fear of hell, or want of faith, 
 
 Or the brute s common dread of death 
 
 The passion that began a chase, 
 
 Whose goal was ruin and disgrace ? 
 
 What tongue the fearful sight may tell ? 
 
 What horrid nightmare ever fell 
 
 Upon the restless sleep of crime 
 
 What history of another time 
 
 What dismal vision, darkly seen 
 
 By the stern-featured Florentine, 
 
 Can give a hint to dimly draw 
 
 The likeness of the scene I saw ? 
 
 I saw, yet saw not. In that sea, 
 
 That chaos of humanity, 
 
 No more the eye could catch and keep 
 
 A single point, than on the deep 
 
 The eye may mark a single wave, 
 
 Where hurrying myriads leap and rave. 
 
 Men of all arms, and all costumes, 
 
 Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes ; 
 
 Soldiers and officers, and those 
 
 Who wore but civil-suited clothes ; 
 
 On foot or mounted some bestrode 
 
 Steeds severed from their harnessed load ; 
 
 Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars, 
 
 Of wounded, red with bleeding scars ; 
 
 The whole grim panoply of war 
 
38 UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREV1LLE. 
 
 Surged on me with a deafening roar ! 
 
 All shades of fear, disfiguring man, 
 
 Glared through their faces brazen tan. 
 
 Not one a moment paused, or stood 
 
 To see what enemy pursued. 
 
 With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain, 
 
 With every muscle on the strain, 
 
 Onward the struggling masses bore. 
 
 O, had the foemen lain before, 
 
 They d trampled them to dust and gore, 
 
 And swept their lines and batteries 
 
 As autumn sweeps the windy trees ! 
 
 Here one cast forth his wounded friend, 
 
 And with his sword or musket-end 
 
 Urged on the horses ; there one trod 
 
 Upon the likeness of his God, 
 
 As if t were dust ; a coward here 
 
 Grew valiant with his very fear, 
 
 And struck his weaker comrade prone, 
 
 And struggled to the front alone. 
 
 All had one purpose, one sole aim, 
 
 That mocked the decency of shame, 
 
 To fly, by any means to fly ; 
 
 They cared not how, they asked not why. 
 
 I found a voice. My burning blood 
 
 Flamed up. Upon a mound I stood ; 
 
 I could no more restrain my voice 
 
 Than could the prophet of God s choice. 
 
 " Back, animated dirt ! " I cried, 
 
 " Back, on your wretched lives, and hide 
 
 Your shame beneath your native clay ! 
 
 Or if the foe affrights you, slay 
 
 Your own base selves ; and, dying, leave 
 
 Your children s tearful cheeks to grieve, 
 
 Not quail and blush, when you shall come, 
 
 Alive, to their degraded home ! 
 
 Your wives will look askance with scorn ; 
 
UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE. 
 
 Your boys, and infants yet unborn, 
 
 Will curse you to God s holy face ! 
 
 Heaven holds no pardon in its grace 
 
 For cowards. Oh, are such as ye 
 
 The guardians of our liberty ? 
 
 Back, if one trace of manhood still 
 
 May nerve your arm and brace your will ! 
 
 You stain your country in the eyes 
 
 Of Europe and her monarchies ! 
 
 The despots laugh, the peoples groan ; 
 
 Man s cause is lost and overthrown ! 
 
 I curse you, by the sacred blood 
 
 That freely poured its purple flood 
 
 Down Bunker s heights, on Monmouth s plain, 
 
 From Georgia to the rocks of Maine ! 
 
 I curse you, by the patriot band 
 
 Whose bones are crumbling in the land ! 
 
 By those who saved what these had won 
 
 In the high name of Washington ! " 
 
 Then I remember little more. 
 
 As the tide s rising waves, that pour 
 
 Over some low and rounded rock, 
 
 The coming mass, with one great shock, 
 
 Flowed o er the shelter of my mound, 
 
 And raised me helpless from the ground. 
 
 As the huge shouldering billows bear, 
 
 Half in the sea and half in air, 
 
 A swimmer on their foaming crest, 
 
 So the foul throng beneath me pressed, 
 
 Swept me along, with curse and blow, 
 
 And flung me where, I ne er shall know. 
 
 When I awoke, a steady rain 
 Made rivulets across the plain ; 
 And it was dark oh ! very dark. 
 I was so stunned as scarce to mark 
 The ghostly figures of the trees, 
 
40 UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTRE VILLE. 
 
 Or hear the sobbing of the breeze 
 That flung the wet leaves to and fro. 
 Upon me lay a dismal woe, 
 A bonndless, superhuman grief, 
 That drew no promise of relief 
 From any hope. Then I arose, 
 As one who struggles up from blows 
 By unseen hands ; and as I stood 
 Alone, I thought that God was good, 
 To hide, in clouds and driving rain, 
 Our low world from the angel train, 
 Whose souls filled heroes when the earth 
 Was worthy of their noble birth. 
 By that dull instinct of the mind, 
 Which leads aright the helpless blind, 
 I struggled onward, till the dawn 
 Across the eastern clouds had drawn 
 A narrow line of watery gray ; 
 And full before my vision lay 
 The great dome s gaunt and naked bones, 
 Beneath whose crown the nation thrones 
 Her queenly person. On I stole, 
 With hanging head and abject soul, 
 Across the high embattled ridge, 
 And o er the arches of the bridge. 
 So freshly pricked my sharp disgrace, 
 I feared to meet the human face, 
 Skulking, as any woman might, 
 Who d lost her virtue in the night, 
 And sees the dreadful glare of day 
 Prepare to light her homeward way, 
 Alone, heart-broken, shamed, undone, 
 I staggered into Washington ! 
 
 Since then long sluggish days have passed, 
 And on the wings of every blast 
 Have come the distant nations sneers 
 
UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTRE VIL LE. 41 
 
 To tingle in our blushing ears. 
 
 In woe and ashes, as was meet, 
 
 We wore the penitential sheet. 
 
 But now I breathe a purer air, 
 
 And from the depths of my despair 
 
 Awaken to a cheering morn, 
 
 Just breaking through the night forlorn, 
 
 A morn of hopeful victory. 
 
 Awake, my countrymen, with me ! 
 
 Redeem the honor which you lost, 
 
 With any blood, at any cost ! 
 
 I ask not how the war began, 
 
 Nor how the quarrel branched and ran 
 
 To this dread height. The wrong or right 
 
 Stands clear before God s faultless sight. 
 
 I only feel the shameful blow, 
 
 I only see the scornful foe, 
 
 And vengeance burns in every vein 
 
 To die, or wipe away the stain. 
 
 The war-wise hero of the West, 
 
 Wearing his glories as a crest, 
 
 Of trophies gathered in your sight, 
 
 Is arming for the coming light. 
 
 Full well his wisdom apprehends 
 
 The duty and its mighty ends ; 
 
 The great occasion of the hour, 
 
 That never lay in human power 
 
 Since over Yorktown s tented plain 
 
 The red cross fell, nor rose again. 
 
 My humble pledge of faith I lay, 
 
 Dear comrade of my school-boy day, 
 
 Before thee, in the nation s view, 
 
 And if thy prophet prove untrue, 
 
 And from our country s grasp be thrown 
 
 The sceptre and the starry crown, 
 
 And thou, and all thy marshalled host 
 
 Be baffled, and in ruin lost ; 
 
42 UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE. 
 
 Oh, let me not outlive the blow 
 That seals my country s overthrow ! 
 And, lest this woeful end come true, 
 Men of the North, I turn to you. 
 Display your vaunted flag once more, 
 Southward your eager columns pour ! 
 Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum ; 
 From every hill and valley come. 
 Old men, yield up your treasured gold ! 
 Can liberty be priced and sold ? 
 Fair matrons, maids, and tender brides, 
 Gird weapons to your lovers sides ; 
 And, though your hearts break at the deed, 
 Give them your blessing and God speed ; 
 Then point them to the field of flame, 
 With words like those of Sparta s dame ; 
 And when the ranks are full and strong, 
 And the whole army moves along, 
 A vast result of care and skill, 
 Obedient to the master will ; 
 And your young hero draws the sword, 
 And gives the last commanding word 
 That hurls your strength upon the foe 
 Oh, let them need no second blow ! 
 Strike, as your fathers struck of old, 
 Through summer s heat and winter s cold, 
 Through pain, disaster, and defeat ; 
 Through marches tracked with bloody feet ; 
 Through every ill that could befall 
 The holy cause that bound them all ! 
 Strike as they struck for liberty ! 
 Strike as they struck to make you free ! 
 Strike for the crown of victory ! 
 
THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION. 43 
 
 THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION. 
 
 YANKEE DOODLE went to war, 
 
 On his little pony, 
 What did he go fighting for, 
 
 Everlasting goney ! 
 Yankee Doodle was a chap 
 
 Who bragged and swore tarnation, 
 He stuck a feather in his cap, 
 
 And called it Federation. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, he went forth 
 
 To conquer the seceders, 
 All the journals of the North, 
 
 In most ferocious leaders, 
 Breathing slaughter, fire and smoke, 
 
 Especially the latter, 
 His rage and fury to provoke, 
 
 And vanity to Hatter. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, having floored 
 
 His separated brothers, 
 He reckoned his victorious sword 
 
 Would turn against us others, 
 Secession first he would put down, 
 
 Wholly and forever; 
 And afterward, from Britain s crown, 
 
 He Canada would sever. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 England offering neutral sauce 
 
 To goose as well as gander, 
 Was what made Yankee Doodle cross, 
 
 And did inflame his dander. 
 
44 THE RUN FROM MAN ASS AS JUNCTION. 
 
 As though with choler drunk he fumed, 
 And threatened vengeance martial, 
 
 Because Old England had presumed 
 To steer a course impartial. 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 Yankee Doodle bore in mind, 
 
 When warfare England harassed, 
 How he, unfriendly and unkind, 
 
 Beset her and embarrassed ; 
 He put himself in England s place, 
 
 And thought this injured nation 
 Must view his trouble with a base 
 
 Vindictive exultation. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 We for North and South alike 
 
 Entertain affection ; 
 These for negro slavery strike ; 
 
 Those for forced protection. 
 Yankee Doodle is the pot, 
 
 Southerner the kettle ; 
 Equal morally, if not 
 
 Men of equal mettle.* 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, near Bull Run 
 
 Met his adversary, 
 First he thought the fight he d won, 
 
 * And so slavery and a high tariff are now equal morally in John 
 Bull s eyes ! The admission of what the whole world more than 
 suspected has come at last. Its candor, not to say effrontery, 
 gives it some claim upon admiration. And is it thus that Britain 
 stands confessed before us! Britain indeed; but, alas, how much 
 changed from that Britain that decked herself in the spoils of 
 slavery, and hurled the fires of consuming vengeance upon the 
 inhuman fleets! See Earl Russell s Dispatch to Lord Lyons upon 
 the Proclamation of Emancipation. 
 
THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION. 45 
 
 Fact proved quite contrary. 
 Panic-struck he fled, with speed 
 
 Of lightning glib with unction, 
 Of slippery grease, in full stampede, 
 
 From famed Manassas Junction. 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 As he bolted, noways slow, 
 
 Yankee Doodle hallooed, 
 " We are whipped ! " and fled, although 
 
 No pursuer followed. 
 Sword and gun right slick he threw 
 
 Both away together, 
 In his cap, to public view, 
 
 Showing the white feather. 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, Doodle, do, 
 
 Whither are you flying ? 
 " A cocked hat we vc been licked into, 
 
 And knocked to Hades," crying ? 
 Well, to Canada, sir-ree, 
 
 Now that, by secession, 
 I am driven up a tree, 
 
 To seize that there possession. 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, be content, 
 
 You ve had a lenient whipping ; 
 Court not further punishment 
 
 By enterprise of stripping 
 Those neighbors, whom, if you assail, 
 
 They 11 surely whip you hollow ; 
 Moreover, when you ve turned your tail, 
 
 Won t hesitate to follow. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 Londwi Punch. 
 
46 THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE. 
 
 THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE. 
 
 BY CIIAULES DAWSON SHAXLY. 
 
 HA ! Bully for me * again, when my turn for picket is 
 
 over ; 
 And now for a smoke, as I lie, with the moonlight in the 
 
 clover. 
 
 My pipe it is only a knot from the root of the brier-wood 
 
 tree ; 
 But it turns my heart to the northward : Harry, give it 
 
 to me. 
 
 And I m but a rough at best, bred up to the row and the 
 
 riot, 
 But a softness comes o er my heart when all are asleep 
 
 and quiet. 
 
 For many a time in the night strange things appear to 
 
 my eye, 
 As the breath from my brier-Avood pipe sails up between 
 
 me and the sky. 
 
 Last night a beautiful spirit arose with the wisping smoke ; 
 O, I shook, for my heart felt good, as it spread out its 
 hands and spoke, 
 
 Saying, " I am the soul of the brier : we grew at the 
 
 root of a tree 
 Where lovers would come in the twilight, two ever, for 
 
 company. 
 
 * The use of "bully," as an expression of encouragement and 
 approval among our roughs and Bowery boys, and boys not Bow 
 ery, is no novelty in the language. The word is found similarly 
 used in the dramatists of the Elizabethan period, and those of the 
 Restoration. 
 
THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE. 
 
 47 
 
 Where lovers would come in the morning, ever but 
 
 two, together ; 
 When the flowers were full in their blow, the birds in 
 
 their song and feather. 
 
 " Where lovers would come in the noontime loitering, 
 
 never but two, 
 Looking in each other s eyes, like the pigeons that kiss 
 
 and coo. 
 
 " And O ! the honeyed words thai came when the lips 
 
 were parted, 
 And the passion that glowed in eyes, and the lightning 
 
 looks that darted ! 
 
 " Enough, Love dwells in the pipe : so ever it glows 
 
 with fire. 
 I am the soul of the bush, and the spirits call me Sweet- 
 
 Brier." 
 
 That s what the Brier-wood said, as nigh as my tongue 
 
 can tell, 
 And the words went straight to my heart, like the stroke 
 
 of the fire-bell. 
 
 To-night I lie in the clover, watching the blossomy 
 
 smoke ; 
 I m glad the boys are asleep, for I in not in the humor 
 
 to joke. 
 
 I lie in the hefty clover : * between me and the waning 
 
 moon 
 The smoke from my pipe arises : my heart will be quiet 
 
 soon. 
 
 * I do not know what the author means by "hefty" clover. 
 Hardly, having " heft," or weight. 
 
48 THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE. 
 
 My thoughts are back in the city ; I m everything I ve 
 been; 
 
 I hear the bell from the tower ; I run with the swift ma 
 chine. 
 
 I see the red-shirts crowding around the engine-house 
 
 door; 
 The foreman s hail through the trumpet comes with a 
 
 sullen roar. 
 
 The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the row in the beer 
 
 saloon, 
 Where I put in my licks at Big Paul, come between 
 
 me and the moon. 
 
 I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp of the cow- 
 skin boots ; 
 
 We are marching to the Capital, the Fire-Zouave re 
 cruits. 
 
 White handkerchiefs wave before me. O ! but the sight 
 
 is pretty 
 On the white marble steps, as we march through the 
 
 heart of the city. 
 
 Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips that bring us 
 
 good hap, 
 And the splendid lady that gave me the havelock for my 
 
 cap. 
 
 O ! up from my pipe-cloud rises, between me and the 
 
 moon, 
 A beautiful white-robed lady : my heart will be quiet 
 
 soon. 
 
 The lovely golden-haired lady ever in dreams I see, 
 Who gave me the snow-white havelock ; but what does 
 she care for me ? 
 
JONATHAN TO JOHN. 
 
 49 
 
 Look at my grimy features : mountains between us stand ; 
 I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she with her jewelled 
 hand. 
 
 What care I ? The day that is dawning may see me 
 
 when all is over, 
 With the red stream of my life-blood staining the hefty 
 
 clover. 
 
 Hark ! the reveille sounding out on the morning air ! 
 Devils are we for the battle : Will there be angels 
 there V 
 
 Kiss me again, Sweet-Brier ; the touch of your lips to 
 
 mine 
 Brings back the white-robed lady, with hair like the 
 
 golden wine. 
 
 Vanity Fair, July 6, 18G1. 
 
 JONATHAN TO JOHN. 
 
 A YANKEE IDYL. 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL, LOWELL. 
 
 IT don t seem hardly right, John, 
 When both my hands was full. 
 To stump me to a fight, John 
 Your cousin, tu, John Bull ! 
 Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
 
 We kno it now," sez he ; 
 " The lion s paw is all the law, 
 Accordin to J. B., 
 Thet s fit for you an me ! " 
 4 
 
50 JONATHAN TO JOHN. 
 
 Blood an t so cool as ink, John : 
 
 It s likely you d ha wrote, 
 An stopped a spell to think, John, 
 Arter they d cut your throat ! 
 Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
 
 He d skurce ha stopped," sez he, 
 " To mind his p s and q s ef that weasan 
 Hed belonged to ole J. B., 
 Instid o you an me ! " 
 
 Ef / turned mad dogs loose, John, 
 
 On your front-parlor stairs, 
 Would it jest meet your views, John, 
 To wait an sue their heirs ? 
 Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
 
 I on y guess," sez he, 
 " Thet, ef Vattel on his toes fell, 
 T would kind o rile J. B., 
 Ez wall ez you an me ! " 
 
 Who made the law thet hurts, John, 
 
 Heads I win ditto, tails ? 
 U J. B." was on his shirts, John, 
 Onless my memory fails.* 
 
 Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
 (I m good at thet,) " sez he, 
 " Thet sauce for goose an t^ es^ the juice 
 
 * Mr. Biglow s memory (for we suppose Hosea loquitur) did not 
 fail, as may be seen by the following extract from the London Times 
 first article about the Trent affair, October 28th, 1801 : " Unwel 
 come as the truth may be, it is nevertheless a truth that we have our 
 selves established a system of international law which now tells against 
 us. In high-handed and almost despotic manner we have in former 
 days claimed privileges over neutrals which have at different times 
 banded all the maritime powers of the world against us. We have 
 insisted upon stopping ships of war of neutral nations and taking 
 British subjects out of them." 
 
JONATHAN TO JOHN. 51 
 
 For ganders with J. B., 
 No more than you or me ! " 
 
 When your rights was our wrong, John, 
 
 You did n t stop for fuss : 
 Britanny s trident-prongs, John, 
 Was good nough law for us. 
 Ole Uncle S. sez he, u I guess, 
 
 Though physic s good," sez he, 
 " It does n t foller that he can swaller 
 Prescriptions signed /. B., 
 Put up by you and me ! " 
 
 We own the ocean, tu, John : 
 
 You must n t take it hard 
 Ef we can t think with you, John, 
 It s jest your own back yard. 
 Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
 
 Ef ihefs his claim," sez he, 
 " The fencin -stuff 11 cost enough 
 To bust up friend J. B., 
 Ez wal ez you an me ! " 
 
 Why talk so dreffle big, John, 
 
 Of honor, when it meant 
 
 You did n t care a fig, John, 
 
 But just for ten per cent f 
 
 Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
 He s like the rest," sez he : 
 " When all is done, its number one 
 Thet s nearest to J. B., 
 Ez wal ez you an me ! " 
 
52 A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 
 
 A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 
 
 JOHN BULL, Esquire, my jo John, 
 
 When we were first acquent, 
 You acted very much as now 
 
 You act about the Trent. 
 You stole my bonny sailors, John, 
 
 My bonny ships also, 
 You re aye the same fierce beast to me, 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo ! 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, 
 
 Since we were linked together, 
 Full many a jolly fight, John, 
 
 We ve had with one another. 
 Now must we fight again, John ? 
 
 Then at it let us go ! 
 And God will help the honest heart, 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo. 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, 
 
 A century has gone by, 
 Since you called me your slave, John, 
 
 Since I at you let fly. 
 You want to fight it out again 
 
 That war of waste and woe ; 
 You 11 find me much the same old coon, 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo. 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, 
 
 If lying loons have told 
 That I have lost my pluck, John, 
 
 And fight not as of old ; 
 You d better not believe it, John, 
 
 Nor scorn your ancient foe ; 
 
TO ENGLISHMEN. 53 
 
 For I ve seen weaker days than this, 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo. 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo John, 
 
 Hear this my language plain : 
 I never smote you unprovoked, 
 
 I never smote in vain. 
 If you want peace, peace let it be ! 
 
 If war, be pleased to know, 
 Shots in my locker yet remain, 
 
 John Bull, Esquire, my jo ! 
 
 TO ENGLISHMEN. 
 
 BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 You flung your taunt across the wave, 
 
 We bore it as became us, 
 Well knowing that the fettered slave 
 Left friendly lips no option, save 
 
 To pity or to blame us. 
 
 You scoffed our plea. " Mere lack of will, 
 
 Not lack of power," you told us ; 
 We showed our Free-State records ; still 
 You mocked, confounding good and ill, 
 Slave haters and slave holders. 
 
 We struck at Slavery ; to the verge 
 
 Of power and means we checked it ; 
 Lo ! presto, change ! its claims you urge, 
 Send greetings to it o er the surge, 
 And comfort and protect it. 
 
 But yesterday you scarce could shake, 
 
 In slave-abhorring rigor, 
 Our Northern palrus- for conscience sake : 
 
54 TO ENGLISHMEN. 
 
 To-day you clasp the hands that ache 
 With " walloping the nigger ! " 
 
 O Englishmen ! in hope and creed, 
 In blood and tongue our brothers ! 
 
 We too are heirs of Runnymede ; 
 
 And Shakspeare s fame and Cromwell s deed 
 Are not alone our mother s. 
 
 " Thicker than water," in one rill 
 
 Through centuries of story 
 Our Saxon blood has flowed, and still 
 We share with you its good and ill, 
 The shadow and the glory. 
 
 Joint heirs and kinfolk, leagues of wave 
 
 Nor length of years can part us ; 
 Your right is ours to shrine and grave 
 The common freehold of the brave, 
 The gift of saints and martyrs. 
 
 Our very sins and follies teach 
 
 Our kindred frail and human : 
 We carp at faults with bitter speech, 
 The while for one unshared by each 
 We have a score in common. 
 
 We bow the heart, if not the knee, 
 
 To England s Queen, God bless her ! 
 We praised you when your slaves went free : 
 We seek to unchain ours. Will ye 
 Join hands with the oppressor ? 
 
 And is it Christian England cheers 
 The bruiser, not the bruised ? 
 And must she run, despite the tears 
 And prayers of eighteen hundred years, 
 A-muck in Slavery s crusade ? 
 
THE "TIMES" ON AMERICAN AFFAIRS. 55 
 
 O black disgrace ! O shame and loss 
 Too deep for tongue to phrase on ! 
 
 Tear from your flag its holy cross, 
 
 And in your van of battle toss 
 
 The pirate s skull-bone blazon ! 
 
 THE LONDON "TIMES" ON AMERICAN 
 AFFAIRS. 
 
 JOHN BULL vos a-valkin his parlor von day, 
 Ha-fixin the vorld wery much is hown vay, 
 Ven igstrawnary news cum from hover the se-a, 
 Habout the great country vot brags it is free. 
 
 Hand these vos the tidins this news it did tell, 
 That great Yankee Doodle vos going to veil, 
 That ee vos a-volloped by Jefferson D., 
 Hand no longer " some punkins " vos likely to be. 
 
 John Bull, slyly vinkin , then said hunto me : 
 " My dear Times, my hold covey, go pitch hinto ee ; 
 Let us vollop great Doodle now ven e is down ; 
 Hif ve vollops him veil, ve vill do im up brown. 
 
 " Ts long-legged boots hat my ed e as urled, 
 I d raither not see em a-trampin the vorld ; 
 Hand I howe him a grudge for is conduct so wile, 
 In himportin shillalahs from Erin s green hile. 
 
 " I knows Jefferson D. is a rascally chap, 
 Who goes hin for cribbin the Guvurnment pap ; 
 That Hexeter All may be down upon me, 
 But as Jeff, as the cotton, I 11 cotton to ee. 
 
 " I cares for the blacks not a drat more nor ee, 
 Though on principle I goes for settin em free ; 
 
56 THE "TIMES" ON AMERICAN AFFAIRS. 
 
 But hinterest, my cove, we must look h after now, 
 Unless principle yields, it are poor anyhow." 
 
 So spoke Johnny Bull, so ee spake hunto me, 
 Hand I inted slyly to Jefferson D., 
 Who, very much pleased, rubbed is ands in is joy, 
 Hand exclaimed : " You re the man for my money, 
 old boy. 
 
 " Go in, Johnny Times ! I will feather your nest ; 
 Never mind if you soil it, tis foul at the best ; 
 Strange guests have been thar, but my cotton is clean, 
 And a cargo is yourn, if you manage it keen." 
 
 So I pitched hinto Doodle like a thousan of brick, 
 May ap it warn t proper to do it on tick, 
 But John Bull is almighty, he 11 see I am paid, 
 And my cargo of cotton will break the blockade. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 So Bull ee vent bin the blockade for to bust ; 
 The Christians they cried, and the sinners they cuss d ; 
 There vos blowin , and blusterin , and mighty parade, 
 And hall to get ready to break the blockade. 
 
 Yen hall hof a sudden it come in the ed 
 Hof a prudent hold covey, who up and e said : 
 " Hit s bad to vant cotton, but worser by far, 
 His the sufferin hand misery you 11 make by a war. 
 
 " There is cotton in Hingy, Peru, and Assam, 
 Guayaquil and Jamaica, Canton, Surinam ; 
 Arf a loaf, or arf cotton, tight papers hi call, 
 But a ole var hentire his the devil and hall." 
 
 So he sent not is vessel hacross the broad sea, 
 Vich vos hawful ard lines for poor Jefferson D., 
 
GOD SAVE JOHN BULL. 57 
 
 Hand wrote hunto Doodle, " Old hon, and be true ! " 
 And Jonathan hanswered Bull, " Bully for you ! " 
 
 SEQUEL AFTER-TIMES. 
 
 Has Bull vos valking in London haround, 
 E found the Times lyin hupon the cold ground, 
 With a big bale hof cotton right hover s side ; 
 Says Bull, " Hi perceive t was by cotton he died ! " 
 
 GOD SAVE JOHN BULL* 
 
 GOD save me, great John Bull ! 
 Long keep my pocket full ! 
 
 God save John Bull ! 
 Ever victorious, 
 Haughty, vain-glorious, 
 Snobbish, censorious, 
 
 God save John Bull 
 
 O Lords, our gods, arise ! 
 Tax all our enemies, 
 
 Make tariffs fall ! 
 Confound French politics, 
 Frustrate all Russian tricks, 
 Get Yankees in a " fix," 
 
 God " bless " them all ! \_Sinistra manu ] 
 
 Thy choicest gifts in store, 
 On me, me only pour, 
 Me, great John Bull ! 
 
 * It has been thought that should a time arrive when God save 
 the King cannot be sung in Great Britain, because, that peculiar 
 institution having been found superfluous and expensive, there 
 will be no king to be saved, the old national hymn will be altered 
 to something like the lines above given. 
 
58 THE POTOMAC -mi. 
 
 Maintain oppressive laws, 
 Frown down the poor man s cause ! 
 So sing with heart and voice, 
 I, great John Bull ! 
 
 THE POTOMAC 1861. 
 
 THE light of stars shook through the trees, 
 The large-eyed moon looked o er the lawn, 
 
 day, I said, delay thy dawn ! 
 A little whisper stirred the breeze. 
 
 A frightened bird thrilled through the place, 
 A dead leaf fell at my still feet, 
 And my wild heart, oh loud it beat ! 
 
 He read my answer in my face. 
 
 All night across the moonlit land, 
 
 Far southward, where the river runs, 
 
 1 heard the booming of their guns, 
 While in his own he held my hand. 
 
 Trust God, oh little heart ! he said, 
 And galloped forth into the light ; 
 That day he rode into the fight, 
 
 And there they shot my lover dead. 
 
 My stricken soul rose from the dust, 
 
 And pushed rebellious hands toward God ; 
 I will not to the earth be trod, 
 
 Thou art nor wise, nor good, nor just ! 
 
 And thus it was not sanctified 
 My sorrow and when I did pray : 
 
59 
 
 THE POTOMAC 1861. 
 
 My end, O God ! no more delay, 
 Now take me to him, Lord, I cried. 
 
 One night I dreamed, and he stood by, 
 Clothed, angel-wise, in love and light. 
 I durst not touch his robes of white, 
 
 He chid me with his pitying eye. 
 
 Only that look, nor any word, 
 
 And I had learned, not all too late, 
 Had learned to live, and work, and wait, 
 
 And my dead faith to life was stirred. 
 
 Oh well I knew that not for me 
 
 Were robe of white, the palm, the crown, 
 Till I more worthy them had grown, 
 
 Had earned, like him, euthanasy ! 
 
 Nor sitting still with folded palms, 
 
 To nurse my grief through the long years, 
 But reading through my bitter tears 
 
 Strange mockery in the eternal psalms ; 
 
 In some far circle from the throne 
 
 Content if I, at last, may stand, 
 
 He holding in his own my hand, 
 And our two voices making one 
 
 One voice of praise, prevailing thence 
 
 Unto the Lamb upon the Hill 
 
 The far-off memory of ill, 
 Crowning the long, long recompense. 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
6o "E1N FESTE BURG 1ST UNSER GOTT. 
 EIN FESTE BURG 1ST UNSER GOTT." 
 
 (Luther s Hymn.) 
 
 BY JOHN G. WHITT1ER. 
 
 WE wait beneath the furnace blast 
 
 The pangs of transformation ; 
 Not painlessly doth God recast 
 And mould anew the nation. 
 Hot burns the fire 
 Where wrongs expire ; 
 Nor spares the hand 
 That from the land 
 Uproots the ancient evil. 
 
 The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared, 
 
 Its bloody rain is dropping ; 
 The poison plant the fathers spared 
 All else is overtopping. 
 
 East, West, South, North, 
 It curses the earth : 
 All justice dies, 
 And fraud and lies 
 Live only in its shadow. 
 
 What gives the wheat-field blades of steel ? 
 
 What points the rebel cannon ? 
 What sets the roaring rabble s heel 
 On the old star-spangled pennon ? 
 What breaks the oath 
 Of the -men o the South ? 
 What whets the knife 
 For the Union s life ? 
 Hark to the answer : SLAVERY ! 
 
 Then waste no blows on lesser foes, 
 In strife unworthy freemen ; 
 
"EIN FESTE BURG 1ST UNSER GOTT." 6 1 
 
 God lifts to-day the veil, and shows 
 The features of the demon ! 
 O North and South ! 
 Its victims both, 
 Can ye not cry, 
 " Let Slavery die ! " 
 And Union find in freedom ? 
 
 What though the cast-out spirit tear 
 
 The nation in his going ? 
 We who have shared the guilt must share 
 The pang of his o erthrowing ! 
 Whate er the loss, 
 Whate er the cross, 
 Shall they complain 
 Of present pain, 
 Who trust in God s hereafter ? 
 
 For who that leans on His right aim 
 
 Was ever yet forsaken ? 
 What righteous cause can suffer harm, 
 If He its part has taken ? 
 Though wild and loud, 
 And dark the cloud, 
 Behind its folds 
 His hand upholds 
 The calm sky of to-morrow ! 
 
 Above the maddening cry for blood, 
 
 Above the wild Avar-drumming, 
 Let Freedom s voice be heard, with good 
 The evil overcoming. 
 
 Give prayer and purse 
 To stay The Curse, 
 Whose wrong we share, 
 Whose shame we bear, 
 Whose end shall gladden Heaven ! 
 
62 JEFF DAVIS. 
 
 In vain the bells of war shall ring 
 
 Of triumphs and revenges, 
 While still is spared the evil thing 
 That severs and estranges. 
 But, blest the ear 
 That yet shall hear 
 The jubilant bell 
 That rings the knell 
 Of Slavery forever ! 
 
 Then let the selfish lip be dumb, 
 
 And hushed the breath of sighing ; 
 Before the joy of peace must come 
 The pains of purifying. 
 God give us grace, 
 Each in his place 
 To bear his lot, 
 And, murmuring not, 
 Endure, and wait, and labor ! 
 
 JEFF DAVIS, 
 
 ON HIS ELECTION AS PRESIDENT FOR SIX YEARS.* 
 BY " SIGMA". 
 
 SATAN was chained a thousand years, 
 
 We learn from Revelation 
 That he might not, as it appears, 
 
 Longer "deceive the nation." 
 T is hard to say, between the two, 
 
 Which is the greater evil, 
 Six years of liberty, for you 
 
 A thousand for the devil ! 
 
 * November 9, 1861. 
 
JEFF DAVIS. 63 
 
 *T is passing strange, if you Ve no fears, 
 Of being hanged within six years ! 
 
 A hundred thousand rebels ears 
 
 Would not one half repay 
 The widows and the orphans tears, 
 
 Shed for the slain to-day : 
 The blood of all those gallant braves, 
 
 Whom Southern traitors slew, 
 Cries sternly, from their loyal graves, 
 
 For vengeance upon you ; 
 And if you re not prepared to die 
 The death of Hainan, fly, Jeff, fly ! 
 
 Fly, traitor, to some lonely niehe, 
 
 Far, far beyond the billow ; 
 Thy grave an ill-constructed ditch 
 
 Thy sexton General Pillow. 
 There may you turn to rottenness, 
 
 By mortal unannoyed, 
 Your ashes undisturbed, unless 
 
 Your grave is known by Floyd. 
 He 11 surely trouble your repose, 
 And come to steal your burial-clothes. 
 
 Pause for an instant, loyal reader. 
 
 Here lies Jeff, the great seceder. 
 
 Above, he always lied, you know, 
 
 And now the traitor lies below. 
 
 His bow was furnished with two strings, 
 
 He flattered crowds, and fawned on kings ; 
 
 Repaid his country s care with evil, 
 
 And prayed to God, and served the devil. 
 
 The South could whip the Yankee nation, 
 
 So he proposed humiliation ! 
 
 Their blessings were so everlasting, 
 
64 YANKEE PRIDE. 
 
 T was just the time for prayer and fasting! 
 The record may be searched in vain, 
 From West-Point Benedict to Cain, 
 To find a more atrocious knave, 
 Unless in Caesar Borgia s grave. 
 
 YANKEE PRIDE. 
 
 BY BKIG.-GEXERAL LANDER. 
 
 On hearing that the Confederate troops had said that " Fewer 
 of the Massachusetts officers would have been killed if they had 
 not been too proud to surrender." 
 
 AY, deem us proud ! for we are more 
 Than proud of all our mighty dead ; 
 
 Proud of the bleak and rock-bound shore 
 A crowned oppressor cannot tread. 
 
 Proud of each rock and wood and glen, 
 
 Of every river, lake, and plain ; 
 Proud of the calm and earnest men 
 
 Who claim the right and will to reign. 
 
 Proud of the men who gave us birth, 
 Who battled with the stormy wave, 
 
 To sweep the red man from the earth, 
 And build their homes upon his grave. 
 
 Proud of the holy summer morn, 
 They traced in blood upon its sod ; 
 
 The rights of freemen yet unborn, 
 
 Proud of their language and their God. 
 
 Proud, that beneath our proudest dome, 
 And round the cottage-cradled hearth, 
 
 There is a welcome and a home 
 For every stricken race on earth. 
 
PACIFIC MACARONICS. 65 
 
 Proud that yon slowly sinking sun 
 
 Saw drowning lips grow white in prayer, 
 
 O er such brief acts of duty done 
 As honor gathers from despair. 
 
 Pride, t is our watchword, " Clear the boats ! " 
 " Holmes, Putnam, Bartlett, Pierson here ! " 
 
 And while this crazy wherry floats, 
 
 " Let s save our wounded ! " cries Revere. 
 
 Old State some souls are rudely sped 
 
 This record for thy Twentieth corps, 
 Imprisoned, wounded, dying, dead, 
 
 It only asks, " Has Sparta more ? " 
 
 Boston Post, Nov. 23, 1861. 
 
 PACIFIC MACARONICS. 
 
 SEWARD, qui est Rerum cantor 
 
 Publicarum, atque Lincoln, 
 Vir excelsior, mitigantur 
 
 A delightful thing to think on. 
 
 Blatat Plebs Americana, 
 
 Quite impossible to bridle. 
 Nihil refert ; nnvis cana 
 
 Brings back Mason atque Slidell. 
 
 Scribit nunc amoene Russell ; 
 
 Lastuslapis* claudit fiscum ; 
 Nunc finitur omnis bustle. 
 
 Slidell Mason pax vobiscum ! 
 
 London Press. 
 
 * The scholiast sutr<iests Gladstone. 
 
66 JOHN BROWNS SONG. 
 
 JOHN BROWN S SONG.* 
 
 John Brown s body lies a-mouldering in the grave ; 
 John Brown s body lies a-mouldering in the grave ; 
 John Brown s body lies a-mouldering in the grave ; 
 His soul is marching on ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 
 His soul is marching on ! 
 
 He s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord ! 
 He s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord ! 
 He s gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord ! 
 His soul is inarching on ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 
 His soul is marching on ! 
 
 John Brown s knapsack is strapped upon his back ! 
 John Brown s knapsack is strapped upon his back ! 
 John Brown s knapsack is strapped upon his back ! 
 His soul is marching on ! 
 
 * The origin of this senseless farrago as senseless as the 
 equally popular " Lillibulero" of the times of the great civil com 
 motion in England is, I believe, quite unknown. But sung to a 
 degraded and jiggish form of a grand and simple old air, it was a 
 great favorite in the early part of the war. It was heard every 
 where in the streets; regiments marched to it, and the air had its 
 place in the programme of every barrel-organ grinder. In fact no 
 song was sung so much during the rebellion. Its popularity was 
 doubtless due to its presentation of a single idea, and in great 
 measure to the very marked rhythm of the air to which it was 
 adapted, or rather, which had been adapted to it. 
 
JOHN BROWN S SONG. 67 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 
 His soul is marching on ! 
 
 His pet lambs will meet him on the way ; 
 His pet lambs will meet him on the way ; 
 His pet lambs will meet him on the way ; 
 As they go marching on ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 
 As they go marching on I 
 
 They will hang Jeff. Davis to a tree ! 
 They will hang Jeff. Davis to a tree ! 
 They will hang Jeff. Davis to a tree ! 
 As they march along ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! Glory, halle hallelujah 1 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 As they march along ! 
 
 Now, three rousing cheers for the Union ! 
 Now, three rousing cheers for the Union ! 
 Now, three rousing cheers for the Union ! 
 As we are marching on ! 
 
 Glory, halle hallelujah! Glory, halle hallelujah! 
 Glory, halle hallelujah ! 
 
 Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah ! 
 
68 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 BY MKS. JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 
 
 Lord : 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 
 
 wrath are stored ; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift 
 
 sword : 
 
 His truth is inarching on. 
 
 I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 
 
 camps ; 
 They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 
 
 damps ; 
 I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring 
 
 lamps : 
 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel : 
 " As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace 
 
 shall deal ; 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his 
 
 heel, 
 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
 retreat ; 
 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment- 
 seat : 
 
 Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my feet ! 
 Our God is inarching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was borne across the sea, 
 With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me ; 
 As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
 While God is marching on. 
 
THE NATION S HYMN. 69 
 
 THE NATION S HYMN. 
 
 OUR past is bright and grand 
 In the purple tints of time ; 
 And the present of our land, 
 
 Points to glories more sublime. 
 For our destiny is won ; 
 
 And t is ours to lead the van, 
 Of the nations marching on, 
 Of the moving hosts of man ! 
 Yes, the Starry Flag alone, 
 
 Shall wave above the van, 
 Of the nations sweeping on, 
 Of the moving hosts of man ! 
 
 We are sprung from noble sires, 
 
 As were ever sung in song ; 
 We are bold with Freedom s fires, 
 
 We are rich, and wise, and strong. 
 On us are freely showered 
 
 The gifts of every clime, 
 
 And we re the richest dowered 
 
 Of all the heirs of Time ! 
 
 Brothers then, in Union, strong, 
 
 We shall ever lead the van, 
 As the nations sweep along, 
 To fulfil the hopes of man ! 
 
 We are brothers ; and we know 
 
 That our Union is a tower, 
 When the fiercest whirlwinds blow, 
 
 And the darkest tempests lower ! 
 We shall sweep the land and sea, 
 
 While we march, in Union, great, 
 
70 THE NATION S HYMN. 
 
 Thirty millions of the free 
 With the steady step of fate ! 
 
 Brothers then, in Union, strong, 
 
 Let us ever lead the van, 
 As the nations sweep along, 
 To fulfil the hopes of man ! 
 
 See our prairies, sky-surrounded ! 
 
 See our sunlit mountain chains ! 
 See our waving woods, unbounded, 
 
 And our cities on the plains ! 
 See the oceans kiss our strand, 
 
 Oceans stretched from pole to pole ! 
 See our mighty lakes expand, 
 And our giant rivers roll ! 
 
 Such a land, and such alone, 
 
 Should be leader of the van, 
 As the nations sweep along 
 To fulfil the hopes of man ! 
 
 Yes, the spirit of our land, 
 
 The young giant of the West, 
 With the waters in his hand, 
 
 With the forests for his crest, 
 To our hearts quick, proud pulsations, 
 
 To our shouts that still increase, 
 Shall yet lead on the nations, 
 To their brotherhood of peace ! 
 
 Yes, Columbia, great and strong, 
 
 Shall forever lead the van, 
 As the nations sweep along, 
 To fulfil the hopes of man ! 
 
E PLURIDUS UNUM." 71 
 
 E PLURIBUS UNUM." 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN PIEKPONT. 
 
 AIR " The Star-Spangled Banner" 
 
 I. 
 
 THE harp of the minstrel with melody rings, 
 
 When the Muses have taught him to touch and to 
 
 tune it ; 
 
 And although it may have a full octave of strings, 
 To both maker and minstrel the harp is a unit. 
 So, the power that creates 
 Our Republic of States, 
 To harmony tunes them at different dates ; 
 And, many or few, when the Union is done, 
 Be they thirteen or thirty, the nation is one. 
 
 ii. 
 
 The science that measures and numbers the spheres, 
 
 And has done so since first the Chaldean began it, 
 Now and then, as she counts them, and measures their 
 
 years, 
 
 Brings into our system and names a new planet. 
 Yet the old and new stars, 
 Venus, Neptune, and Mars, 
 As they drive round the sun their invisible cars, 
 Whether faster or slower their races are run, 
 Are " E Pluribus Unum " of many made one. 
 
 in. 
 Of those federate spheres, should but one fly the track, 
 
 Or with others conspire for a general dispersion, 
 By the great central orb they would all be brought back, 
 
 And held, each in its place, by a wholesome " coercion." 
 
72 UNITED STATES NATIONAL HYMN. 
 
 Were one daughter of light 
 
 Indulged in her flight, 
 
 They might all be engulfed by Old Chaos and Night ; 
 So must none of our sisters be suffered to run, 
 For, " E Pluribus Unum," We all go, if one. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Let the Demon of Discord our melody mar, 
 
 Or Treason s red hand rend our system asunder, 
 Break one string from our harp, or extinguish one star, 
 The whole system s ablaze with its lightning and 
 thunder. 
 
 Let that discord be hushed ! 
 Let the traitors be crushed, 
 
 Though " Legion " their name, all with victory flushed ; 
 For aye must our motto stand, fronting the sun, 
 "E Pluribus Unum" The many are one. 
 
 UNITED STATES NATIONAL HYMN, L. M.* 
 TUNE Yarmouth. 
 
 BY JONATHAN . 
 
 GOD bless United States ; each one 
 Has government, the people s own, 
 The people rule, their rulers are 
 Elected servants, to take care 
 
 * The above hymn, written to the old Long Metre Yarmouth, 
 was, like the four which precede it, among the twelve hundred 
 sent in to the committee appointed at the beginning of the civil 
 war, for the somewhat absurd purpose of obtaining a National 
 Hymn, as if that could be written to order. The author s name 
 
UNITED STATES NATIONAL HYMN. 73 
 
 Of what is for the public good ; 
 And the best men be chosen should ; 
 And often changed, that surely we 
 May prosper, and be ever free. 
 
 Foundation of our Union, find 
 
 On education, talent, mind ; 
 
 God s Book, religion s only guide ; 
 
 The supreme law, in all, reside ; 
 
 Nor can majority oppress 
 
 Minority, but all confess 
 
 That each has Rights, which all must see 
 
 Respected in their purity. 
 
 in. 
 
 The Union and the Nation stand 
 A Government, o er all the land ; 
 Best, freest, strongest, wisest one, 
 Was, is, will be, beneath the sun ; 
 The greatest numbers greatest good ; 
 And all protected, as we should ; 
 Intelligence, ability, 
 For rulers, the best quality. 
 
 was really Jonathan, and he lived in one of the remotest and most 
 primitive of the rural districts of Northern New England. His 
 handwriting was plainly that of a man used rather to the plough 
 than the pen, one whose condition in life would in any other coun 
 try than this limit his knowledge to what was necessary to the tilling 
 of the few acres on which he lived. But rustic and unlettered as 
 he was, what intelligent comprehension his rude verses exhibit of the 
 structure and the principles of our government ! In this respect he 
 could manifestly put to school the smooth-mannered crowd of Eu 
 ropean statesmen and journalists who with an air of such profound 
 wisdom discuss our politics, and who with such an assumption of 
 judicial authority pronounced our doom in strict accordance with 
 historical precedent. Viewed in this light, his quaint composition 
 has an interest which makes it worthy of preservation. 
 
74 UNITED STATES NATIONAL HYMN. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Jehovah is our Head, and we 
 
 Acknowledge His supremacy ; 
 
 He blesses us, year after year, 
 
 With all good things which do appear ; 
 
 He is our Sovereign, only one; 
 
 We 11 have none else till Time is done ; 
 
 Three times a year acknowledge Him : 
 
 Fast, July Fourth, Thanksgiving time. 
 
 v. 
 
 As we march down the stream of Time, 
 New States extend our happy clime ; 
 Go on increasing, good and great ; 
 One Union, formed of many States : 
 More States, the stronger shall we be 
 In union, peace, and liberty ; 
 East, West, North, South, on sea and land, 
 Forever one, united stand. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Be every part to each most dear ; 
 And law and order rule us here ; 
 Our Constitutions good and great, 
 Amended for the good of State ; 
 Our Statutes for the people s good ; 
 And Science guide us as it should ; 
 States within State ; blest Freedom s land, 
 United States, forever stand ! 
 
 Stand in thy strong integrity : 
 
 The North and South united be 
 
 With East and West : join heart and hand 
 
 By our good Union firm to stand. 
 
 Our President elected be, 
 
 By people s voice, plurality ; 
 
UNION. 75 
 
 And the Vice-President the same ; 
 The highest offices of fame. 
 
 vin. 
 
 Free governments o er earth will go ; 
 
 The Bible, education too ; 
 
 The righteous wise shine as the sun ; 
 
 Knowledge and Arts o er earth to run ; 
 
 All know the Lord, His service be 
 
 Extended over land and sea ; 
 
 His kingdom come o er men to reign, 
 
 And earth be all the Lord s. Amen. 
 
 UNION.* 
 
 i. 
 
 INDIVIDUAL several, indisintegrative whole ! 
 Corporeal nationality, national soul ! 
 Matter indistinguishable, immaterial seen ! 
 End of all means, of all ends mean ! 
 
 Chorus Thus with eye unfilmed we see 
 All the charms of unity ; 
 Clearly thus have comprehended, 
 What our forefathers intended. 
 
 Of sempiternal potency, preexistent power ! 
 Sweet of our bitter, of our sweetness sour ! 
 
 * Perhaps the writer of the above outrageous burlesque of some 
 of the traits which have been noticed in the style of the eminent 
 author of " Brahma" should be ashamed to have sent them to the 
 National Hymn Committee, of which he was a member. If bur 
 lesque were all their purpose they would not be here preserved. 
 Mr. Emerson could well afford to forgive them, even if they did not 
 come from one of his warmest admirers. 
 
7 6 OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND. 
 
 Of Buncombe progenitor, issue of old Ops, 
 Live thou upon thy Buncombe, die he within thy chops ! 
 Chorus Thus with eye unfilmed we see, &c. 
 
 Infissiparous symbol of politic etern, 
 
 Securing Uncle Sam what s hisn and every State what 5 
 
 hern, 
 
 Of strength redintegrative, of pulchritude e er fresh, 
 Secesh were not without thee, and with thee no secesh ! 
 Chorus Thus with eye unfilmed we see, &c. 
 
 Thus, end of thy beginning, beginning of thy end, 
 Ample power to break bestowing, reserving power to 
 
 mend, 
 Self-destroyer, self-producer, thou hast pluck and strength 
 
 enough 
 
 To cuff well all thy enemies, were thy enemy not Cuff. 
 Chorus Thus with eye unfilmed we see 
 All the charms of unity ; 
 Clearly thus have comprehended, 
 What our forefathers intended. 
 
 OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND. 
 
 A NEW LILLIBURLERO. 
 BY PROFESSOR F. J. CHILD. 
 
 WELL, Uncle Sam," says Jefferson D., 
 
 Lilliburlero, old Uncle Sam, 
 You 11 have to join my Confed racy," 
 
 Lilliburlero, old Uncle Sam. 
 
OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND. 
 
 77 
 
 " Lero, lero, that don t appear O, that don t appear," 
 
 says old Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, that don t appear," says old 
 
 Uncle Sam. 
 
 " So, Uncle Sam, just lay down your arms," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " Then you shall hear my reas nable terms," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 " Lero, lero, I d like to hear O, I d like to hear," says 
 
 old Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, I d like to hear," says old Uncle 
 
 Sam. 
 
 " First, you must own 1 ve beat you in fight," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " Then, that I always have been in the right," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 " Lero, lero, rather severe O, rather severe," says old 
 
 Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, rather severe," says old Uncle 
 
 Sam. 
 
 " Then you must pay my national debts," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " No questions asked about my assets," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 " Lero, lero, that s very dear O, that s very dear," says 
 
 old Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, that s very dear," says old Uncle 
 
 Sam. 
 
 " Also, some few I.O.U s and bets," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " Mine and Bob Toombs , and Slidell s and Rhett s," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 
78 OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND. 
 
 " Lero, lero, that leaves me zero, that leaves me zero," 
 
 says Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, that leaves me zero," says Uncle 
 
 Sam. 
 
 " And, by the way, one little thing more," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " You re to refund the cost of the war," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 " Lero, lero, just what I fear O, just what I fear," says 
 
 old Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, just what I fear, says old Uncle 
 
 Sam. 
 
 " Next, you must own our cavalier blood ! " 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " And that your Puritans sprang from the mud ! " 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 " Lero, lero, that mud is clear O, that mud is clear," says 
 
 old Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, that mud is clear," says old Uncle 
 
 Sam. 
 
 " Slavery s of course the chief corner-stone," 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 
 " Of OUr NEW CIV-IL-I-ZA-TI-ON ! " 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 " Lero, lero, that s quite sincere O, that s quite sincere," 
 
 says old Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, that s quite sincere," says old 
 
 Uncle Sam. 
 
 " You 11 understand, my recreant tool," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " You re to submit, and we are to rule," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 
"ALL WE ASK IS TO BE LET ALONE." 79 
 
 " Lero, lero, are n t you a hero ! are n t you a hero ! 
 
 says Uncle Sain. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, are n t you a hero ! " says Uncle 
 
 Sam. 
 
 " If to these terms you fully consent," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc., 
 " I 11 be perpetual King-President," 
 
 Lilliburlero, etc. 
 " Lero, lero, take your sombrero, off to your swamps ! " 
 
 says old Uncle Sam. 
 " Lero, lero, fillibustero, cut, double-quick ! " says old 
 
 Uncle Sam. 
 
 "ALL WE ASK IS TO BE LET ALONE."* 
 
 BY H. II. BKOYVXELL. 
 
 As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp, 
 There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp, 
 And at everybody as passed that road 
 A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed. 
 And venever he flung his stick or his stone 
 He d set up a song of " Let me alone." 
 
 " Let me alone, for I loves to shy 
 These bits of things at the passers-by ; 
 
 * The humor and the point of these verses, based upon a well- 
 known declaration of Jeft erson Davis, insured their popularity, and 
 demand their preservation. But it should not remain unnoticed 
 that the dialect in which they are written is one never heard in 
 this country, or in any other; it being an incongruous mixture of 
 that of the London cockney, as in " vonce," " valked." " ouse," and 
 " ome," and those of the rustic Yankee and the Southwestern man. 
 
8o "ALL WE ASK IS TO BE LET ALONE." 
 
 Let me alone, for I ve got your tin, 
 
 And lots of other traps snugly in ; 
 
 Let me alone, I m riggin a boat 
 
 To grab votever you ve got afloat 
 
 In a veek or so I expects to come 
 
 And turn you out of your ouse and oine ; 
 
 I m a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan : 
 
 "All I axes is Let me alone." 
 
 Just then came along on the self-same vay, 
 
 Another Old Cove, and began for to say : 
 
 " Let you alone ! that s comin it strong ! 
 
 You ve ben let alone a darned sight too long ; 
 
 Of all the sarce that ever I heerd ! 
 
 Put down that stick ! (You well may look skeered ; ) 
 
 Let go that stone ! If you once show fight, 
 
 I 11 knock you higher than ary kite. 
 
 You must hev a lesson to stop your tricks, 
 
 And cure you of shying them stones and sticks ; 
 
 And I 11 hev my hardware back, and my cash, 
 
 And knock your scow into tarnal smash ; 
 
 And if ever I catches you round my ranch, 
 
 I 11 string you up to the nearest branch. 
 
 The best you can do is to go to bed, 
 
 And keep a decent tongue in your head ; 
 
 For I reckon, before you and I are done, 
 
 You 11 wish you had let honest folks alone " 
 
 The Old Cove stopped, and the t other Old Cove 
 He sot quite still in his cypress grove, 
 And he looked at his stick, revolvin slow 
 Vether t were safe to shy it or no ; 
 And he grumbled on in an injured tone : 
 "All that I axed vos, let me alone" 
 
TARDY GEORGE. 8 1 
 
 TARDY GEORGE. 
 
 WHAT are you waiting for, George, I pray ? 
 To scour your cross-belts with fresh pipe-clay ? 
 To burnish your buttons, to brighten your guns ; 
 Or wait you for May-day and warm-spring suns ? 
 Are you blowing your fingers because they are cold, 
 Or catching your breath ere you take a hold ? 
 Is the mud knee-deep in valley and gorge ? 
 What are you waiting for, tardy George ? 
 
 Want you a thousand more cannon made, 
 To add to the thousand now arrayed ? 
 Want you more men, more money to pay ? 
 Are not two millions enough per day ? 
 Wait you for gold and credit to go, 
 Before we shall see your martial show ; 
 Till Treasury Notes will not pay to forge ? 
 What are you waiting for, tardy George ? 
 
 Are you waiting for your hair to turn, 
 Your heart to soften, your bowels to yearn 
 A little more toward " our Southern friends," 
 As at home and abroad they work their ends ? 
 " Our Southern friends ! " whom you hold so dear 
 That you do no harm and give no fear, 
 As you tenderly take them by the gorge, 
 What are you waiting for, tardy George ? 
 
 Now that you Ve marshalled your whole command, 
 Planned what you would, and changed what you planned ; 
 Practised with shot and practised with shell. 
 Know to a hair where every one fell, 
 Made signs by day and signals by night ; 
 Was it all done to keep out of a fight ? 
 
82 TARDY GEORGE. 
 
 Is the whole matter too heavy a charge ? 
 What are you waiting for, tardy George ? 
 
 Shall we have more speeches, more reviews ? 
 Or are you waiting to hear the news ; 
 To hold up your hands in mute surprise, 
 When France and England shall " recognize " ? 
 Are you too grand to fight traitors small ? 
 Must you have a nation to cope withal ? 
 Well, hammer the anvil and blow the forge, 
 You 11 soon have a dozen, tardy George. 
 
 Suppose for a moment, George, my friend, 
 Just for a moment, you condescend 
 To use the means that are in your hands, 
 The eager muskets and guns and brands ; 
 Take one bold step on the Southern sod, 
 And leave the issue to watchful God ! 
 For now the nation raises its gorge, 
 Waiting and watching you, tardy George. 
 
 I should not much wonder, George, rny boy, 
 
 If Stanton get in his head a toy, 
 
 And some fine morning, ere you are out, 
 
 He send you all " to the right about," 
 
 You and Jomini, and all the crew 
 
 Who think that war is nothing to do 
 
 But to drill and cipher, and hammer and forge, 
 
 \Vhat are you waiting for, tardy George ? 
 
 January, 18G2. 
 
THE CUMBERLAND. 83 
 
 THE CUMBERLAND* 
 
 BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 
 
 On board the Cumberland sloop-of-war, 
 And at times from the fortress across the bay 
 The alarm of drums swept past, 
 Or a bugle-blast 
 From the camp on shore. 
 
 Then far away to the South uprose 
 
 A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
 And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
 Was steadily steering its course 
 To try the force 
 Of our ribs of oak. 
 
 Down upon us heavily runs, 
 
 Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
 Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
 And leaps the terrrible death, 
 With fiery breath, 
 From each open port. 
 
 We are not idle, but send her straight 
 
 Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
 As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
 Rebounds our heavier hail 
 From each iron scale 
 Of the monster s hide. 
 
 * Sunk by the iron-clad ram Merrimac in Hampton Roads, 
 Saturday, March 8, 1862, going down with her colors flying, and 
 firing upon her impenetrable assailant as the water rose above her 
 own gun-deck. 
 
84 ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 
 
 " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, 
 
 In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
 " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 
 
 " It is better to sink than to yield ! " 
 And the whole air pealed 
 With the cheers of our men. 
 
 Then, like a kraken huge and black, 
 
 She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
 Down went the Cumberland all a- wrack. 
 With a sudden shudder of death, 
 And the cannon s breath 
 For her dying gasp. 
 
 Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 
 
 Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. 
 Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
 Every waft of the air 
 Was a whisper of prayer, 
 Or a dirge for the dead. 
 
 Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas, 
 
 Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. 
 Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 
 Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
 Shall be one again, 
 And without a seam. 
 
 ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 
 
 March 8, 1862. 
 
 BY GEORGE II. BOKER. 
 
 " STAND to your guns, men ! " Morris cried. 
 Small need to pass the word ; 
 
ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 85 
 
 Our men at quarters ranged themselves, 
 Before the drum was heard. 
 
 And then began the sailors jests : 
 
 " What thing is that, I say ? " 
 " A long-shore meeting-house adrift 
 
 Is standing down the bay ! " 
 
 A frown came over Morris s face ; 
 
 The strange, dark craft he knew ; 
 " That is the iron Merrimac, 
 
 Manned by a Rebel crew. 
 
 " So shot your guns, and point them straight ; 
 
 Before this day goes by, 
 We 11 try of what her metal s made." 
 
 A cheer was our reply. 
 
 " Remember, boys, this flag of ours 
 
 Has seldom left its place ; 
 And where it falls, the deck it strikes 
 
 Is covered with disgrace. 
 
 " I ask but this : or sink or swim, 
 
 Or live or nobly die, 
 My last sight upon earth may be 
 
 To see that ensign fly ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass 
 
 Came moving o er the wave, 
 As gloomy as a passing hearse, 
 
 As silent as the grave. 
 
 Her ports were closed, from stem to stern 
 
 No sign of life appeared. 
 We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, 
 
 Joked, everything but feared. 
 
86 ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 
 
 She reached our range. Our broadside rang, 
 
 Our heavy pivots roared ; 
 And shot and shell, a fire of hell, 
 
 Against her sides we poured. 
 
 God s mercy ! from her sloping roof 
 
 The iron tempest glanced, 
 As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, 
 
 And round her leaped and danced ; 
 
 Or when against her dusky hull 
 
 We struck a fair, full blow, 
 The mighty, solid iron globes 
 
 Were crumbled up like snow. 
 
 On, on, with fast increasing speed, 
 
 The silent monster came ; 
 Though all our starboard battery 
 
 Was one long line of flame. 
 
 She heeded not, no gun she fired, 
 Straight on our bow she bore ; 
 
 Through riving plank and crashing frame 
 Her furious way she tore. 
 
 Alas ! our beautiful, keen bow, 
 
 That in the fiercest blast 
 So gently folded back the seas, 
 
 They hardly felt we passed ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! my Cumberland, 
 
 That ne er knew grief before, 
 To be so gored, to feel so deep 
 
 The tusk of that sea-boar ! 
 
 Once more she backward drew a space, 
 Once more our side she rent ; 
 
ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 87 
 
 Then, in the wantonness of hate, 
 Her broadside through us sent. 
 
 The dead and dying round us lay, 
 
 But our foeman lay abeam ; 
 Her open port-holes maddened us ; 
 
 We fired with shout and scream. 
 
 We felt our vessel settling fast, 
 
 We knew our time was brief; 
 " The pumps, the pumps ! " But they who pumped, 
 
 And fought not, wept with grief. 
 
 " Oh, keep us but an hour afloat ! 
 
 Oh, give us only time 
 To be the instruments of Heaven 
 
 Against the traitors crime ! " 
 
 From captain down to powder-boy, 
 
 No hand was idle then : 
 Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, 
 
 Fought on like sailor-men. 
 
 And when a gun s crew lost a hand, 
 
 Some bold marine stepped out, 
 And jerked his braided jacket off, 
 
 And hauled the <run about. 
 
 Our forward magazine was drowned ; 
 
 And up from the sick-bay 
 Crawled out the wounded, red with blood, 
 
 And round us gasping lay. 
 
 Yes, cheering, calling us by name, 
 Struggling with failing breath, 
 
 To keep their shipmates at the post 
 Where glory strove with death. 
 
88 ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 
 
 With decks afloat, and powder gone, 
 
 The last broadside we gave 
 From the guns heated iron lips 
 
 Burst out beneath the wave. 
 
 So sponges, rammers, and handspikes 
 As men-of-war s-men should 
 
 We placed within their proper racks, 
 And at our quarters stood. 
 
 " Up to the spar-deck ! save yourselves ! " 
 Cried Selfridge. " Up, my men ! 
 
 God grant that some of us may live 
 To fight yon ship again ! " 
 
 We turned we did not like to go ; 
 
 Yet staying seemed but vain, 
 Knee-deep in water ; so we left ; 
 
 Some swore, some groaned with pain. 
 
 We reached the deck. There Randall stood 
 
 " Another turn, men so ! " 
 Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun : 
 
 " Now, Tenny, let her go ! " 
 
 It did our sore hearts good to hear 
 
 The song our pivot sang, 
 As rushing on from wave to wave 
 
 The whirring bomb-shell sprang. 
 
 Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, 
 
 And waved his cap in sport ; 
 " Well done ! well aimed ! I saw that shell 
 
 Go through an open port." 
 
 It was our last, our deadliest shot ; 
 The deck was overflown ; 
 
ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND. 89 
 
 The poor ship staggered, lurched to port, 
 And gave a living groan. 
 
 Down, down, as headlong through the waves 
 
 Our gallant vessel rushed, 
 A thousand gurgling, watery sounds 
 
 Around my senses gushed. 
 
 Then I remember little more ; 
 
 One look to heaven I gave, 
 Where, like an angel s wing, I saw 
 
 Our spotless ensign wave. 
 
 I tried to cheer. I cannot say 
 
 Whether I swam or sank ; 
 A blue mist closed around my eyes, 
 
 And everything was blank. 
 
 When I awoke, a soldier-lad, 
 
 All dripping from the sea, 
 With two great tears upon his cheeks, 
 
 Was bending over me. 
 
 I tried to speak. He understood 
 
 The wish I could not speak. 
 He turned me. There, thank God ! the flag 
 
 Still fluttered at the peak ! 
 
 And there, while thread shall hang to thread, 
 
 Oh, let that ensign fly ! 
 The noblest constellation set 
 
 Against our northern sky. 
 
 A sign that we who live may claim 
 
 The peerage of the brave ; 
 A monument, that needs no scroll 
 
 For those beneath the wave ! 
 
90 MARCHING ALONG. 
 
 MARCHING ALONG.* 
 
 BY \VILLIAM B. BRADBURY. 
 
 THE army is gathering from near and from far ; 
 The trumpet is sounding the call for the war ; 
 McClellan s our leader, he s gallant and strong ; 
 We 11 gird on our armor and be marching along. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Marching along, we are marching along, 
 Gird on the armor and be marching along ; 
 McClellan s our leader, he s gallant and strong ; 
 For God and our country AVC are marching along. 
 
 The foe is before us in battle array, 
 But let us not waver, or turn from the way ; 
 The Lord is our strength, and the Union s our song ; 
 With courage and faith we are marching along. 
 Chorus Marching along, &c. 
 
 Our wives and our children we leave in your care ; 
 We feel you will help them with sorrow to bear; 
 T is hard thus to part, but we hope t won t be long ; 
 We 11 keep up our hearts as we re marching along. 
 Chorus Marching along, &c. 
 
 We sigh for our country, we mourn for our dead ; 
 For them now our last drop of blood we will shed ; 
 
 * Few songs were more truly popular all through the war than 
 this, which is here printed from a street broadside. It was sung in 
 the streets and at the public schools, and by all sorts and conditions 
 of men. The name McClellan, in the first stanza, was successively 
 replaced by Hooker, Meade, and Grant, with " for," prefixed 
 when necessary to eke out the measure. A vigorous and spirited 
 melody, with a well-marked rhythm, which was particularly good 
 in the chorus, contributed much to the universal favor in which 
 this song was held. 
 
A YANKEE SOLDIER S SONG. 91 
 
 Our cause is the right one our foe s in the wrong ; 
 Then gladly we 11 sing as we re marching along. 
 Chorus Marching along, &c. 
 
 The flag of our country is floating on high ; 
 We 11 stand by that flag till we conquer or die ; 
 McClellan s our leader, he s gallant and strong ; 
 We 11 gird on our armor and be marching along. 
 Chorus Marching along, &c. 
 
 A YANKEE SOLDIER S SONG. 
 
 I HEARKENED to the thund ring noise, 
 And wondered what t was for, sir ! 
 But when I heard em tell our boys, 
 I started up and swore, sir ! 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! 
 Yankees brave and handy ! 
 Freedom be our battle-shout ! 
 Yankee doodle dandy ! 
 
 They said that traitors tore our flag, 
 Down there in Dixie s land, sir ; 
 
 I always loved the striped rag, 
 And swore by it to stand, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &e. 
 
 I knew them Southern chaps, high-bred, 
 Had called us " mudsills " here, sir : 
 
 If on these sills they try to tread, 
 I guess t will cost them dear, sir. 
 
 Y"ankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
92 A YANKEE SOLDIER S SONG. 
 
 Down South I marched, rat-tat-a-plan, 
 With heart brimful of pluck, sir ; 
 
 I held my head up like a man ; 
 A righteous cause brings luck, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out! &c. 
 
 So proud was I of fatherland, 
 Where humans all are free, sir, 
 
 I found it hard to understand 
 Some things I lived to see, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
 To us one day a brown man came, 
 
 In Dixie s land a slave, sir, 
 And pleaded hard, in Freedom s name, 
 
 That him we d try to save, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out! &c. 
 
 " Of course we will/ our men cried out ; 
 
 " All free beneath this flag, sir ! " 
 Then he began, with hearty shout, 
 
 To cheer the starry rag, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
 But, whip in hand, a master came, 
 And drove that man away, sir ; 
 
 We felt it was a burning shame, 
 But could not have our say, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
 To us it seems a coward s shirk, 
 It makes us feel less brave, sir ; 
 
 We call it mean and " mudsill " work, 
 This sending back a slave, sir ! 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
 We did not leave our homes to do 
 Such dirty jobs as these, sir ; 
 
THE IRISH PICKET. 93 
 
 Our hearts within us, warm and true, 
 It chills and makes em freeze, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
 The man who works with heart is strong, 
 
 And right keeps up the pluck, sir ; 
 We cannot feel so bold for wrong, 
 
 We cannot hope for luck, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
 We long to have our flag unfurled 
 To make the whole land free, sir 
 
 For we can proudly face the world 
 When we that day shall see, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! &c. 
 
 Oh, how we 11 hail our banner then ! 
 Its fame all clear and bright, sir ; 
 When all can feel that they are men, 
 And all have equal right, sir. 
 
 Yankee boys will fight it out ! 
 Yankees brave and handy ! 
 Freedom be our battle-shout ! 
 Yankee doodle dandy ! 
 
 THE IRISH PICKET. 
 
 BY " BARNEY." 
 
 AIR " Pm sitting on the stile, Mary. 1 
 
 I M shtanding in the mud, Biddy, 
 Wid not a spalpeen near, 
 
 And silence, spaichless as the grave, 
 Is all the sound I hear. 
 
94 THE IRISH PICKET. 
 
 Me goon is at a showlther-arrns, 
 I in wetted to the bone, 
 
 And whin I m afther sphakin out, 
 I find meself alone. 
 
 This Southern climate s quare, Biddy, 
 
 A quare and bastely" thing, 
 Wid winter absint all the year. 
 
 And summer in the spring. 
 Ye mind the hot place down below ? 
 
 And may ye never fear 
 I d dthraw comparisons but thin 
 
 It s awful warrum here. 
 
 The only moon I see, Biddy, 
 
 Is one shmall star, asthore, 
 And that s fornint the very cloud 
 
 It was behind before ; 
 The watch-fires glame along the hill 
 
 That s swellin to the south, 
 And whin the sinthry passes them, 
 
 I see his oogly mouth. 
 
 It s dead for shlape I am, Biddy, 
 
 And dramein shwate I d be, 
 If them ould Rebels over there 
 
 Would only lave me free ; 
 But whin I lane against a shtump 
 
 And shtrive to get repose, 
 A musket ball be s comin shtraight 
 
 To hit me spacious nose. 
 
 It *s ye I d like to see, Biddy, 
 A shparkin here wid me; 
 
 And then, avourneen, hear ye say, 
 " Acushla Pat machree ! " 
 
 " Och, Biddy, darlint," then says I ; 
 Says you, " Get out of that ; 
 
THE IRISH PICKET. 95 
 
 Says I, " Me arruni mates your waist ; " 
 Says you, " Be daycent, Pat." 
 
 And how s the pigs and doocks, Biddy ? 
 
 It s them I think of, sh.ure, 
 That looked so innocent and shwate 
 
 Upon the parlor-flure ; 
 I m shure ye re aisy wid the pig, 
 
 That s fat as he can be, 
 And fade him wid the best, because 
 
 I m towld he looks like me. 
 
 Whin I come home again, Biddy, 
 
 A sargent tried and thrue, 
 It s joost a daycent house I 11 build, 
 
 And rint it chape to you. 
 We 11 have a parlor, bedroom, hall, 
 
 A doock-pond nately done, 
 Wid kitchen, pig-pen, praty-patch, 
 
 And garret all in one. 
 
 But, murther ! there s a baste, Biddy, 
 
 That s crapin round a tree, 
 And well I know the crathur s there 
 
 To have a shot at me. 
 Now, Misther Rebel, say yer pray rs, 
 
 And howld yer dirty paw ; 
 Here goes ! be jabers, Biddy, dear, 
 
 I Ve broke his oogly jaw ! 
 
96 HALLELUJAH CHORUS. 
 
 WORDS THAT CAN BE SUNG TO THE 
 " HALLELUJAH CHORUS." 
 
 BY HENRY II. BROWNELL, U. S. N. 
 
 If people will sing about Old John Brown, there is no reason why 
 they shouldn t have words with a little meaning and rhythm in 
 them. 
 
 OLD John Brown lies a-mouldering in the grave, 
 Old John Brown lies slumbering in his grave ; 
 But John Brown s soul is marching with the brave, 
 
 His soul is marching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 His soul is marching on. 
 
 He has gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord, 
 He is sworn as a private in the ranks of the Lord ; 
 He shall stand at Armageddon with his brave old sword, 
 
 When Heaven is marching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 
 
 For Heaven is marching on. 
 
 He shall file in front where the lines of battle form, 
 He shall face to front when the squares of battle form, 
 Time with the column, and charge in the storm, 
 
 Where men are marching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 
 
 True men are marching on. 
 
 Ah ! foul tyrants ! do ye hear him where he comes ? 
 Ah ! black traitors ! do ye know him as he comes ? 
 In thunder of the cannon and roll of the drums, 
 
 As we go marching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 
 
 We all are marching on. 
 
LULLABY. 
 
 Men may die, and moulder in the dust, 
 Men may die, and arise again from dust, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, in the ranks of the just, 
 
 When Heaven is marching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 
 The Lord is marching on. 
 April 17, 1862. 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 BY E. JEFFERSON CUTLER. 
 
 Now the twilight shadows flit ; 
 Now the evening lamp is lit ; 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 Little head on mother s arm, 
 She will keep him safe from harm, 
 Keep him safe and fold him warm : 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Baby s father, far away, 
 Thinks of him at shut of day ; 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 He must guard the sleeping camp, 
 Hearkening, in the cold and damp, 
 For the foeman s stealthy tramp : 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 He can hear the lullaby, 
 He can see the laughing eye ; 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 And he knows, though we are dumb, 
 How we long to have him come 
 Back to baby, mother, home : 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 7 
 
 97 
 
98 THE RIVER FIGHT. 
 
 Now the eyes are closing up ; 
 Let their little curtains drop ; 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 Softly on his father s bed 
 Mother lays her baby s head ; 
 There, until the night be fled, 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 God, who driest the widow s tears, 
 God, who calms the orphan s fears, 
 
 Guard baby s sleep ! 
 Shield the father in the fray ; 
 Help the mother wait and pray ; 
 Keep us all by night and day : 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Only Once. 
 
 THE RIVER FIGHT. 
 
 BY H. H. BROWNELL, U. S. N. 
 
 Do you know of the dreary land, 
 
 If land such region may seem, 
 Where t is neither sea nor strand, 
 Ocean nor good dry land, 
 
 But the nightmare marsh of a dream ? 
 Where the Mighty River his death-road takes, 
 Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes, 
 A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes, 
 
 To die in the great Gulf Stream ? 
 
 No coast-line clear and true, 
 Granite and deep-sea blue, 
 
 On that dismal shore you pass, 
 Surf- worn boulder or sandy beach, 
 
THE 1UVER FIGHT. 
 
 But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach. 
 
 With shallows of water-grass ; 
 Reedy savannahs, vast and dun, 
 Lying dead in the dim March sun ; 
 Huge rotting trunks and roots that lie 
 Like the blackened bones of shapes gone by, 
 
 And miles of sunken morass. 
 
 No lovely, delicate thing 
 
 Of life o er the waste is seen ; 
 But the cayman, couched by his weedy spring, 
 
 And the pelican, bird unclean, 
 Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing, 
 
 Like an evil ghost o er the desolate scene. 
 
 Ah ! many a weary day 
 With our Leader there we lay, 
 
 In the sultry haze and smoke, 
 Tugging our ships o er the bar, 
 Till the Spring was wasted far, 
 
 Till his brave heart almost broke. 
 For the sullen river seemed 
 As if our intent he dreamed, 
 
 All his sallow mouths did spew and choke. 
 
 But ere April fully passed, 
 
 All ground over at last, 
 
 And we knew the die was cast, 
 
 Knew the day drew nigh 
 To dare to the end one stormy deed, 
 Might save the land at her sorest need, 
 
 Or on the old deck to die ! 
 
 Anchored we lay, and a morn the more, 
 
 To his captains and all his men 
 Thus wrote our old Commodore 
 
 (He was n t Admiral then) : 
 
 99 
 
100 THE RIVER FIGHT. 
 
 "GENERAL ORDERS. 
 " Send your to gallant-masts down, 
 
 Rig in each flying jib-boom ! 
 
 Clear all ahead for the loom 
 Of traitor fortress and town, 
 Or traitor fleet bearing down. 
 
 " In with your canvas high ; 
 
 We shall want no sail to fly ! 
 Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib, 
 (With the heart of oak in the oaken rib,) 
 
 Shall serve us to win or die ! 
 
 " Trim every sail by the head, 
 
 (So shall you spare the lead,) 
 Lest, if she ground, your ship swing round, 
 
 Bows in shore, for a wreck. 
 See your grapnels all clear with pains, 
 And a solid kedge in your port main-chains, 
 
 With a whip to the main yard : 
 
 Drop it heavy and hard 
 
 When you grapple a traitor deck ! 
 
 " On forecastle and on poop 
 
 Mount guns, as best you may deem. 
 
 If possible, rouse them up, 
 
 (For still you must bow the stream.) 
 
 Also hoist and secure with stops 
 
 Howitzers firmly in your tops, 
 To fire on the foe a-beam. 
 
 " Look well to your pumps and hose ; 
 Have water-tubs fore and aft, 
 For quenching flame in your craft, 
 And the gun-crews fiery thirst. 
 
 See planks with felt fitted close, 
 
THE RIVER FIGHT. 
 
 To plug every shot-hole tight. 
 
 Stand ready to meet the worst ! 
 For, if I have reckoned aright, 
 They will serve us shot, both cold and hot, 
 Freely enough to-night. 
 
 " Mark well each signal I make, 
 (Our life-long service at stake, 
 
 And honor that must not lag !) 
 Whate er the peril and awe, 
 In the battle s fieriest flaw, 
 Let never one ship withdraw 
 
 Till the orders come from the flag ! " 
 
 Would you hear of the River Fight ? 
 It was two of a soft spring night ; 
 
 God s stars looked down on all ; 
 And all was clear and bright 
 But the low fog s clinging breath : 
 Up the River of Death 
 
 Sailed the Great Admiral. 
 
 On our high poop-deck he stood, 
 
 And round him ranged the men 
 Who have made their birthright good 
 
 Of manhood once and again, 
 Lords of helm and of sail, 
 Tried in tempest and gale, 
 
 Bronzed in battle and wreck. 
 Bell and Bailey grandly led 
 Each his line of the Blue and Red ; 
 Wainwright stood by our starboard rail ; 
 
 Thornton fought the deck. 
 
 And I mind me of more than they, 
 Of the youthful, steadfast ones, 
 
102 THE RIVER FIGHT. 
 
 That have shown them worthy sons 
 Of the seamen passed away. 
 Tyson conned our helm that day ; 
 
 Watson stood by his guns. 
 
 What thought our Admiral then, 
 Looking down on his men ? 
 
 Since the terrible day, 
 (Day of renown and tears !) 
 
 When at anchor the Essex lay, 
 
 Holding her foes at bay, 
 When a boy by Porter s side he stood, 
 Till deck and plank-shear were dyed with blood : 
 T is half a hundred years, 
 
 Half a hundred years to a day ! 
 
 Who could fail with him ? 
 Who reckon of life or limb ? 
 
 Not a pulse but beat the higher ! 
 There had you seen, by the starlight dim, 
 Five hundred faces strong and grim : 
 
 The Flag is going under fire ! 
 Right up by the fort, with her helm hard a-port, 
 
 The Hartford is going under fire ! 
 
 The way to our work was plain. 
 Caldwell had broken the chain, 
 (Two hulks swung down amain 
 
 Soon as t Avas sundered.) 
 Under the night s dark blue, 
 Steering steady and true, 
 Ship after ship went through, 
 Till, as Ave hove in vieAV, 
 
 " Jackson " out-thundered. 
 
 Back echoed " Philip ! " Ah ! then 
 Could you have seen our men, 
 
THE RIVER FIGHT. 10 j 
 
 How they sprung, in the dim night haze, 
 To their work of toil and of clamor ! 
 How the boarders, with sponge and rammer, 
 And their captains, with cord and hammer, 
 
 Kept every muzzle a-blaze. 
 How the guns, as with cheer and shout 
 Our tackle-men hurled them out, 
 
 Brought up on the water-ways ! 
 
 First, as we fired at their flash, 
 
 T was lightning and black eclipse, 
 With a bellowing roll and crash. 
 But soon, upon either bow, 
 
 What with forts, and fire-rafts, and ships, 
 (The whole fleet was hard at it, now,) 
 All pounding away ! and Porter 
 Still thundering with shell and mortar, 
 
 T was the mighty sound and form ! 
 
 (Such you see in the far South, 
 After long heat and drought, 
 
 As day draws nigh to even, 
 Arching from north to south, 
 
 Blinding the tropic sun, 
 
 The great black bow comes on, 
 Till the thunder-veil is riven, 
 When all is crash and levin, 
 And the cannonade of heaven 
 
 Rolls down the Amazon !) 
 
 But, as we worked along higher, 
 
 Just where the river enlarges, 
 Down came a pyramid of fire, 
 
 It was one of your long coal barges. 
 
 (We had often had the like before.) 
 T was coming down on us to larboard, 
 
 Well in with the eastern shore ; 
 
 And our pilot, to let it pass round, 
 
104 THE RIVER FIGHT. 
 
 (You may guess we never stopped to sound,) 
 Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, 
 Ran the Flag hard and fast aground ! 
 
 T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort, 
 
 And straightway a rascal Ram 
 
 (She was shaped like the Devil s dam) 
 Puffed away for us, with a snort, 
 
 And shoved it, with spiteful strength, 
 Right alongside of us to port. 
 
 It was all of our ship s length, 
 A huge crackling Cradle of the Pit ! 
 
 Pitch-pine knots to the brim, 
 
 Belching flame red and grim, 
 What a roar came up from it ! 
 
 Well, for a little it looked bad : 
 
 But these things are, somehow, shorter 
 In the acting than in the telling ; 
 There was no singing out or yelling, 
 Or any fussing and fretting, 
 
 No stampede, in short ; 
 But there we were, my lad, 
 
 All a-fire on our port quarter 
 Hammocks a-blaze in the netting, 
 
 Flame spouting in at every port, 
 Our Fourth Cutter burning at the davit, 
 (No chance to lower away and save it.) 
 
 In a twinkling, the flames had risen 
 Half way to main-top and mizen, 
 
 Darting up the shrouds like snakes ! 
 
 Ah, how we clanked at the brakes, 
 
 And the deep steaming-pumps throbbed under, 
 
 Sending a ceaseless flow. 
 Our top-men, a dauntless crowd, 
 Swarmed in rigging and shroud : 
 There, ( t was a wonder ! ) 
 
THE RIVER FIGHT. 105 
 
 The burning ratlins and strands 
 
 They quenched with their bare hard hands ; 
 
 But the great guns below 
 
 Never silenced their thunder ! 
 
 At last, by backing and sounding, 
 When we were clear of grounding, 
 
 And under headway once more, 
 The whole rebel fleet came rounding 
 
 The point. If we had it hot before, 
 
 T was now, from shore to shore, 
 
 One long, loud thundering roar, 
 Such crashing, splintering, and pounding, 
 
 And smashing as you never heard before ! 
 
 But that we fought foul wrong to wreck, 
 And to save the land we loved so well, 
 
 You might have deemed our long gun-deck 
 Two hundred feet of hell ! 
 
 For above all was battle, 
 Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, 
 
 Smoke and thunder alone ; 
 (But, down in the sick-bay, 
 Where our wounded and dying lay, 
 
 There was scarce a sob or a moan.) 
 And at last, when the dim day broke, 
 And the sullen sun awoke, 
 
 Drearily blinking 
 
 O er the haze and the cannon smoke, 
 That ever such morning dulls, 
 There were thirteen traitor hulls 
 
 On fire and sinking ! 
 
 Now, up the river ! through mad Chalmette 
 Sputters a vain resistance yet 
 Small helm we gave her, our course to steer, 
 T was nicer work than you well would dream, 
 
I06 THE RIVER FIGHT. 
 
 With cant and sheer to keep her clear 
 
 Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream. 
 
 The Louisiana, hurled on high, 
 
 Mounts in thunder to meet the sky ! 
 
 Then down to the depths of the turbid flood, 
 
 Fifty fathom of rebel mud ! 
 
 The Mississippi comes floating down, 
 
 A mighty bonfire, from off the town ; 
 
 And along the river, on stocks and ways, 
 
 A half-hatched devil s brood is a-blaze, 
 
 The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames, 
 
 (Hark to the roar of her tumbling frames ! ) 
 
 And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn 
 
 Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn ! 
 
 From stem to stern, how the pirates burn, 
 Fired by the furious hands that built ! 
 
 So to ashes forever turn 
 
 The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt ! 
 
 But as we neared the city, 
 
 By field and vast plantation, 
 
 (Ah, millstone of our Nation ! ) 
 With wonder and with pity, 
 
 What crowds we there espied 
 Of dark and wistful faces, 
 Mute in their toiling places, 
 
 Strangely and sadly eyed. 
 
 Haply, mid doubt and fear, 
 
 Deeming deliverance near. 
 
 (One gave the ghost of a cheer ! ) 
 
 And on that dolorous strand, 
 
 To greet the victor brave 
 
 One flag did welcome wave, 
 Raised, ah me ! by a wretched hand, 
 
THE RIVER FIGHT. 107 
 
 All outworn on our cruel Land, 
 The withered hand of a slave ! 
 
 But all along the Levee, 
 
 In a dark and drenching rain, 
 (By this, t was pouring heavy,) 
 
 Stood a fierce and sullen train. 
 A strange and frenzied time ! 
 
 There were scowling rage and pain, 
 Curses, howls and hisses, 
 Out of hate s black abysses, 
 Their courage and their crime 
 
 All in vain all in vain ! 
 
 For from the hour that the Rebel Stream, 
 With the Crescent City lying abeam, 
 
 Shuddered under our keel, 
 Smit to the heart with self-struck sting, 
 Slavery died in her scorpion-ring, 
 
 And Murder fell on his steel. 
 
 T is well to do and dare ; 
 But ever may grateful prayer 
 Follow, as aye it ought, 
 When the good fight is fought, 
 
 When the true deed is done. 
 Aloft in heaven s pure light, 
 (Deep azure crossed on white,) 
 Our fair Church pennant waves 
 O er a thousand thankful braves, 
 
 Bareheaded in God s bright sun. 
 
 Lord of mercy and frown, 
 
 Ruling o er sea and shore, 
 
 Send us such scene once more ! 
 
 All in line of battle 
 When the black ships bear down 
 
Io8 THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 
 
 On tyrant fort and town, 
 
 Mid cannon cloud and rattle ; 
 And the great guns once more 
 Thunder back the roar 
 Of the traitor walls ashore, 
 And the traitor flags come down ! 
 
 New Orleans Era. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 
 
 i. 
 
 IN the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi s waves, 
 Dwells the haughty Creole matron with her daughters 
 
 and her slaves ; 
 Round her throng the rebel knighthood, fierce of word 
 
 and proud of crest, 
 
 Slightly redolent of julep, cocktail, cobbler, and the rest 
 Of those miscellaneous tipples that the Southern heart 
 
 impel 
 To the mighty threats of prowess, whose dread fruits we 
 
 know so well.* 
 Round the matron and her daughters ring chivalric voices 
 
 high: 
 Not the meanest soul among them but is sworn to do or 
 
 die! 
 " Never to the Yankee Vandal, foul and horned thing of 
 
 mud, 
 Will they leave their maids and matrons while a single 
 
 vein holds blood ! 
 
 * It is singular that the juleps, cocktails, and "miscellaneous 
 tipples" which European writers continually ridicule as a trait of 
 Yankee life, are all, as we know, of Southern invention. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 109 
 
 Perish every Southron sooner ! Death ? They crave it 
 
 as a boon ! " 
 Then each desperate knight retires to his favorite 
 
 Quadroon ! 
 
 In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi s waves, 
 Sits the haughty Creole matron with her daughters and 
 
 her slaves; 
 
 But her eye no longer flashes with the fire it held of late, 
 For, alas ! the Yankee Vandals thunder at the city gate. 
 Proud on Mississippi s waters, looming o er the dark levee, 
 Ride the gallant Northern war-ships, floats the Banner of 
 
 the Free ! 
 While a calm-eyed Captain paces through a sea of scowl-* 
 
 ing men, 
 
 To demand the full surrender of the city, there and then. 
 Yet the haughty Creole lady s sorest sorrow lies not there : 
 T is not that the Yankee mudsills will pollute her sacred 
 
 air ; 
 
 Though her delicate fibres shudder doubtless at the dread 
 ful thought 
 That her soft and fragrant breathings may by Yankee lips 
 
 be caught ; 
 No ! the cut of all unkindest that which makes her 
 
 heart dilate 
 Is, her knights have all " skedaddled," and have left her 
 
 to her fate ! 
 Yes ; no strength of smash or julep, nor the cocktail s 
 
 bitterest heat, 
 Kept those recreant warriors steady when they saw the 
 
 Yankee fleet ; 
 All their desperate prowess vanished like a mist before 
 
 the moon, 
 Left the Creole maid and matron, even left the dear 
 
 Quadroon ! 
 
Iio THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 
 
 m. 
 
 In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi s waves, 
 Walks the haughty Creole matron with her daughters and 
 
 her slaves ; 
 Freedom s flag is floating o er her, Freedom s sons she 
 
 passes by, 
 And the olden scornful fire burns rekindled in her 
 
 eye. 
 How dare Freedom thus insult her ? How dare mudsills 
 
 walk the pave 
 Whose each stone to her is hallowed by the toil-sweat of 
 
 the slave ? 
 
 " What ? you call that rag your banner ? You, sir, hire 
 ling, hound, I mean ! 
 Thus I spit upon your emblem ! Let your churl s blood 
 
 wash it clean ! 
 Well you wear your liveried jacket, hireling bravo that 
 
 you are ! 
 Lackey, paid to rob and murder in a thin disguise of 
 
 war ! " 
 Thus, with many a taunting gesture, speaks she to the 
 
 Northern braves, 
 As she flaunts along the sidewalk with her daughters and 
 
 her slaves ! 
 Naught reply the Northern soldiers, smiling, though they 
 
 feel the stings 
 Of the foul and meretricious taunts the Southern lady 
 
 flings ; 
 So she passes, while the venom from her fragrant mouth 
 
 still slips 
 Like the loathsome toads and lizards from the enchanted 
 
 maiden s lips ; 
 And her spotless soul joys, doubtless, soft her modest 
 
 bosom beats, 
 That she so has aped the harlot in her city s public 
 
 streets ! 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 1 1 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi s waves, 
 Walks the haughty Creole lady with her daughters and 
 
 her slaves ; 
 
 But her eye no longer flashes with its wonted fire of hate ; 
 Her tongue is strangely silent now, and modest is her 
 
 gait ; 
 
 With quiet mien and humble she passes soldiers by, 
 Nor ever on our country s flag turns a defiant eye. 
 What wondrous glamour so hath changed the haughty 
 
 lady s mien ? 
 The crime of her rebellious heart hath she in sorrow 
 
 seen ? 
 Or has her spotless bosom owned that Yankees there 
 
 may be 
 
 Worthy of even a Creole s love ? Is hers no longer free ? 
 No ; it is none of these have tamed the lady s rebel soul ; 
 On each mudsill she, certes, still breathes inward curse 
 
 and dole ! 
 And as for love, save for her knight, no love her heart 
 
 can stir, 
 
 Since o er a julep s sugared brink he swore to die for her; 
 For though he died not, but preferred another field to 
 
 seek, 
 T was only, as she knows, because the julep was too 
 
 weak ! 
 T was none of these ! A sterner cause for change of 
 
 mien had she ! 
 
 For spitting once too often at the Banner of the Free, 
 And once too oft through her pure lips the venom letting 
 
 loose, 
 
 The haughty Creole dame was shown into the Cala 
 boose ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
112 NEW ORLEANS WON BACK. 
 
 NEW ORLEANS WON BACK. 
 A LAY FOR OUR SAILORS. 
 
 BY ROBERT LOWELL. 
 
 [The opening words of the burden are a scrap of an old song 
 caught up.] 
 
 CATCH Oh ! up in the morning, up in the morning, 
 
 Up in the morning early ! 
 
 There lay the town that our guns looked down, 
 With its streets all dark and surly. 
 
 God made three youths to walk unscathed 
 
 In the furnace seven times hot ; 
 And when smoky flames our squadron bathed, 
 
 Amid horrors of shell and shot, 
 Then, too, it was God that brought them through 
 
 That death-crowded thoroughfare : 
 So now, at six bells, the church pennons flew, 
 
 And the crews went all to prayer. 
 Thank God ! thank God ! our men won the fight, 
 
 Against forts, and fleets, and flame : 
 Thank God ! they have given our flag its right, 
 In a town that brought it shame. 
 
 Oh ! up in the morning, up in the morning, 
 
 Up in the morning early ! 
 Our flag hung there, in the fresh, still air, 
 With smoke floating soft and curly. 
 
 Ten days for the deep ships at the bar; 
 
 Six days for the mortar-fleet, 
 That battered the great forts from afar ; 
 
 And then, to that deadly street ! 
 A flash ! Our strong ships snapped the boom 
 
 To the fire-rafts and the forts, 
 
NEW ORLEANS WON BACK. 113 
 
 To crush and crash, and flash and gloom, 
 
 And iron beaks fumbling their ports. 
 From the dark came the raft, in flame and smoke ; 
 
 In the dark came the iron beak ; 
 But our sailors hearts were stouter than oak, 
 And the false foe s iron weak. 
 
 Oh ! up in the morning, up in the morning, 
 
 Up in the morning early ! 
 
 Before they knew, they had burst safe through, 
 And left the forts, grim and burly. 
 
 Though it be brute s work, not man s, to tear 
 
 Live limbs like shivered wood ; 
 Yet, to dare, and to stand, and to take death for share, 
 
 Are as much as the angels could. 
 Our men towed the blazing rafts ashore ; 
 
 They battered the great rams down ; 
 Scarce a wreck floated where was a fleet before, 
 
 When our ships came up to the town. 
 There were miles of batteries yet to be dared, 
 
 But they quenched these all, as in play ; 
 Then with their yards squared, their guns mouths bared, 
 They held the great town at bay. 
 
 Oh ! up in the morning, up in the morning, 
 
 Up in the morning early ! 
 Our stout ships came through shell, shot, and 
 
 flame, 
 But the town will not always be surly ; 
 
 For this Crescent City takes to its breast 
 
 The Father of Waters tide ; 
 And here shall the wealth of our world, in the West, 
 
 Meet wealth of the world beside : 
 Here the date-palm and the olive find 
 
 A near and equal sun ; 
 And a hundred broad, deep rivers wind 
 
 To the summer-sea in one : 
 8 
 
114 THE VARUNA. 
 
 Here the Fall steals all old Winter s ice, 
 
 And the Spring steals all his snow ; 
 While he but smiles at their artifice, 
 And like his own nature go. 
 
 Oh ! up in the morning, up in the morning, 
 
 Up in the morning early ! 
 May that flag float here till the earth s last 
 
 year, 
 With the lake mists, fair and pearly. 
 
 THE VARUNA. 
 
 Sunk April 24^, 1882.* 
 
 BY GEORGE H. BOKKH. 
 
 WHO has not heard of the dauntless Varuna ? 
 
 Who has not heard of the deeds she has done ? 
 Who shall not hear, while the brown Mississippi 
 
 Rushes along from the snow to the sun ? 
 
 Crippled and leaking she entered the battle, 
 
 Sinking and burning she fought through the fray ; 
 
 Crushed were her sides, and the waves ran across her, 
 Ere, like a death-wounded lion at bay, 
 
 Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple, 
 Then in her triumph moved grandly away. 
 
 Five of the rebels, like satellites round her, 
 Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear ; 
 
 One, like the pleiad of mystical story, 
 
 Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere. 
 
 We who are waiting with crowns for the victors, 
 Though we should offer the wealth of our store, 
 
 * After sinking five of the enemy in the naval battle below New 
 Orleans. 
 
THE NEW BALLAD OF LORD LOVELL. 115 
 
 Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson, 
 Still would be niggard, such tribute to pour 
 
 On courage so boundless. It beggars possession, 
 It knocks for just payment at heaven s bright door! 
 
 Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna ; 
 
 Treat them as kings if they honor your way ; 
 Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded ; 
 
 Oh ! for the dead let us all kneel to pray. 
 
 THE NEW BALLAD OF LORD LOVELL.* 
 
 LORD LOVELL he sat in St. Charles s Hotel, 
 
 In St. Charles s Hotel sat he ; 
 As fine a case of a Southern swell 
 
 As ever you d wish to see see see, 
 As ever you d wish to see. 
 
 Lord Lovell the town had vowed to defend : 
 
 A-waving his sword on high, 
 He swore that his last ounce of powder he d spend, 
 
 And in the last ditch he d die. 
 
 He swore by black and he swore by blue, 
 
 He swore by the stars and bars, 
 That never he d fly from a Yankee crew 
 
 While he was a son of Mars. 
 
 He had fifty thousand gallant men, 
 
 Fifty thousand men had he, 
 Who had all sworn with him that they d never 
 
 Surrender to any tarnation Yankee. 
 
 * Mansfield Lovell, of New York, commanded the Rebel troops 
 at New Orleans, and, on the approach of the national fleet and 
 army to that place, " led his forces out of the town." 
 
Il6 THE NEW BALLAD OF LORD LOVELL. 
 
 He had forts that no Yankee alive could take ; 
 
 He had iron-clad boats a score ; 
 And batteries all around the Lake,* 
 
 And all along the river-shore. 
 
 Sir Farragut came with a mighty fleet, 
 
 With a mighty fleet came he ; 
 And Lord Lovell instanter began to retreat, 
 
 Before the first boat he could see. 
 
 His fifty thousand gallant men 
 
 Dwindled down to thousands six ; 
 They heard a distant cannon, and then 
 
 Commenced a-cutting their sticks. 
 
 " Oh, tarry, Lord Lovell ! " Sir Farragut cried ; 
 
 " Oh, tarry, Lord Lovell ! " said he ; 
 " I rather think not," Lord Lovell replied, 
 
 " For I m in a great hurry." 
 
 " I like the drinks at St. Charles s Hotel, 
 But I never could bear strong Porter, 
 
 Especially when it s served on the shell, 
 Or mixed in an iron mortar." 
 
 " I reckon you re right," Sir Farragut said ; 
 
 " I reckon you re right," said he ; 
 " For if my Porter should fly to your head, 
 
 A terrible smash there d be." 
 
 Oh, a wonder it was to see them run ! 
 
 A wonderful thing to see ; 
 And the Yankees sailed up without shooting a gun, 
 
 And captured their great citie. 
 
 Lord Lovell kept running all day and night, 
 Lord Lovell a-running kept he ; 
 
GINERAL BUTLER. 117 
 
 For he swore lie couldn t abide the sight 
 Of the gun of a live Yankee. 
 
 When Lord Lovell s life was brought to a close 
 
 By a sharp-shooting Yankee gunner, 
 From his head there sprouted a red, red nose, 
 
 From his feet a Scarlet Runner. 
 
 GINERAL BUTLER. 
 
 [LINES KIT TU RICHARD YEADON, A RANK, PIZEN REBBEL, WHU 
 HES OFFERED TEX THAOUSAND DOLLARS FUR THE HED OV 
 
 GINERAL BUTLER. I ONLY WISH THE AMERIKAN EGLE MAY 
 LIVE TILL HE GITS IT!] 
 
 BY CHARITY GRIMES. 
 
 Yu offer us ten thaousand fur the heel ov Butler, du ye ? 
 Wa al, I vaow I wunder at it ! But yu may jest spare 
 
 yure pains. 
 
 I tell yu (ef yu know enuff tu git the idee thru yu), 
 Yu d better wish, a tarnal site, fur Gineral Butler s 
 brains ! 
 
 Here s a fust-rate chance tu make a pile ! a bribe fur 
 
 human natur ! 
 Naow is the time fur Judases tu clap thare hands and 
 
 larf; 
 
 Ten thaousand dollars offered fur the sarvice ov a traitor ? 
 Why thare s menny a poor scoundrel thet wood du the 
 work fur half! 
 
 Want the hed ov Gineral Butler ! Wa al, I never ! t is 
 
 surprisin ! 
 Yu fellers daown in Dixie must be fallin off from grace. 
 
Il8 RHODE ISLAND TO THE SOUTH. 
 
 Not hevin enny decent hed (that fact thare s no dis- 
 
 guisin), 
 Yu want tu take yure nabor s, es ef that wood help 
 
 yure case ! 
 Ten thaousand dollars offered ! Specie payment is t, I 
 
 wunder ? 
 
 Bein a Yankee born, yu know, p r aps I am kind o cute. 
 Yure promises air fair enuff; but fokes du sumtimes 
 
 blunder, 
 
 And them Confederate notes ov yourn, t ain t every 
 wun they d suit ! 
 
 Ten thaousand dollars offered fur the hed ov Butler! 
 
 Reely ! 
 Haow long is t sense yu larfed et him, and called him 
 
 " Pickayune ? " 
 
 Did yu find he was tu big a coin fur yu tu hold genteely ? 
 Or has he put yure notes ov war a leetle aout ov tune ? 
 
 Yu offer us ten thaousand fur the hed ov Butler, du yu ? 
 Wa al, I don t mutch wunder at it, but yu may jest 
 
 spare yure pains ; 
 
 But I 11 tell yu (ef yu know enuff to git the idee thru yu), 
 Yu d better (fur yu need em) wish fur Gineral Butler s 
 brains ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 RHODE ISLAND TO THE SOUTH. 
 
 BY GEN. F. W. LANDER. 
 
 ONCE on New England s bloody heights, 
 
 And o er a Southern plain, 
 Our fathers fought for sovereign rights, 
 
 That working men might reign. 
 
 And by that only Lord we serve, 
 The great Jehovah s name ; 
 
THE PICKET GUARD. 
 
 By those sweet lips that ever nerve 
 High hearts to deeds of fame ; 
 
 By all that makes the man a king, 
 The household hearth a throne, 
 
 Take back the idle scoff ye fling, 
 Where freedom claims its own. 
 
 For though our battle hope was vague 
 
 Upon Manassas plain, 
 Where Slocum stood with gallant Sprague, 
 
 And gave his life in vain, 
 
 Before we yield the holy trust 
 
 Our old forefathers gave, 
 Or wrong New England s hallowed dust, 
 
 Or grant the wrongs ye crave, 
 
 We 11 print in kindred gore so deep 
 
 The shore we love to tread, 
 That woman s eyes shall fail to weep 
 
 O er man s unnumbered dead. 
 
 THE PICKET-GUARD. 
 
 " 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. 
 *T is 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 ; 
 
120 THE PICKET-GUARD. 
 
 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 stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 
 Keep guard, for the army is 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 in 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, 
 
 For 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, 
 
 Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
 Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? 
 
 W T as it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
 It looked like a rifle : " Ha ! Mary, good-bye ! " 
 
 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. 
 
THE MARCH OF THE REGIMENT. 12 I 
 THE MARCH OF THE REGIMENT. 
 
 BY H. H. BROWNELL, U. S. N. 
 
 HERE they come ! t is the Twelfth, you know, 
 
 The colonel is just at hand ; 
 The ranks close up, to the measured flow 
 
 Of music cheery and grand. 
 Glitter on glitter, row by row, 
 The steady bayonets, on they go 
 
 For God and the right to stand : 
 Another thousand to front the foe ! 
 And to die if it must be even so 
 
 For the dear old fatherland ! 
 
 O trusty and true ! O gay, warm heart ! 
 
 O manly and earnest brow ! 
 Here, in the hurrying street, we part 
 
 To meet ah ! where and how ? 
 O ready and stanch ! who, at war s alarm, 
 On lonely hill-side and mountain-farm 
 
 Have left the axe and the plough ! 
 That every tear were a holy charm, 
 To guard, with honor, some head from harm, 
 And to quit some generous vow ! 
 For, of valiant heart and of sturdy arm 
 
 Was never more need than now. 
 
 Never a nobler morn to the bold, 
 
 For God and for country s sake ! 
 Lo ! a flag, so haughtily unrolled 
 On a hundred foughten fields of old, 
 
 Now flaunts in a pirate s wake ! 
 The lion coys in each blazoned fold, 
 
 And leers on the blood-barred snake ! 
 
 O base and vain ! that, for grudge and gain, 
 Could a century s feud renew, 
 
122 THE MARCH OF THE REGIMENT. 
 
 Could hoard your hate for the coward chance 
 When a nation reeled in a wilder dance 
 
 Of death, than the Switzer drew ! 
 We have borne and borne and may bear again 
 
 With wrong, but if wrong from you. 
 
 Welcome, the sulphury cloud in the sky ! 
 
 Welcome, the crimson rain ! 
 Act but the dream ye dared to form, 
 Strike a single spark ! and the storm 
 Of serried bayonets sweeping by, 
 
 Shall swell to a hurricane ! 
 
 O blind and bitter ! that could not know, 
 Even in fight, a caitiff-bknv, 
 (Foully dealt on a hard-set foe,) 
 
 Ever is under wise ; 
 Ever is ghosted with after fear, 
 Ye might lesson it, year by year, 
 
 Looking, with fevered eyes, 
 For sail or smoke from the Breton shore, 
 Lest a land, so rudely wronged of yore, 
 
 In flamy revenge should rise ! 
 
 Office at outcry ! ah ! wretched Flam ! 
 
 Vile Farce of hammer and prate ! 
 Trade ! bids Darby and blood ! smirks Pam 
 Little ween they, each courtly Sham, 
 
 Of the Terror lying in wait ! 
 Little wot of the web he spins, 
 Their Tempter in purple, that darkly grins 
 
 Neath his stony visor of state, 
 O er Seas, how narrow ! for, whoso wins, 
 At yon base Auction of Outs and Ins, 
 
 The rule of his Dearest Hate ; 
 Her point once flashing athwart her Kin s, 
 And the reckoning, ledgered for long, begins, 
 
THE MARCH OF THE REGIMENT. 123 
 
 The galling Glories and envied Sins 
 Shall buzz in a rnesh-like fate ! 
 
 Ay, mate your meanest ! ye can but do 
 That permitted ; when. Heaven would view 
 How Wrong, self-branded, her rage must rue 
 In wreck and ashes ! (such scene as you, 
 
 If wise, shall Avitness afar) ; 
 How Guilt, o erblown, her crest heaves high, 
 And dares the injured, with taunt, to try 
 
 Ordeal of Fire in war ; 
 Blindfold and brazen, on God doth call 
 Then grasps in horror, the glaring ball, 
 
 Or treads on the candent bar ! 
 
 Yet a little ! and men shall mark 
 This our Moloch, who sate so stark, 
 (These hundred winters through godless dark 
 
 Grinning o er death and shame) ; 
 Marking for murder each unbowed head, 
 Throned on his Ghizeh of bones, and fed 
 Still with hearts of the holy dead, 
 Naught but a Spectre foul and dread, 
 
 Naught but a hideous Name ! 
 At last ! (ungloom, stern coffined frown ! 
 Rest thee, Gray- Steel ! aye, dead Renown ! 
 In flame and thunder, by field and town, 
 The Giant-Horror is going down, 
 
 Down to the Home whence it came ! ) 
 
 Deaf to the Doom that waits the Beast, 
 Still would she share the Harlot s Feast, 
 And drink of her blood-grimed Cup ! 
 Pause ! the Accursed, on yon frenzied shore, 
 Buyeth your merchandise never more ! 
 Mark, mid the Fiery Dew that drips, 
 Redder, faster, through black Eclipse, 
 
124 TUE MARCH OF THE REGIMENT. 
 
 How Sodom, to-night, shall sup ! 
 (Thus the Kings, in Apocalypse, 
 The traders of souls, and crews of ships, 
 Standing afar, with pallid lips, 
 
 While Babylon s smoke goes up ! ) 
 
 Yet, dree your weird ! though an hour may blight, 
 
 In treason, a century s fame 
 Trust Greed and Spite ! sith Reason and Right 
 
 Lie cold, with Honor and Shame ; 
 And learn anon as on that dread night 
 
 When, the dead around and the deck aflame, 
 From John Paul s lip the fierce word came, 
 
 " We have only begun to fight ! " 
 
 Ay, t is at hand ! - foul lips, be dumb ! 
 Our Armageddon is yet to come ! 
 But cheery bugle and angry drum, 
 
 With volleyed rattle and roar, 
 And cannon thunder-throb, shall be drowned, 
 That day, in a grander, stormier sound ; 
 
 The Land, from mountain to shore, 
 Hurling shackle and scourge and stake 
 Back to their Lender of pit and lake ; 
 
 ( Twas Tophet leased them of yore), 
 Hell, in her murkiest hold, shall quake, 
 
 As they ring on the damned floor ! 
 O mighty Heart ! thou wast long to wake, 
 T is thine, to-morrow, to win or break 
 
 In a deadlier close once more, 
 If but for the dear and glorious sake 
 
 Of those who have gone beibre. 
 
 O Fair and Faithful ! that, sun by sun, 
 Slept on the field, or lost or won, 
 Children dear of the Holy One ! 
 Rest in your wintry sod. 
 
THE LOYAL DEMOCRAT. 125 
 
 Rest, your noble devoir is done, 
 Done and forever ! Ours, to-day, 
 The dreary drift and the frozen clay 
 
 By trampling armies trod ; 
 The smoky shroud of the War-Simoom, 
 The maddened Crime at bay with her Doom, 
 
 And fighting it, clod by clod. 
 O Calm and Glory ! beyond the gloom, 
 Above the bayonets bend and bloom 
 
 The lilies and palms of God. 
 
 Hartford Evening Press. 
 
 THE LOYAL DEMOCRAT. 
 
 BY A. J. H. DUGA3JXE. 
 
 MOUTH not to me your Union rant, 
 Nor gloze mine ears with loyal cant ! 
 Who stands this day in freedom s van, 
 He only is my Union man ! 
 Who tramples Slavery s Gesler hat, 
 He is my loyal Democrat ! 
 
 With whips, engirt by chains, too long 
 We strove to make our fasces strong ; 
 When rebel hands those fasces rend, 
 Must we with whips and chains still mend ? 
 If " Democrats " can stoop to that, 
 God help me ! I m no Democrat ! 
 
 Thank Heaven ! the lines are drawn this hour 
 Twixt manly Right and despot Power ; 
 Who scowls in Freedom s pathway now 
 Bears " tyrant " stamped upon his brow ; 
 Who skulks aloof or shirks his part, 
 Hath " slave " imprinted in his heart. 
 
126 THE LOYAL DEMOCRAT. 
 
 In vain of " Equal Rights " ye prate, 
 Who fawn like dogs at Slavery s gate ; 
 Beyond the slave each slave-whip smites, 
 And codes for blacks are laws for whites ; 
 The chains that negro limbs encoil 
 Reach and enslave each child of toil ! 
 
 O Northern men ! when will ye learn 
 T is labor that these tyrants spurn ? 
 T is not the blood or skin they brand, 
 But every poor man s toil-worn hand ; 
 And ye who serve them knowing this 
 Deserve the slave-lash that ye kiss ! 
 
 While Northern blood remembrance craves 
 From twice ten thousand Southern graves, 
 Shall freeborn hearts beneath the turf 
 Lie always crushed by tramp of serf, 
 And pilgrims, at those graves, some day, 
 By Slavery s hounds be driven away ? 
 
 The green grass in the church-yard waves ; 
 The good corn grows o er battle-graves ; 
 But, oh ! from crimson seeds now sown, 
 What crops what harvest shall be grown ? 
 On Shiloh s plain on Roanoke s sod 
 What fruits shall spring from blood, O God ? 
 
 Spring-time is here ! The past now sleeps 
 
 The present sows the future reaps ! 
 
 Who plants good seed in Freedom s span 
 
 He only is my Union man ! 
 
 Who treads the weeds of Slavery flat, 
 
 He is my loyal Democrat ! 
 
 May 2- ], 1862. 
 
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE 1 27 
 
 THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.* 
 
 WE are coming, Father Abra am, three hundred thousand 
 more, 
 
 From Mississippi s winding stream and from New Eng 
 land s shore ; 
 
 We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and chil 
 dren dear, 
 
 With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear ; 
 
 We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before : 
 
 We are coming, Father Abra am, three hundred thousand 
 more. 
 
 If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky, 
 Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; 
 And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, 
 And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride ; 
 And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave 
 
 music pour : 
 We are coming, Father Abra am, three hundred thousand 
 
 more. 
 
 If you look all up our valleys, where the growing harvests 
 
 shine, 
 
 You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line ; 
 And children from their mothers knees are pulling at the 
 
 weeds, 
 And learning how to reap and sow against their country s 
 
 needs ; 
 And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage 
 
 door : 
 We are coming, Father Abra am, three hundred thousand 
 
 more. 
 
 * President Lincoln issued a proclamation, July, 1862, calling for 
 three hundred thousand more volunteers. 
 
128 THE DAY OF GOD. 
 
 You have called us, and we re. coming, by Richmond s 
 bloody tide 
 
 To lay us down, for Freedom s sake, our brothers bones 
 beside ; 
 
 Or from foul treason s savage grasp to wrench the mur 
 derous blade, 
 
 And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. 
 
 Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone 
 before : 
 
 We are coining, Father Abra am, three hundred thousand 
 more. 
 
 Evening Post. 
 
 THE DAY OF GOD. 
 
 BY GEORGE S. BUKLEIGH. 
 
 ALL blessings walk with onward feet ; 
 
 No day dawns twice, no night comes back ; 
 The car of doom, or slow or fleet, 
 
 Rolls down an unreturned track. 
 
 What we have been, we cannot be ; 
 
 Forward, inexorable Fate 
 Points mutely to her own decree, 
 
 Beyond her hour is all too late. 
 
 God reaps his judgment field to-day, 
 And sifts the darnel from the wheat ; 
 
 A whirlwind sweeps the chaff away, 
 And fire the refuge of deceit. 
 
 Once in a century only blooms 
 The flower of fortune so sublime 
 
 As now hangs budded o er the tombs 
 Of the great fathers of old time. 
 
THE DAY OF GOD. 129 
 
 Eternal Justice sits on high 
 
 And gathers in her awful scales 
 Our shame and glory Slavery s lie 
 
 And Freedom s starry countervails. 
 
 When falls her sword, as fall it must 
 
 In red Bellona s fiery van, 
 Let the old anarch bite the dust, 
 
 And rise the rescued rights of Man. 
 
 In vain a nation s bloody sweat, 
 
 The sob of myriad hearts in vain, 
 If the scotched snake may live to set 
 
 Its venom in our flesh again. 
 
 Priests of an altar fired once more 
 
 For Freedom in His awful name, 
 Who trod the wine-press, dripping gore, 
 
 And gave the Law in lurid flame, 
 
 Oh, not in human wrath, that wreaks 
 Revenge for wrong, and blood for blood 
 
 Not in the fiery will that seeks 
 
 Brute power in battle s stormy flood, 
 
 Go forth, redeemers of a land, 
 
 Sad, stern, and fearless for the Lord, 
 
 Solemn and calm, with firm right hand 
 Laid to the sacrificial sword. 
 
 The lords of treason and the whip 
 Have called you to the dread appeal, 
 
 From the loud cannon s fevered lip, 
 And the wide flash of bristling steel. 
 
 If now the echo of that voice 
 
 Shake down their prison-house of wrong, 
 
130 THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. 
 
 They have their own perfidious choice ; 
 For God is good, and Truth is strong. 
 
 Their steel draws lightning, and the bolt 
 
 But fires their own volcanic mine ; 
 God in their vineyard of Revolt 
 
 Treads out his sacramental wine ! 
 
 Be this our conquest, as they gave 
 Their all to Treason and the Chain, 
 
 We snap the fetter from the slave, 
 
 And make our sole revenge their gain ! 
 
 Independent, August, 1862. 
 
 THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. 
 
 BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 THE flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
 
 The charging trumpets blow ; 
 Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, 
 
 No earthquake strives below. 
 
 And calm and patient nature keeps 
 
 Her ancient promise well, 
 Though o er her bloom and greenness sweeps 
 
 The battle s breath of hell. 
 
 And still she walks in golden hours 
 
 Through harvest-happy farms, 
 And still she wears her fruits and flowers 
 
 Like jewels on her arms. 
 
 What means the gladness of the plain, 
 
 This joy of eve and morn, 
 The mirth that shakes the beard of grain, 
 
 And yellow locks of corn ? 
 
THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862. 131 
 
 Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, 
 
 Arid hearts with hate are hot ; 
 But even paced come round the years, 
 
 And Nature changes not. 
 
 She meets with smiles our bitter grief, 
 
 With songs our groans of pain ; 
 She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 
 
 The war-field s crimson stain. 
 
 Still in the cannon s pause we hear 
 
 Her sweet thanksgiving psalm ; 
 Too near to God for doubt or fear, 
 
 She shares the eternal calm. 
 
 She knows the seed lies safe below 
 
 The fires that blast and burn ; 
 For all the tears of blood we sow, 
 
 She waits the rich return. 
 
 She sees, with clearer eye than ours, 
 
 The good of suffering born, 
 The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 
 
 And ripen like her corn. 
 
 Oh ! give to us, in times like these, 
 
 The vision of her eyes ; 
 And make her eyes and fruited trees 
 
 Our golden prophecies ! 
 
 Oh ! give to us her finer ear ! 
 
 Above this stormy din ; 
 We too would hear the bells of cheer 
 
 Ring peace and freedom in. 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
13 ^ THE CRIPPLE AT THE GATE. 
 
 THE CRIPPLE AT THE GATE * 
 
 LOOK ! how the hoofs and wheels to-day 
 
 Scatter the dust on the broad highway, 
 
 Where Beauty and Fashion, and Wealth and Pride 
 
 On saddle and cushion serenely ride ! 
 
 The very steeds have a conscious prance 
 
 Of pride in their elegant freight ! 
 
 Love and laughter like jewels slip 
 
 From the sparkling eye and the merry lip ; 
 
 You never would think that the Nation s life 
 
 Hung on the thread of a desperate strife, 
 
 Unless from these you should turn, by chance, 
 
 To the Cripple at the Gate. 
 
 Weary and footsore, and ragged and soiled, 
 
 Through the summer glare he has slowly toiled 
 
 Along the edge of the broad highway, 
 
 Since the early dawn of the westering day ; 
 
 His rags are flecked with the dusty foam 
 
 That flew from the gilded bits 
 
 Of the champing steeds that passed him by ; 
 
 And a haggard shadow is in his eye, 
 
 But it is not the gloom of an envious pain ! 
 
 He has left a limb on the battle-plain, 
 
 And to win his way to his distant home 
 
 At my gate, a Beggar, he sits ! 
 
 * We all remember one of the sad evidences of the unavoidable 
 insufficiency of our War Department to the demands made upon it 
 by a gigantic and protracted struggle which spread over such vast 
 distances and employed so many men, the sight of discharged 
 soldiers, sometimes wounded or enfeebled by disease, without the 
 means of reaching their homes, which often were hundreds of miles 
 away. From this seeming reproach we were at last relieved by the 
 efforts of that noble organization, the Sanitary Commission. 
 
THE CRIPPLE AT THE GATE. 133 
 
 He tells me his tale in a simple way : 
 
 " I had nothing," he says, " except my pay, 
 
 And a wife and four little girls, and so 
 
 I sent all my money to them, you know ! 
 
 When I lost my limb, Sir but that I in lame, 
 
 I do not complain, for, you see, 
 
 T is the fortune of war, and it might be worse ; 
 
 And I d lose the other to stop the curse 
 
 Of this terrible strife ! But I meant to say, 
 
 When I left the hospital t other day, 
 
 I did think I had a kind of a claim 
 
 To be sent to my village free. 
 
 " Don t you think it hard yourself, Sir ? True, 
 
 There s a hundred dollars of bounty due 
 
 In three years, or when the war s ended ; but how 
 
 Long may that be can you tell me now V 
 
 I did not enlist for bounty, I trust, 
 
 My conscience I never have sold ; 
 
 But how does it look for a soldier to tramp, 
 
 Begging his way like a vagabond scamp, 
 
 From the fields where he often risked his life, 
 
 To the home where he left his babes and wife, 
 
 In a uniform made of tatters and dust 
 
 Instead of the blue and gold ? 
 
 " Whose fault this is, Sir, I do not know," 
 
 Said the wayworn man as he rose to go ; 
 
 " But of this, alas ! I am sure the sight 
 
 Of a soldier returning in such a plight 
 
 To the home whence, a few short months ago, 
 
 He marched in a gallant band, 
 
 With music, and banners, and shining steel, 
 
 Will dull more ears to the battle-peal, 
 
 And cause more bosoms with doubt to swell, 
 
 Than the secret traitor s deadliest spell. 
 
 Do nt you see yourself, Sir, it must be so V " 
 
 And he sighed as I held out my hand. 
 
134- WANTED A MAN. 
 
 Lofty carriage and low coupe 
 
 Still whirl the dust on the broad highway ; 
 
 Beauty and Fashion, and Wealth and Pride 
 
 Still through the roseate twilight ride, 
 
 With love, and laughter, and prancing steed, 
 
 As if Pleasure were all life s fate. 
 
 But I gaze no more on the joyous train, 
 
 For my eye is fixed with a steadfast strain 
 
 On the tattered soldier s halting stride, 
 
 Till his tall form sinks down the dark hill-side ; 
 
 Then I cry, " Thank God ! he hath now no need 
 
 To beg at the stranger s gate ! " 
 
 Harpers 1 Weekly. 
 
 WANTED A MAN. 
 
 BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN. 
 
 BACK from the trebly crimson d field 
 
 Terrible words are thunder-tost ; 
 Full of the wrath that will not yield, 
 
 Full of revenge for battles lost ! 
 
 Hark to their echo as it crost 
 The Capital, making faces wan : 
 
 " End this murderous holocaust ; 
 Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 
 
 " Give us a man of God s own mould, 
 
 Born to marshal his fellow-men ; 
 One whose fame is not bought and sold 
 
 At the stroke of a politician s pen ; 
 
 Give us the man of thousands ten, 
 Fit to do as well as to plan ; 
 
 Give us a rally ing-cry, and then, 
 Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAX ! 
 
WANTED A MAN. 135 
 
 " No leader to shirk the boasting foe, 
 
 And to march and countermarch our brave, 
 Till they fade like ghosts in the marshes low, 
 
 And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave ; 
 
 Nor another, whose fatal banners wave 
 Aye in Disaster s shameful van ; 
 
 Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave ; 
 Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 
 
 " Hearts are mourning in the North, 
 
 While the sister rivers seek the main, 
 Red with our life-blood flowing forth, 
 
 Who shall gather it up again ? 
 
 Though we march to the battle-plain 
 Firmly as when the strife began, 
 
 Shall all our offering be in vain ? 
 Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! 
 
 " Is there never one in all the land, 
 
 One on whose might the Cause may lean ? 
 Are all the common men so grand, 
 
 And all the titled ones so mean ? 
 
 What if your failure may have been 
 In trying to make good bread from bran 
 
 From worthless metal a weapon keen ? 
 Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN ! 
 
 " Oh, we will follow him to the death, 
 
 Where the foeman s fiercest columns are ! 
 Oh, we will use our latest breath, 
 
 Cheei-Jng for every sacred star ! 
 
 His to marshal us nigh and far, 
 Ours to battle, as patriots can 
 
 When a Hero leads the Holy War ! 
 Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN ! " 
 
 SEPTEMBER 8, 1862. 
 
 New York Tribune. 
 
1 3 6 FREDERICKSB UR GIL 
 
 FREDERICKSBURGH. 
 
 BY W. F. W. 
 
 EIGHTEEN hundred and sixty-two, 
 
 That is the number of wounded men 
 Who, if the telegraph s tale be true, 
 
 Reached Washington City but yester e en. 
 
 And it is but a handful, the telegrams add, 
 
 To those who are coming by boats and by cars ; 
 
 Weary and wounded, dying and sad ; 
 
 Covered but only in front with scars. 
 
 Some are wounded by Minie shot, 
 
 Others are torn by the hissing shell, 
 As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot 
 
 As a demon spawned in a traitor s hell. 
 
 Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet, 
 Others are crushed by the horses hoof; 
 
 Or fell neath the shower of iron Avhich met 
 Them as hail beats down on an open roof. 
 
 Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate ? 
 
 Why was this living death their doom ? 
 Why did they fall to this piteous state 
 
 Neath the rifle s crack and the cannon s boom ? 
 
 Orders arrived, and the river they crossed ; 
 
 Built the bridge in the enemy s face ; 
 No matter how many were shot and lost, 
 
 And floated sad corpses away from the place. 
 
 Orders they heard, and they scaled the height, 
 Climbing right " into the jaws of death ; " 
 
FREDERICKSB UR OH. 1 3 7 
 
 Each man grasping his rifle-piece tight, 
 Scarcely pausing to draw his breath. 
 
 Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame 
 From hidden fence and from ambuscade ; 
 
 A moment more (they say this is fame,) 
 A thousand dead men on the grass were laid. 
 
 Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed, 
 At least, is " our loss," the newspapers say. 
 
 This loss to our army must surely be filled 
 Against another great battle-day. 
 
 " Our loss ! " Whose loss ? Let demagogues say 
 That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong : 
 
 What do the orphans and widows pray ? 
 What is the burden of their sad song ? 
 
 T is their loss ! But the tears in their weeping eyes 
 Hide Cabinet, President, Generals, all ; 
 
 And they only can see a cold form that lies 
 On the hillside slope, by that fatal wall. 
 
 They cannot discriminate men or means, 
 They only demand that this blundering cease. 
 
 In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes, 
 Though that end be even with traitors peace. 
 
 Is thy face from thy people turned, O God ? 
 
 Is thy arm for the Nation no longer strong ? 
 We cry from our homes the dead cry from the sod 
 
 How long, O our righteous God ! how long ? 
 
 NEW YORK, December 17, 1862. 
 
138 "MY MARYLAND. 
 
 MY MAE YL AND." * 
 
 An me ! I vc had enough of thee, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 Dear land, thou art too dear for me, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 I 11 take the nearest ford and go, 
 I 11 leave thee, darling, to the foe ; 
 But do not let him kick me so, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 You ve dashed my hopes, ungrateful State, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 Go ! bless your stars I came too late, 
 
 Maryland, you understand ! 
 I meant to dress you well in black, 
 And scar you with the battle s track, 
 And I had scourges for your back, 
 
 Maryland, my contraband ! 
 
 Oh, where are Longstreet, Hill, and Lee ? 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 And " Stonewall " Jackson, where is he ? 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 Four coat-tails streaming in the breeze, 
 And that is all a body sees ; 
 Better than dangling from the trees, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Gray geese are flying southward, ho! 
 Maryland, O Maryland ! 
 
 * This parody of the most spirited and most popular of the 
 Rebel Songs celebrates the failure of the insurgent forces to take 
 and hold Maryland, which was General Lee s object in his north 
 ward march, and which was defeated by the battles of South Moun 
 tain and Antie am. 
 
BOSTON HYMN. 139 
 
 It s getting cold up there, you know, 
 
 Maryland, O Maryland ! 
 I should have thought it rather warm, 
 South Mountain yonder took by storm, 
 Antietam yielded in alarm, 
 
 Maryland, O Maryland ! 
 
 Blood-red my hand, and dead my heart, 
 
 Native land, my native land ! 
 Columbia from her grave will start, 
 
 Murder d land, my murder d land ! 
 Thy flag is like a sword of fire, 
 I 11 fly, I 11 fly its vengeful ire ; 
 Beneath its stroke its foes expire, 
 
 Native land, my native land ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 BOSTON HYMN.* 
 
 BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 THE word of the Lord by night 
 To the watching Pilgrims came, 
 As they sat by the sea-side, 
 And filled their hearts with flame. 
 
 God said, I am tired of Kings, 
 I suffer them no more ; 
 Up to my ear the morning brings 
 The outrage of the poor. 
 
 Think ye I made this ball 
 A field of havoc and war, 
 
 * Read at the Emancipation Meeting at Boston, January 1, 
 1803. 
 
140 BOSTON HYMN. 
 
 Where tyrants great and tyrants small 
 Might harry the weak and poor ? 
 
 My angel, his name is Freedom, 
 Choose him to be your king ; 
 He shall cut pathways east and west, 
 And fend you with his wing. 
 
 Lo ! I uncover the land 
 Which I hid of old time in the West, 
 As the sculptor uncovers his statue, 
 When he has wrought his best. 
 
 I show Columbia, of the rocks 
 Which dip their foot in the seas, 
 And soar to the air-borne flocks 
 Of clouds, and the boreal fleece. 
 
 I will divide my goods ; 
 Call in the wretch and slave : 
 None shall rule but the humble, 
 And none but toil shall have. 
 
 I will have never a noble, 
 No lineage counted great : 
 Fishers and choppers and ploughmen 
 Shall constitute a State. 
 
 Go, cut down trees in the forest, 
 And trim the straightest boughs ; 
 Cut down trees in the forest, 
 And build me a wooden house. 
 
 Call the people together, 
 The young men and the sires, 
 The digger in the harvest-field, 
 Hireling and him that hires. 
 
BOSTON HYMN. 141 
 
 And here in a pine State-House 
 They shall choose men to rule 
 In every needful faculty, 
 In church and state and school. 
 
 Lo, now ! if these poor men 
 
 Can govern the land and sea, 
 
 And make just laws below the sun, 
 
 As planets faithful be. 
 
 And ye shall succor men ; 
 
 T is nobleness to serve ; 
 
 Help them who cannot help again ; 
 
 Beware from right to swerve. 
 
 I break your bonds and masterships, 
 And I unchain the slave : 
 Free be his heart and hand henceforth, 
 As wind and wandering wave. 
 
 I cause from every creature 
 His proper good to flow : 
 So much as he is and doeth, 
 So much he shall bestow. 
 
 But, laying his hands on another 
 To coin his labor and sweat, 
 He goes in pawn to his victim 
 For eternal years in debt. 
 
 Pay ransom to the owner, 
 
 And fill the bag to the brim ! 
 
 Who is the owner ? The slave is owner, 
 
 And ever was. Pay him ! 
 
 O North ! give him beauty for rags, 
 And honor, O South ! for his shame ; 
 
142 
 
 TREASON S LAST DEVICE. 
 
 Nevada ! coin thy golden crags 
 With Freedom s image and name. 
 
 Up ! and the dusky race 
 That sat in darkness long, 
 Be swift their feet as antelopes, 
 And as behemoth strong. 
 
 Come East and West and North, 
 By races, as snow-flakes, 
 And carry My purpose forth, 
 Which neither halts nor shakes. 
 
 My will fulfilled shall be ; 
 For, in daylight or in dark, 
 My thunderbolt has eyes to see 
 His way home to the mark. 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 TREASON S LAST DEVICE. 
 
 BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN. 
 
 " Who deserves greatness, 
 Deserves your hate. .... 
 You common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe 
 As reek o the rotten fens." 
 
 Coriolanus. 
 
 "Hark! hark! the dogs do bark." 
 
 Nursery Rhyme. 
 
 SONS of New England in the fray, 
 
 Do you hear the clamor behind your back ? 
 
 Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray, 
 Sweetheart and all the mongrel pack ? 
 
 Girded well with her ocean crags, 
 Little our mother heeds their noise ; 
 
TREASON S LAST DEVICE. 143 
 
 Her eyes are fixed on crimson flags : 
 
 But you, do you hear It, Yankee boys ? 
 
 Do you hear them say that the patriot fire 
 
 Burns on her altai-s too pure and bright, 
 To the darkened heavens leaping higher, 
 
 Though drenched with the blood of every fight ? 
 That in the light of its searching flame 
 
 Treason and tyrants stand revealed, 
 And the yielding craven is put to shame 
 
 On capitol floor or fbughten field ? 
 
 Do you hear the hissing voice which saith 
 
 That she who bore through all the land 
 The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, 
 
 And young Invention s mystic wand 
 Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, 
 
 With not one of her sisters to share her fa* c, 
 A Hagar, wandering sick at heart ? 
 
 A Pariah, bearing tha nation s hate ? 
 
 Sons, who have peopled the gorgeous West, 
 
 And planted the Pilgrim vine anew, 
 Where, by a richer soil carest, 
 
 It grows as ever its parent grew, 
 Say, do you hear while the very bells 
 
 Of your churches ring with her ancient voice. 
 And the song of your children sweetly tells 
 
 How true was the land of your fathers choice 
 
 Do you hear the traitors Avho bid you speak 
 
 The word that shall sever the sacred tie ? 
 And ye who dwell by the golden Peak, 
 
 Has the subtle whisper glided by ? 
 Has it crossed the immemorial plains 
 
 To coasts where the gray Pacific roars, 
 And the Pilgrim blood in the people s veins 
 
 Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores ? 
 
144 LARRY S RETURN FROM THE WAR. 
 
 Spirits of sons who side by side 
 
 In a hundred battles fought and fell, 
 Whom now no East and West divide, 
 
 In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell, 
 Say, has it reached your glorious rest, 
 
 And ruffled the calm which crowns you there ? 
 The shame that recreants have confest, 
 
 The plot that floats in the troubled air ? 
 
 Sons of New England, here and there, 
 
 Wherever men are still holding by 
 The honor our fathers left so fair, 
 
 Say, do you hear the cowards cry ? 
 Crouching amongst her grand old crags, 
 
 Lightly our mother heeds their noise, 
 With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags ; 
 
 But you, do you hear it, Yankee boys ? 
 
 WASHINGTON, Jan. 19, 1863. 
 
 New York Tribune. 
 
 LARRY S RETURN FROM THE WAR. 
 
 THF black clouds Avere angrily chasing each other; 
 
 The cold winter winds howling carelessly by 
 The cottage where sat Kitty Gray and her mother, 
 
 Poor Kitty looked sad, with a tear in her eye. 
 She thought of her lover, with whom she had parted, 
 
 Who had gone to the wars, it was Larry O More. 
 Oh, hark ! she heard footsteps, and suddenly started ; 
 
 Then smiled, as she leaped like a faAvn to the door. 
 
 * Larry was one of those who withdrew from the contest be 
 cause of the Proclamation of Freedom to the slaves in the States 
 under rebel rule, which was issued January 1, 1863. 
 
LARRY S RETURN FROM THE WAR. 145 
 
 And lo ! there stood Larry, as fresh and as cosy 
 
 As when he left Kitty s bewitching young charms ; 
 Whose eyes were so bright, and whose cheeks were so 
 rosy, 
 
 " Arrah ! Kitty," said Larry, " love, come to me arms." 
 " O Larry ! you re safe ! " " Yes, thrue for ye, darlin ; 
 
 I ve been in the battles, whin the balance wor kilt, 
 An the nbils, like haythens, come fightin an snarlin 
 
 Arrah! Kitty, no knowin the blood that was spilt." 
 
 " Come, Larry, sit down." " Faith, I will, an close near 
 you, 
 
 For lonesome I ve been for many months past ; 
 I often have wished d ye mind ? " " Yes, I hear you." 
 
 " That ivery big fight that we had was the last." 
 " And have you been wounded ? " " Ah, no ! I wor 
 lucky. 
 
 The boys fought like divils, an died in a hape ; 
 An since our last inarch, as we wint through Kintucky, 
 
 How many brave fellows have laid down to slape ! 
 
 " No longer a sojer, dear Kitty, I 11 tarry, 
 
 Faith, while I wor one, to the cause I wor thrue, 
 An now I ve come home, love, a swate girl to marry." 
 
 " Pray, Larry, who is she ? " " Arrah ! Kitty, t is 
 
 you ! 
 I ve got me discharge, an through life s wintry weather 
 
 We 11 make the path aisy as aisy can be. 
 Me heart s in me hand." " I 11 take them together." 
 
 " Presint arms, then, darlint ! " "I will, love," says 
 she. 
 
 " Ah, Larry ! I m glad are you tired of fightin ? " 
 And sweet Kitty smiled looked him full in the eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! no, Kitty, dear ; for I took a delight in 
 Performin me dooty, wherever it lies ; 
 
 May me hand lave me body whin I pull the thrigger 
 10 
 
146 AT PORT ROYAL. 
 
 In battle again." " Why, Larry ? " " Because 
 The Goddess of Liberty s turned to a nigger, 
 An ould Father Abrani s forgotten the laws ! " 
 
 HERMITAGE, January 8, 1863. 
 
 Louisville Sunday Democrat 
 
 AT PORT ROYAL. 
 
 BY JOHN GREENLE4F WIIITTIER. 
 
 THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, 
 
 The ship-lights .on the sea ; 
 The night-wind smooths with drifting sand 
 
 Our track on lone Tybee. 
 
 At last our grating keels outslide, 
 Our good boats forward swing ; 
 
 And while we ride the land-locked tide, 
 Our negroes row and sing. 
 
 For dear the bondman holds his gifts 
 
 Of music and of song ; 
 The gold that kindly Nature sifts 
 
 Among his sands of wrong ; 
 
 The power to make his toiling days 
 And poor home-comforts please ; 
 
 The quaint relief of mirth that plays 
 With sorrow s minor keys. 
 
 Another glow than sunset s fire 
 Has filled the West with light, 
 
 W r here field and garner, barn and byre 
 Are blazing through the night. 
 
AT PORT ROYAL. 147 
 
 The land is wild with fear and hate, 
 
 The rout runs mad and fast ; 
 From hand to hand, from gate to gate, 
 
 The flaming brand is passed. 
 
 The lurid glow falls strong across 
 
 Dark faces broad Avith smiles : 
 Not theirs the terror, hate and loss 
 
 That fire yon blazing piles. 
 
 With oar-strokes timing to their song, 
 
 They weave in simple lays 
 The pathos of remembered wrong, 
 
 The hope of better days ; 
 
 The triumph-note that Miriam sung, 
 
 The joy of uncaged birds : 
 Softening with Afric s mellow tongue 
 
 Their broken Saxon words. 
 
 SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. 
 
 O, PRAISE an tanks ! De Lord he come 
 
 To set de people free ; 
 An massa tink de day ob doom, 
 
 An we ob jubilee. 
 De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves 
 
 He jus as trong as den ; 
 He say de word : we las night slaves, 
 To-day de Lord s freemen. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 We 11 hab de rice an corn ; 
 O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 Ole massa on he trabbles gone ; 
 He leaf de land behind : 
 
148 AT PORT ROYAL. 
 
 De Lord s breff blow him furder on, 
 
 Like corn shuck in de wind. 
 We own de hoe, we own de plough, 
 
 We own de hands dat hold ; 
 We sell de pig, we sell de cow, 
 But nebber chile be sold. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 We 11 hab de rice an corn ; 
 O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 We pray de Lord ; he gib us signs 
 
 Dat some day we be free ; 
 De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, 
 
 De wild-duck to de sea ; 
 We tink it when de church-bell ring, 
 
 We dream it in de dream ; 
 De rice-bird mean it when he sing, 
 De eagle when he scream. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 We 11 hab de rice an corn ; 
 O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
 We know de promise nebber fail, 
 
 An nebber lie de word ; 
 So, like de postles in de jail, 
 
 AVe waited for de Lord ; 
 An now he open ebery door, 
 
 An trow away de key ; 
 
 He tink we lub him so before, 
 
 We lub him better free. 
 
 De yam will grow, de cotton blow, 
 
 He 11 gib de rice an corn ; 
 O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear 
 De driver blow his horn ! 
 
LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 149 
 
 So sing our dusky gondoliers ; 
 
 And with a secret pain, 
 And smiles that seem akin to tears, 
 
 We hear the wild refrain. 
 
 We dare not share the negro s trust, 
 
 Nor yet his hope deny ; 
 We only know that God is just, 
 
 And every wrong shall die. 
 
 Rude seems the song ; each swarthy face, 
 
 Flame-lighted, ruder still, 
 We start to think that hapless race 
 
 Must shape our good or ill : 
 
 That laws of changeless justice bind 
 
 Oppressor with oppressed ; 
 And close as sin and suffering joined, 
 
 We march to Fate abreast. 
 
 Sing on, poor hearts ! your chant shall be 
 
 Our sign of blight or bloom, 
 The Vala-song of Liberty, 
 
 Or death-rune of our doom ! 
 
 LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 BY SARAH T. BOLTON. 
 
 WHAT, was it a dream ? am I all alone 
 
 In the dreary night and the drizzling rain ? 
 
 Hist ! ah, it was only the river s moan ; 
 
 They have left me behind, with the mangled slain. 
 
150 LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Yes, now I remember it all too well ! 
 
 We met, from the battling ranks apart ; 
 Together our weapons flashed and fell, 
 
 And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart. 
 
 In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, 
 
 It was all too dark to see his face ; 
 But I heard his death-groans, one by one, 
 
 And he holds me still in a cold embrace. 
 
 He spoke but once, and I could not hear 
 The words he said, for the cannon s roar ; 
 
 But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear, 
 O God ! I had heard that voice before ! 
 
 Had heard it before at our mother s knee, 
 
 When we lisped the words of our evening prayer ! 
 
 My brother ! would I had died for thee, 
 This burden is more than my soul can bear ! 
 
 I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, 
 
 And begged him to show me, by word or sign, 
 
 That he knew and forgave me : lie could not speak, 
 But he nestled his poor cold face to mine. 
 
 The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, 
 And then for awhile I forgot my pain, 
 
 And over the lakelet we seemed to glide 
 In our little boat, two boys again. 
 
 And then, in my dream, we stood alone 
 On a forest path where the shadows fell ; 
 
 And I heard again the tremulous tone, 
 And the tender words of his last farewell. 
 
 But that parting was years, long years ago, 
 He wandered away to a foreign land ; 
 
IN LOUISIANA. 151 
 
 And our dear old mother will never know 
 That he died to-night by his brother s hand. 
 
 The soldiers who buried the dead away, 
 
 Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, 
 
 But laid them to sleep till the Judgment-day, 
 Heart folded to heart, and face to face. 
 
 INDIAN AOPLIS, Indiana, March, 1863. 
 
 Once a 
 
 IN LOUISIANA. 
 
 BY J. AV. DE FOREST, U. S. A. 
 
 WITHOUT a hillock stretched the plain ; 
 
 For months we had not seen a hill ; 
 
 The endless, flat savannas still 
 Wearied our eyes with waving cane. 
 
 One tangled cane-field lay before 
 The ambush of the cautious foe ; 
 Behind, a black bayou Avith low, 
 
 Reed-hidden, miry, treacherous shore ; 
 
 A sullen swamp along the right, 
 
 Where alligators slept and crawled, 
 And moss-robed cypress giants sprawled 
 
 Athwart the noontide s blistering light. 
 
 Quick, angry spits of musketry 
 
 Proclaimed our skirmishers at work ; 
 We saw their crouching figures lurk 
 
 Through thickets, firing from the knee. 
 
152 IN LOUISIANA. 
 
 Our Parrot ts felt the distant wood 
 
 With humming, shrieking, growling shell ; 
 When suddenly the mouth of hell 
 
 Gaped fiercely for its human food. 
 
 A long and low blue roll of smoke 
 Curled up a hundred yards ahead, 
 And deadly storms of driving lead 
 
 From rifle-pits and cane-fields broke. 
 
 Then while the bullets whistled thick, 
 
 And hidden batteries boomed and shelled, 
 " Charge bayonets ! " the colonel yelled ; 
 
 " Battalion forward, double quick ! " 
 
 With even slopes of bayonets 
 
 Advanced a dazzling, threatening crest 
 Right toward the rebels hidden nest, 
 
 The dark-blue, living billow sets. 
 
 The color-guard was at my side ; 
 
 I heard the color-sergeant groan ; 
 
 I heard the bullet crush the bone ; 
 I might have touched him as he died. 
 
 The life-blood spouted from his mouth 
 And sanctified the wicked land : 
 Of martyred saviours what a band 
 
 Has suffered to redeem the South ! 
 
 I had no malice in rny mind ; 
 
 I only cried, " Close up. Guide right ! " 
 My single purpose in the fight 
 
 W T as steady march with ranks aligned. 
 
 I glanced along the martial rows, 
 
 And marked the soldiers eyeballs burn ; 
 
SONG OF NEW ENGLAND SPRING BIRDS. 153 
 
 Their eager faces, hot and stern, 
 The wrathful triumph on their brows. 
 
 The traitors saw ; they reeled, they fled : 
 Fear-stricken, gray-clad multitudes 
 Streamed wildly toward the covering woods, 
 
 And left us victory and their dead. 
 
 Once more the march, the tiresome plain, 
 The Father River fringed with dykes, 
 Gray cypresses, palmetto spikes, 
 
 Bayous and swamps and yellowing cane ; 
 
 With here and there plantations rolled 
 In flowers, bananas, orange-groves, 
 Where laugh the sauntering negro droves, 
 
 Reposing from the task of old ; 
 
 And, rarer, half-deserted towns, 
 
 Devoid of men, where women scowl, 
 Avoiding us as lepers foul 
 
 With sidling gait and flouting gowns. 
 
 THIBODEAUX, La., March, 1863. 
 
 Harpers Monthly. 
 
 SONG OF NEW-ENGLAND SPRING BIRDS. 
 
 WHEN Robin, Swallow, Thrush, and Wren, 
 From " way down South " had come again, 
 I roamed through field and wood to see 
 If birds, like men, could Rebels be ; 
 I wondered if their tiny throats 
 Would circulate secession notes ; 
 I think, may be, my thoughts they knew, 
 So what they sang, I 11 sing to you. 
 
154 SONG OF NEW ENGLAND SPRING BIRDS. 
 
 First rising from a sedgy brook, 
 
 The stump, bold Bob-o Lincoln took ; 
 
 " Well, now, I guess I m glad," said he, 
 
 " For my free speech a stump to see ; 
 
 They could n t hold me in the mesh 
 
 Of that strange net they call Secesh ; 
 
 To keep me down they need n t think on, 
 
 Hurrah ! for Bob (and Abram) Lincoln ! " 
 
 The Robin Red-breast sang his song ; 
 " Ah, me ! I ve seen such fearful wrong ! 
 I thought at first the storm would clear up, 
 But soon I had no heart to chirrup ! 
 The Sunny South is fine, I know, 
 When Northern hills are white with snow ; 
 But oh, t is full of grief and pain ! 
 Cheer up ! chirrup I in home again." 
 
 The Wren piped forth her tiny cry ; 
 
 " A little thing, I know, am I ; 
 
 But small, weak things, like you and me, 
 
 My sister Sparrow, love the free ! " 
 
 The Sparrow heard the lowly call, 
 
 And said, " Who heeds the sparrows fall, 
 
 And keeps them always in His sight, 
 
 Shall hear ME sing God speed the Right ! " 
 
 Then Jay, the bluebird, joined the throng, 
 
 And bade the white Dove fly along ; 
 
 And Oriole with throat of red, 
 
 And then exultantly, he said : 
 
 " Come, loyal birds, and as we stand, 
 
 Behold the colors of our Land ! 
 
 Let every bird that s brave and true, 
 
 Sing, cheer, the Red and White and Blue ! " 
 
 The sky o erhead was clear and bright, 
 The North wind sang o er plain and height ; 
 
THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE. 155 
 
 The rill went singing on its way, 
 And leaves and flowers were bright and gay ; 
 The rock and wood and meadow rang, 
 As loud and clear and sweet they sang, 
 And every bird, it seemed to me, 
 Sang " Praise the Lord ! We re free ! we re free ! " 
 
 Coinmcnicealtli. 
 
 THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE. 
 
 THE ripe red berries of the wintergreen 
 Lure me to pause awhile 
 
 In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean 
 Down where these wild flowers smile, 
 And rest me in this shade ; for many a mile, 
 
 Through lane and dusty street, 
 
 I ve walked with weary, weary feet, 
 
 And now I tarry mid this woodland scene, 
 
 Mong ferns and mosses sweet. 
 
 Here all around me blows 
 
 The pale primrose. 
 
 I wonder if the gentle blossom knows 
 
 The feeling at my heart the solemn grief, 
 
 So whelming and so deep 
 That it disdains relief, 
 
 And will not let me weep. 
 I wonder that the woodbine thrives and grows, 
 And is indifferent to the nation s woes. 
 For while these mornings shine, these blossoms bloom, 
 Impious rebellion wraps the land in gloom. 
 
 Nature, thou art unkind, 
 
 fjnsympathizing, blind ! 
 
 Yon lichen, clinging to th o erhanging rock, 
 
156 THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVLLLE. 
 
 Is happy, and each blade of grass 
 
 O er which unconsciously I pass 
 Smiles in my face, and seems to mock 
 
 Me with its joy. Alas ! I cannot find 
 
 One charm in bounteous Nature, while the wind 
 That blows upon my cheek bears on each gust 
 The groans of my poor country, bleeding in the dust. 
 
 The air is musical with notes 
 
 That gush from winged warblers throats, 
 
 And in the leafy trees 
 
 I hear the drowsy hum of bees. 
 
 Prone from the blinding sky 
 Dance rainbow-tinted sunbeams, thick with motes ; 
 
 Daisies are shining, and the butterfly 
 Wavers from flower to flower ; yet in this wood 
 The ruthless foernan stood, 
 And every turf is drenched with human blood ! 
 
 O heartless flowers! 
 
 O trees, clad in your robes of glistering sheen, 
 Put off this canopy of gorgeous green ! 
 
 These are the hours 
 
 For mourning, not for gladness. While this smart 
 
 Of treason dire gashes the nation s heart, 
 
 Let birds refuse to sing, 
 
 And flowers to bloom upon the lap of spring. 
 
 Let Nature s face itself with tears o erflow, 
 
 In deepest anguish for a people s woe. 
 
 While rank Rebellion stands 
 
 With blood of martyrs on his impious hands ; 
 
 While slavery and chains 
 
 And cruelty and direst hate 
 
 Uplift their heads within th afflicted State, 
 And freeze the blood in every patriot s veins 
 Let these old woodlands fair 
 
SONG OF THE COPPERHEAD. 157 
 
 Grow black with gloom, and from its thunder-lair 
 
 Let lightning leap, and scorch th accursed air ; 
 
 Until the suffering earth, 
 
 Of treason sick, shall spew the monster forth, 
 
 And each regenerate sod 
 
 Be consecrate anew, to Freedom and to God ! 
 
 Delia H. German. 
 
 SONG OF THE COPPERHEAD. 
 
 THERE was glorious news, for our arms were victorious 
 
 T was sometime ago and t was somewhere out 
 
 West ; 
 The big guns were booming, the boys getting glorious ; 
 
 But one man was gloomy, and glad all the rest ! 
 Intending emotions delightful to damp, 
 
 He hummed and he hawed, and he sneered and he 
 
 sighed, 
 A snake in the grass, and a spy in the camp, 
 
 While the honest were laughing, the Copperhead cried ! 
 
 There was news of a battle, and sad souls were aching 
 
 The fate of their brave and beloved ones to learn ; 
 Pale wives stood all tearless, their tender hearts breaking 
 
 For the gallant good-man who would never return ! 
 We had lost all but honor, so ran the sad story, 
 
 Oh ! bitter the cup that the Patriot quaffed ! 
 He had tears for our flag, he had sighs for our glory, 
 
 He had groans for our dead, but the Copperhead 
 laughed ! 
 
 The traitor ! the sneak ! say, what fate shall await him, 
 Who forgets his fair land, and who spits on her fame ? 
 
 Let no woman love him ! Let honest men hate him ! 
 Let his children refuse to be known by his name ! 
 
158 AT GETTYSBURG. 
 
 In the hour of our sorrow all recreant we found him, 
 In the hour of his woe may he sigh for a friend ! 
 
 Let his conscience upbraid, let his memory hound him, 
 And no man take note of the Copperhead s end ! 
 
 Vanity Fair. 
 
 AT GETTYSBURG.* 
 
 LIKE a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer sun 
 
 When to saddle we leaped at the order, 
 Spurred on by the boom of the deep-throated gun, 
 
 That told of the foe on our border. 
 A mist in our rear lay Antietam s dark plain, 
 
 And thoughts of its carnage came o er us ; 
 But smiling before us surged fields of ripe grain, 
 
 And we swore none should reap it before us. 
 
 That night, with the ensign who rode by my side, 
 
 On the camp s dreary edge I stood picket ; 
 Our ears intent, lest every wind-rustle should hide 
 
 A spy s stealthy tread in the thicket ; 
 And, there, while we watched the first arrows of dawn 
 
 Through the veil of the rising mist s quiver, 
 He told how the foeman had closed in upon 
 
 His home by the Tennessee River. 
 
 He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down, 
 
 With last breath the traitor flag scorning, 
 (And his brow at the mem ry grew dark with a frown 
 
 That paled the red light of the morning.) 
 For days he had followed the cowardly band ; 
 
 And when one lagged to forage or trifle, 
 Had seared in his forehead the deep Minie brand, 
 
 And scored a fresh notch on his rifle. 
 
 * The Battle of Gettysburg was fought July 1st, 2d, and 3d, 
 18G3. 
 
AT GETTYSBURG. 159 
 
 " But one of the rangers had cheated his fate, 
 
 For him he would search the world over." 
 Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate, 
 
 Ne er saw I in woman-scorned lover. 
 O, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls 
 
 Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle ! 
 Or fancied those dreamy eyes soft as a girl s 
 
 Could light with the fury of battle ? 
 
 To horse ! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell 
 
 Overhead through the forest were crashing. 
 A cheer for the flag ! and the summer light fell 
 
 On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing. 
 As mad ocean waves to the storm-revel flock, 
 
 So on we dashed, heedless of dangers ; 
 A moment our long line surged back at the shock 
 
 Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers. 
 
 I looked for our ensign : ahead of his troop, 
 
 Pressing on through the conflict infernal, 
 His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop, 
 
 He spurred to the side of his Colonel. 
 And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright sword 
 
 Through shako and gaudy plume shiver, 
 With " this for the last of the murderous horde ! " 
 
 And " this for the home by the river ! " 
 
 At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe, 
 
 By a shell-shattered caisson we found him ; 
 And we buried him there in the sunset glow, 
 
 With the dear old flag knotted around him. 
 Yet how could we mourn, when every proud strain 
 
 Told of foemen hurled back in disorder ; 
 When we knew that the North reaped her rich harvest 
 gram 
 
 Unharmed by a foe on her border ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
t6o HOW ARE YOU, GENERAL LEE? 
 
 HOW ARE YOU, GENERAL LEE? 
 
 OF General Lee, the Rebel chief, you all perhaps do 
 
 know 
 How he came North, a short time since, to spend a month 
 
 or so ? 
 But soon he found the climate warm, although a Southern 
 
 man, 
 And quickly hurried up his cakes,* and toddled home 
 
 again. 
 Chorus How are you, General Lee ? it is ; why don t 
 
 you longer stay ? 
 
 How are your friends in Maryland and Penn- 
 sylvani-a ? 
 
 Jeff. Davis met him coining back : " Why, General Lee," 
 
 he said, 
 " What makes you look and stagger so ? there s whiskey 
 
 in your head." 
 "Not much, I think," says General Lee; "No whiskey s 
 
 there, indeed ; 
 What makes me feel so giddy is, I ve taken too much 
 
 Mcade ! " 
 Chorus How are you, General ? &c. 
 
 " But you seem ill yourself, dear Jeff. You look quite 
 
 sad enough ; 
 I think, while I ve been gone, Old Abe has used you 
 
 rather rough." 
 " Well, yes, he has, and that s a fact ; it makes me feel 
 
 downcast, 
 
 * As long as the importance of hurrying buckwheat pancakes 
 from the griddle to the table is impressed upon the American mind, 
 this vile slang will need no explanation. But the fame of the 
 rebel march into Pennsylvania and of the victory of Gettysburg 
 will probably outlive even the taste for those alluring compounds. 
 
HYMN. l6l 
 
 For they ve bothered us at Vicksburg, so t is Granted 
 
 them at last." 
 Chorus Then, how are you, Jeff. Davis ? What is it 
 
 makes you sigh ? 
 
 How are your friends at Vicksburg and in 
 Mississippi-! ? 
 
 " Yes, Vicksburg they have got quite sure, and Richmond 
 
 soon they 11 take ; 
 At Port Hudson, too, they have some Banks I fear we 
 
 cannot break : 
 While Rosecrans, in Tennessee, swears he 11 our army 
 
 flog, 
 And prove if Bragg s a terrier good, Holdfast s a better 
 
 dog." 
 Chorus How are you, Jeff. Davis ? Would you not 
 
 like to be 
 A long way out of Richmond and the Con- 
 
 fede ra cy ? 
 For, with u Porter " on the river, and " Meade " 
 
 upon the land, 
 
 I guess you 11 find that these mixed drinks are 
 more than you can stand. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1863. 
 BY GEORGE II. BOICER. 
 
 LORD, the people of the land 
 In Thy presence humbly stand ; 
 On this day, when Thou didst free 
 Men of old from tyranny, 
 We, their children, bow to Thee. 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 11 
 
1 62 HYMN. 
 
 All our homes are red with blood ; 
 Long our grief we have withstood ; 
 Every lintel, each door-post 
 Drips, at tidings from the host, 
 With the blood of some one lost. 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 
 Comfort, Lord, the grieving one 
 Who bewails a stricken son ! 
 Comfort, Lord, the weeping wife, 
 In her long, long widowed life, 
 Brooding o er the fatal strife ! 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 
 On our Nation s day of birth, 
 Bless Thy own long-favored earth! 
 Urge the soldier with Thy will ! 
 Aid their leaders with Thy skill ! 
 Let them hear Thy trumpet thrill ! 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 
 Lord, we only fight for peace, 
 Fight that freedom may increase. 
 Give us back the peace of old, 
 When the land with plenty rolled, 
 And our banner awed the bold ! 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 
 Lest we pray in thoughtless guilt 
 Shape the future as Thou wilt ! 
 Purge our realm from hoary crime 
 With Thy battles, dread, sublime, 
 In Thy well-appointed time ! 
 
LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 163 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 
 With one heart the Nation s cries 
 From our choral lips arise ; 
 Thou didst point a noble way 
 For our Fathers through the fray : 
 Lead their children thus to-day ! 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 
 In His name who bravely bore 
 
 Cross and crown begemmed with gore, 
 
 By His last immortal groan 
 
 Ere He mounted to His throne, 
 
 Make our sacred cause Thine own ! 
 
 Help us, Lord, our only trust ! 
 
 We are helpless, we are dust ! 
 
 LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 BY HOWARD GLYNDON. 
 
 OH, my darling ! my darling ! never to feel 
 
 Your hand going over my hair ! 
 Never to lie in your arms again, 
 
 Never to know where you are ! 
 Oh, the weary miles that stretch between 
 
 My feet and the battle-ground, 
 Where all that is left of my dearest love 
 
 Lies under some yellow mound ! 
 
 It is but little I might have done 
 
 To lighten your parting pain ; 
 But t is bitter to think that you died alone, 
 
 Out in the dark and the rain ! 
 
164 LAY OF THE MODERN "KONSERVAT1VS." 
 
 Oh, my hero love ! to have kissed the pain 
 And the mist from your fading eyes ! 
 
 To have saved one only passionate look 
 To sweeten these memories ! 
 
 And thinking of all, I am strangely stunned, 
 
 And cannot believe you dead. 
 You loved me, dear ! And I loved you, dear ! 
 
 And your letter lies there unread ! 
 You are not dead ! You are not dead ! 
 
 God never could will it so 
 To craze my brain and break my heart 
 
 And shatter my life I know ! 
 
 Dead ! dead ! and never a word, 
 
 Never a look for me ! 
 Dead ! dead ! and our marriage-day 
 
 Never on earth to be ! 
 I am left alone, and the world is changed, 
 
 So dress me in bridal white, 
 And lay mo away in some quiet place 
 
 Out of the hateful light. 
 
 Harpers Weekly, Aug 23, 1863. 
 
 LAY OF TEIE MODERN " KONSERVATIVS. 
 
 BY CHARITY GRIMES. 
 
 I AM a gay " Konservativ," 
 
 I stand by the old Konstitushun, I du ; 
 I go for the Union ez it was, 
 
 With the old Dimmycrat ticket, rite thru. 
 These Black Republikans don t suit me, 
 Fur I m a Konservativ man, yu see ! 
 
LAY OF THE MODERN " KONSEB VA TI VS." 165 
 
 I am a Dimmycrat, dyed in the wool ; 
 
 I go fur free trade, and that sort ov thing ; 
 I think it s rite tu let slavery rule 
 
 Sooner n hev Lincoln, I d vote fur a king, 
 And hev the Saouth fur an aristockracy, 
 To rule the hull North, (except the Dimmockracy.) 
 
 Shuttin up folks fur speekin their mind, 
 In my opinion s a piece ov knavery, 
 
 I go fur free speech ov every kind, 
 
 Except when it interferes with slavery ! 
 
 (Sich kind ov free speech all Dimmykrats fight, 
 
 Ef Brooks hed killed Suirmer, he d done jest right.) 
 
 I go fur aour konstitush nal rights, 
 
 With the rite ov habeas corpus invi late ; 
 
 I 11 show em haow a Dimmykrat fights, 
 Ef Abram Lincoln attempts tu spile it ! 
 
 I ve a right to tawk treason, ez I understand, 
 
 Tawk s tawk ; it s money that buys the land ! 
 
 I go fur the vigorous conduct ov war ; 
 Of course with a decent regard tu figgers, 
 
 So ez not tu inkreese aour national debt, 
 And abuv all not to free the niggers. 
 
 I d ruthcr the North hed not pulled a trigger, 
 
 Than see a traitor shot down by a nigger. 
 
 Yes, I am a real Konservativ ; 
 
 I stand by the Konstitushun, I du ! 
 Ef enny wun sez I m frends with the Saouth, 
 
 I ll sware by hokey it is n t true ! 
 I an t a rebel ; but he m ! speak low 
 I kinder beleeve in Vallandigham, though ! 
 
l66 SAYS PRIVATE MAGU1RE. 
 
 SAYS PRIVATE MAGUIRE. 
 
 BY T. B. ALDKICH. 
 
 [I must beg the. pardon of Private Maguire, of the New 
 
 York Regiment, for thus publicly putting his sentiments into verse. 
 The following lyric will assure him that I have not forgotten how 
 generously he shared his scanty blanket with me, one terrible night 
 in the Virginia woods, when a blanket was worth fifty dollars an 
 inch.] 
 
 " OCH ! t is naie to be captain or colonel, 
 
 Divil a bit would I want to be higher ; 
 But to rust as a private, I think s an infernal 
 
 Predicament surely," says Private Maguire. 
 
 " They can go sparkin and play in at billiards, 
 
 With greenbacks to spend for their slightest desire, 
 
 Loafm and atin , and dthrinkin at Willard s, 
 
 While we re on the pickets," says Private Maguire. 
 
 " Livin in clover, they think it s a thrifle 
 
 To stand out all night in the rain and the mire, 
 
 And a Rebel hard by with a villainous rifle 
 Jist ready to pop ye," says Private Maguire. 
 
 " Faith, now, it s not that I m afther complainin ; 
 
 I in spilin to meet ye, JefF. Davis, Esquire ! 
 Ye blag-gard ! it s only I m weary of thrainin , 
 
 And thrainin , and thrainin ," says Private Maguire. 
 
 " O Lord, for a row ! but, Maguire, be aisy, 
 
 Keep yourself sweet for the inemy s fire, 
 McClellan s the saplin that shortly will plaze ye, 
 
 Be the holy St. Pathrick ! " says Private Maguire. 
 
 " And, lad, if ye re hit, (O, bedad, that eternal 
 Jimmy O Dowd would make up to Maria ! ) 
 
 Whether ye re sargeant, or captain, or colonel, 
 
 Ye 11 die with the best, then !" says Private Man-uire. 
 
SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 167 
 
 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 
 
 THE poplar drops beside the way 
 Its tasselled plumes of silver gray ; 
 
 The chestnut points its green brown buds, impatient for 
 the laggard May. 
 
 The honeysuckles lace the wall ; 
 The hyacinths grow fair and tall ; 
 
 And mellow sun and pleasant wind and odorous bees are 
 over all. 
 
 Down-looking in this snow-white bud, 
 How distant seems the war s red flood ! 
 How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening 
 scent of human blood ! 
 
 Nor Nature does not recognize 
 This strife that rends the earth and skies ; 
 No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of clover-heads and 
 daisy-eyes. 
 
 She holds her even way the same, 
 Though navies sink or cities flame ; 
 
 A snow-drow is a snow-drop still, despite the nation s joy 
 or shame. 
 
 When blood her grassy altar wets, 
 She sends the pitying violets 
 
 To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it with 
 soft regrets. 
 
 O, crocuses with rain-wet eyes, 
 O, tender-lipped anemones, 
 
 What do you know of agony, and death and blood-won 
 victories ? 
 
168 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 
 
 No shudder breaks your sunshine trance, 
 Though near you rolls, with slow advance, 
 Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguish-laden 
 ambulance. 
 
 Yonder a white encampment hums; 
 The clash of martial music comes ; 
 
 And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the 
 jar of drums. 
 
 Whether it lessen or increase, 
 Or whether trumpets shout or cease, 
 
 Still deep within your tranquil hearts the happy bees are 
 humming " Peace ! " 
 
 O flowers ! the soul that faints or grieves, 
 New comfort from your lips receives ; 
 
 Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your 
 healing leaves. 
 
 Help us to trust, still on and on, 
 That this dark night will soon be gone, 
 And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red trouble 
 of the dawn 
 
 Dawn of a broader, whiter day 
 Than ever blessed us with its ray, 
 
 A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and wrong 
 shall fade away. 
 
 Then shall our nation break its bands, 
 And, silencing the envious lands, 
 
 Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless robe, 
 and clean, white hands. 
 
A WOMAN S WAITING. 169 
 
 A WOMAN S WAITING. 
 
 UNDER the apple-tree blossoms, in May, 
 
 We sat and watched as the sun went down ; 
 
 Behind us the road stretched back to the east, 
 On, through the meadows, to Danbuiy town. 
 
 Silent we sat, for our hearts were full, 
 
 Silently watched the reddening sky, 
 And saw the clouds across the west 
 
 Like the phantoms of ships sail silently. 
 
 Robert had come with a story to tell, 
 I knew it before he had said a word, 
 
 It looked from his eye, and it shadowed his face, 
 He was going to march with the Twenty-third. 
 
 We had been neighbors from childhood up, 
 Gone to school by the self-same way, 
 
 Climbed the same steep woodland paths, 
 Knelt in the same old church to pray. 
 
 We had wandered together, boy and girl, 
 
 Where wild flowers grew and wild grapes hung ; 
 
 Tasted the sweetness of summer days 
 When hearts are true, and life is young. 
 
 But never a love-word had crossed his lips, 
 
 Never a hint of pledge or vow, 
 Until, as the sun went down that night, 
 
 His tremulous kisses touched my brow. 
 
 " Jenny," he said, " I Ve a work to do 
 
 For God and my country and the right, 
 
 True hearts, strong arms, are needed now, 
 I dare not stay away from the fight. 
 
1 70 A WOMAN S WAITING. 
 
 " Will you give me a pledge to cheer me on, 
 A hope to look forward to by-and-by ? 
 
 "Will you wait for me, Jenny, till I come back ? " 
 " I will wait," I answered, " until I die." 
 
 The May moon rose as we walked that night 
 Back through the meadows to Danbury town, 
 
 And one star rose and shone by her side, 
 Calmly and sweetly they both looked down. 
 
 The scent of blossoms was in the air, 
 
 The sky was blue and the eve was bright, 
 
 And Robert said, as he walked by my side, 
 " Old Danbury town is fair to-night. 
 
 " I shall think of it, Jenny, when far away, 
 Placid and still neath the moon as now, 
 
 I shall see it, darling, in many a dream, 
 
 And you with the moonlight on your brow." 
 
 No matter what else were his parting words, 
 They are mine to treasure until I die, 
 
 With the clinging kisses and lingering looks, 
 The tender pain of that fond good-bye. 
 
 I did not weep, I tried to be brave, 
 I watched him until he was out of sight, 
 
 Then suddenly all the world grew dark, 
 And I was blind in the bright May night. 
 
 Blind and helpless I slid to the ground, 
 And lay with the night-dews on my hair, 
 
 Till the moon was down and the dawn was up, 
 And the fresh May morn rose clear and fair. 
 
 He was taken and I was left, 
 
 Left to wait and to w r atch and pray, 
 
BARBARA FRITCH1E. 171 
 
 Till there came a message over the wires, 
 Chilling the air of the August day. 
 
 " Killed in a skirmish eight or ten : " 
 
 " Wounded and helpless ; " as many more, 
 
 All of them our Connecticut men, 
 
 From the little town of Danbury, four. 
 
 But I only saw a single name, 
 
 Of one who was all the world to me ; 
 I promised to Avait for him till I died, 
 
 O God, O Heaven, when will it be ! 
 
 Harpers Magazine. 
 
 BY JOHN GREEXLEAF WIIITTIER. 
 
 UP from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, 
 
 * The incident upon which this ballad is founded took place 
 literally as it is told by the poet upon the occupation of Frederick 
 in Maryland on the second march northward of the insurgent 
 forces. The heroine, as I am informed by Mr. Whittier, was 
 ninety-six years old at the time of the occurrence. The title of 
 the ballad on this page is a fac-simile of her autograph signature 
 to a receipt which is in my possession. 
 
172 BARBARA FR1TCHIE. 
 
 Fair as the garden of the Lord 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
 When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, 
 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars, 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars, 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon looked down and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose Barbara Fritchie then, 
 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 
 
 In her attic-window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! " the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
 " Fire ! " out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff , 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 
 
BARBARA FRIT C HIE. 173 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
 But spare your country s flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman s deed and word : 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 
 
 All day long through. Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of inarching feet : 
 
 All day long that free flag tost 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
 Barbara Fritchie s work is o er, 
 
 And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall for her sake on Stonewall s bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Fritchie s grave 
 Flag of Freedom and Union wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
174 A THANKSGIVING RAILROAD BALLAD. 
 
 And ever the stars above, look down 
 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING RAILROAD BALLAD FOR 
 
 1863. 
 
 BY E. PLURIBUS UNUM, ESQ. 
 
 IT was a sturdy engineer, 
 
 The Union train had he, 
 But slippery tracks and heavy grades, 
 
 In eighteen sixty-three. 
 
 He wiped the sweat from off his brow : 
 
 " These drivin wheels will do, 
 A better ingine never ran, 
 
 She s bound to put us through. 
 
 " Ho ! Fireman, Fireman Chase, I mean, 
 
 Down in the tender there ! 
 We ve used a powerful sight of wood, 
 
 How much have we to spare ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " out then spoke that fireman bold, 
 
 " We ve wood and water still ; 
 Old Legal Tender holds enough 
 
 To make what steam you will." 
 
 " Ho ! Seward, ho ! conductor yet, 
 
 In spite of all the row 
 That Frenchman and that Englishman, 
 
 How fare these worthies now ? " 
 
 " Quiet enough, these blustering coves, 
 That carried it so high ; 
 
A THANKSGIVING RAILROAD BALLAD 175 
 
 A great big Russian up and blazed 
 The Frenchman in the eye. 
 
 " His friend, John Bull, did not pitch in, 
 
 He drew it very mild, 
 And sat him in the corner down, 
 
 Submissive as a child." 
 
 " Two stations back, conductor say, 
 
 What made that heavy strain ? 
 It felt to me as though you had 
 
 Hitched on an extra train." 
 
 " Confound that rascal Copperhead, 
 
 And all his brood of snakes ! 
 Just at the heaviest of the grade 
 
 They put on all the brakes ! " 
 
 The old wheel-tapper goes his round, 
 
 While waits the engineer, 
 Tink, tink, tink, tink ! the tested wheel, 
 
 Sound music in his ear. 
 
 " I thought as how some wheels were cracked, 
 
 But nary one I find, 
 All right, save that old Jersey one, 
 
 And that we need n t mind. 
 
 " Ha ! here s a telegram from Grant, 
 
 The news, he says, is prime, 
 All clear along the track once more, 
 
 We 11 yet be in on time." 
 
 The bell now rings, the whistle blows, 
 
 The signal given, " All right ; " 
 On thunders now the Union train, 
 
 On streams its flag of light, 
 
176 THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY. 
 
 Which, like the beacon on the main, 
 Flings hope athwart the night. 
 Halloo ! 
 
 The grand old iron train 
 
 Has swept clean out of sight. 
 
 THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY. 
 
 MiDST tangled roots that lined the wild ravine, 
 
 Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day, 
 And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen, 
 Amid the darkling forests shade and sheen, 
 Speechless in death he lay. 
 
 The setting sun, which glanced athwart the place 
 
 In slanting lines, like amber-tinted rain, 
 Fell sidewise on the drummer s upturned face, 
 Where Death had left his gory finger s trace 
 In one bright crimson stain. 
 
 The silken fringes of his once bright eye 
 
 Lay like a shadow on his cheek so fair ; 
 His lips were parted by a long-drawn sigh, 
 That with his soul had mounted to the sky 
 On some wild martial air. 
 
 No more his hand the fierce tattoo shall beat, 
 
 The shrill reveille, or the long-roll s call, 
 Or sound the charge, when in the smoke and hcafc 
 Of fiery onset foe with foe shall meet, 
 And gallant men shall fall. 
 
 Yet maybe in some happy home, that one 
 A mother reading from the list of dead, 
 Shall chance to view the name of her dear son, 
 
THE SENTINEL ON MORRIS ISLAND. 177 
 
 And move her lips to say, " God s will be done ! " 
 And bow in grief her head. 
 
 But more than this what tongue shall tell his story ? 
 
 Perhaps his boyish longings were for fame ? 
 He lived, he died; and so, memento mori 
 Enough if on the page of War and Glory 
 Some hand has writ his name. 
 
 Harpers 1 Weekly. 
 
 THE SENTINEL ON MORRIS ISLAND. 
 
 WITH measured tread along his lonely beat, 
 
 At twilight, dawn, or in the darksome night, 
 Or when at noon the sun, with growing heat, 
 Lets fall his dazzling light, 
 
 The watchful sentinel, up and down the shore, 
 
 Paces with weary feet the yielding sand, 
 While the salt waves, with deep and sullen roar, 
 Shout hoarsely to the land. 
 
 At dawn he sees the glitt ring morning star 
 
 Set like a jewel in the roseate sky ; 
 And glimmering to the sight, within the bar, 
 The fleet at anchor lie. 
 
 He sees the city, distant, dull, and gray, 
 
 Its quaint old roofs, and slender, tapering spires, 
 When darkly painted at the close of day 
 Against the sunset s fires. 
 
 At night he sees the heavens all spangled o er 
 
 With shining gems that like bright watch-fires burn 
 And though far off, and on a hostile shore, 
 His thoughts to home will turn. 
 12 
 
178 THE SENTINEL ON MORRIS ISLAND. 
 
 Or maybe, in the pitiless, cold storm, 
 
 While moans the wind like some poor soul in p a MW- 
 With drooping head and weary, bended form, 
 He braves the pelting rain, 
 
 And in his mind there dwells a picture fair : 
 
 A cottage-room with walls like purest sno^Vy^ 
 And round the hearthstone friendly faces there 
 Shine in the fire s warm glow. 
 
 An aged man, with locks all silver white ; 
 
 An aged dame, his helpmate she through life; 
 And still a third, with mild eyes beaming bright, 
 Perhaps the soldier s wife ; 
 
 And rosy children climb upon her knee 
 
 With smiling face looks on the aged dame 
 They, laughing, clap their little hands in glee, 
 And sweetly lisp his name. 
 
 Now from the frowning batteries bristling side 
 
 Peals forth the murderous cannon s awful roar, 
 Waking the answering echoes, far and wide, 
 From shore to farther 1 shore. 
 
 So fades the picture : each loved form is fled, 
 
 That waking vision, beautiful, yet brief; 
 And up the beach with solid, steady tread 
 Comes on the brave " Relief." 
 
 Then on his bed, while falls the chilly rain 
 
 And other sentinels their vigils keep, 
 Sweet thoughts of home go flitting through his brain, 
 And fill his dreamful sleep. 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
SHODDY." 179 
 
 " SHODDY." 
 
 OLD Shoddy sits in his easy-chair, 
 
 And cracks his jokes and drinks his ale, 
 Dumb to the shivering soldier s prayer, 
 
 Deaf to the widows and orphans wail. 
 His coat is as warm as the fleece unshorn ; 
 
 Of the " golden fleece " he is dreaming still ; 
 And the music that lulls him night and morn 
 
 Is the hum-lmm-hum of the shoddy-mill. 
 
 Clashing cylinders, whizzing wheels, 
 
 Rend and ravel and tear and pick ; 
 What can resist these hooks of steel, 
 
 Sharp as the claws of the ancient Nick ? 
 Cast-off mantle of millionaire, 
 
 Pestilent vagrant s vesture chill, 
 Rags of miser or beggar bare. 
 
 All are " grist " for the shoddy-mill. 
 
 Worthless waste and worn-out wool, 
 
 Flung together, a spacious sham ! 
 With just enough of the " fleece " to pull 
 
 Over the eyes of poor Uncle Sam. 
 Cunningly twisted through web and woof, 
 
 Not " shirt of Nessus " such power to kill ; 
 Look, how the prints of his hideous hoof 
 
 Track the fiend of the shoddy-mill ! 
 
 A soldier lies on the frozen ground, 
 
 While crack his joints with aches and ails ; 
 A shoddy blanket wraps him round, 
 
 His shoddy garments the wind assails. 
 His coat is shoddy, well stuffed with flocks ; 
 
 He dreams of the flocks on his native hill ; 
 His feverish sense the demon mocks, 
 
 The demon that drives the shoddy-mill. 
 
180 LINT. 
 
 Ay I pierce his tissues with shooting pains, 
 
 Tear the muscles, and rend the bone, 
 Fire with frenzy the heart and brain, 
 
 Old Rough Shoddy, your work is done : 
 Never again shall the bugle blast 
 
 Waken the sleeper that lies so still ; 
 His dream of home and glory past, 
 
 Fatal s the work of the shoddy-mill. 
 
 Struck by shoddy and not by shells, 
 
 And not by shot our brave ones fall ; 
 Greed of gold the story tells, 
 
 Drop the mantle and spread the pall. 
 Out on the vampires ! out on those 
 
 Who of our life-blood take their fill ! 
 No meaner traitor the nation knows, 
 
 Than the greedy ghoul of the shoddy-mill ! 
 
 LINT. 
 
 FIBRE by fibre, shred by shred, 
 
 It falls from her delicate hand 
 In feathery films, as soft and slow 
 As fall the flakes of a vanishing snow 
 
 In the lap of a summer land. 
 
 There are jewels of price in her roseate ears, 
 
 And gold round her white wrist coils ; 
 There are costly trifles on every hand, 
 And gems of art from many a land 
 In the chamber where she toils. 
 
 A rare bird sings in a gilded cage 
 
 At the open casement near ; 
 A sun-ray glints through a swaying bough, 
 And lights with a diamond radiance now 
 
 The dew of a falling tear ! 
 
LINT. l8l 
 
 A sob floats out to the summer air 
 
 With the song-bird s latest trill ; 
 The gossamer folds of the drapery 
 Are waved by the swell of a long, low sigh, 
 
 And the delicate hands are still. 
 
 " Ah ! beauty of earth is naught, is naught ! 
 
 And a gilded youth is vain ! 
 I have seen a sister s scarred face shine 
 With a youth and beauty all divine 
 
 By the soldier s couch of pain ! " 
 
 " I have read of another whose passing shade 
 
 On their pillows the mangled kissed 
 In the far Crimea ! " There are no more tears, 
 But she plucks the gems from her delicate ears, 
 And the gold from her slender wrist. 
 
 The bird still sings in his gilded cage .; 
 
 But the Angel in her heart 
 Hath stung her soul with a noble pain ; 
 And beauty is naught, and youth is vain, 
 
 While the Patriot s wounds still smart ! 
 
 Fibre by fibre, shred by shred, 
 
 Still foil from her delicate hand 
 The feathery films, as soft and slow 
 As fall the flakes of a vanishing snow 
 
 In the lap of a summer land. 
 
 There are crimson stains on breasts and brows, 
 
 And fillets in ghastly coils ; 
 The walls are lofty, and white, and bare, 
 And moaning echoes roll ever there 
 
 Through the chamber where she toils. 
 
 No glitter of gold on her slender wrist, 
 Nor gem in her roseate ears ; 
 
182 "THE PEACE DEMOCRACY: 
 
 But a youth and a beauty all divine 
 In the face of the Christian maiden shine, 
 And her gems are the soldier s tears ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 THE "PEACE DEMOCRACY." 
 
 BY " CHARITY GRIMES." 
 
 ItESOLUSIIUNS 0V THE CONCORD, N. II., "DIMMOCKRASSY," (SO- 
 KALLED NOT IN HONOR 0V GINERAL JACKSON.) DEDI- 
 KATED TU HON. FRANKLIN PIERCE, THE HERO 0V MEX- 
 ICCO, AND CHAIRMAN 0V THE KONVENSHUN. 
 
 Resolved, This nation s goin tu reuin, 
 Old Abram Lincoln s baoimd tu strand it. 
 
 Thare s sum awlfired mischief brevvin , 
 We Dimmykrats can t no way stand it ! 
 
 We make a vaow, from this time forth, 
 
 Tu stop awl warfare in the North. 
 
 Resolved, Thet Lincoln s a userper 
 
 An awful skeery wun et that, 
 He shall not lead us wun step further 
 
 Then we ve a mind tu go, thet s flat ! 
 We luv the Guverment ov the nation, 
 But go agin its administrashun. 
 
 Resolved, This war shood be conduckted 
 Most viggorous, by the laws ov peece. 
 
 Thet nigger folks may be abduckted 
 
 Whereso aour Suthern brethren please ; 
 
 And whereso er a tremblin slave is, 
 
 He shood be given tu Jeff Davis. 
 
 Resolved, The stones we ve thrown in Dixie 
 Hev brought us tu an orful pass. 
 
THE LATEST WAR-NEWS. 183 
 
 We let aour dander rise too quickly ; 
 
 We shood hev gone on throwin grass. 
 We b lieve Vallandigham a saint : 
 Woe tu the man whu sez he ain t ! 
 
 Resolved, We will rekord the story, 
 
 Thet in this war we ve acted wust : 
 It s true, the Saouth fired on " Old Glory ; " * 
 
 But did n t we go and histe it fust ? 
 We might hev missed the war s mischances 
 Ef we hed histed olive-branches ! 
 
 Tharefore we form a resolushun 
 
 Tu make all Lincoln s auders void ; 
 Tu put his ginerals tu konfushun, 
 
 So thet aour own sha n t be annoyed ; 
 And fortify aour strong position 
 By firing guns on abbolition ! 
 
 We 11 grasp the fiery suthern cross, 
 And bid sich fokes ez Butler bear it ! 
 
 We 11 kover aour defeat and loss 
 
 With treason s garb (naow Davis wears it). 
 
 We skorn deceit, detest hypockracy 
 
 Make way thare fur the Peace Dimmockrassy ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 THE LATEST WAR-NEWS. 
 
 On pale, pale face ! Oh helpless hands ! 
 
 Sweet eyes by fruitless watching wronged, 
 Yet turning ever towards the lands 
 
 Where war s red hosts are thronged. 
 
 * This name, fondly given by our volunteer soldiers to the flag, 
 is one of the phrases born of the war for the Republic. 
 
184 THE LATEST WAR-NEWS. 
 
 She shudders when they tell the tale 
 Of some great battle lost and won ! 
 
 Her sweet child-face grows old and pale, 
 Her heart falls like a stone ! 
 
 She sees no conquering flag unfurled, 
 She hears no victory s brazen roar, 
 
 But a dear face, which was her world, 
 Perchance she 11 kiss no more ! 
 
 Ever there comes between her sight 
 And the glory that they rave about 
 
 A boyish brow, and eyes whose light 
 Of splendor hath gone out. 
 
 The midnight glory of his hair, 
 
 Where late her fingers, like a flood 
 
 Of moonlight, wandered, lingering there. 
 Is stiff and dank with blood ! 
 
 She must not shriek, she must not moan, 
 She must not wring her quivering hands 
 
 But sitting dumb and white alone, 
 Be bound with viewless bands. 
 
 Because her suffering life enfolds 
 
 Another dearer, feebler life, 
 In death-strong grasp her heart she holds, 
 
 And stills its torturing strife. 
 
 Tester eve, they say, a field was won. 
 
 Her eyes asks tidings of the fight ; 
 But tell her of the dead alone 
 
 Who lay out in the night ! 
 
 In mercy tell her that 7m name 
 Was not upon that fatal list ; 
 
THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 185 
 
 That not among; the heaps of slain 
 Dumb are the lips she s kissed. 
 
 Oh, poor, pale child ! Oh, woman heart ! 
 
 Its weakness triumphed o er by strength ! 
 Love teaching pain discipline s art, 
 
 And conquering at length ! 
 
 THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 
 
 BY EDMUND C. STEDMAX. 
 
 OUR good steeds snuff the evening air, 
 Our pulses with their purpose tingle : 
 The foeman s fires are twinkling there ; 
 He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 
 
 Halt ! 
 
 Each carbine sent its whizzing ball : 
 Now, cling ! clang ! forward all, 
 Into the fight ! 
 
 Dash on beneath the smoking dome : 
 
 Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! 
 One look to Heaven ! No thoughts of home, 
 The guidons that we bear are dearer. 
 
 Charge ! 
 
 Cling ! clang ! forward all ! 
 Heaven help those whose horses fall, 
 Cut left and right ! 
 
 They flee before our fierce attack ! 
 
 They fall ! they spread in broken surges. 
 Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 
 
 And leave the foeman to his dirges. 
 Wheel ! 
 
l86 THE FISHERMAN OF BEAUFORT. 
 
 The bugles sound the swift recall : 
 Cling ! clang ! backward all ! 
 
 Home, and good-night ! 
 
 THE FISHERMAN OF BEAUFORT. 
 
 BY MRS. FRANCES D. GAGE. 
 
 THE tide comes up, arid the tide goes down, 
 
 And still the fisherman s boat, 
 At early dawn and at evening shade, 
 
 Is ever and ever afloat : 
 His net goes down, and his net comes up, 
 
 And we hear his song of glee ; 
 " De fishes dey hates de ole slave nets, 
 
 But comes to de nets ob de free." 
 
 The tide conies up, and the tide goes down, 
 
 And the oysterman below 
 Is picking away, in the slimy sands, 
 
 In the sands " ob de long ago." 
 But now if an empty hand he bears, 
 
 He shudders no more with fear ; 
 There s no stretching-board for the aching bones, 
 
 And no lash of the overseer. 
 
 The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, 
 
 And ever I hear a song, 
 As the moaning winds through the moss-hung oaks, 
 
 Sweep surging ever along. 
 " O massa white man ! help de slave, 
 
 And de wife and chillen too ; 
 Eber dey 11 work, wid de hard worn hand, 
 
 Ef ell gib em de work to do." 
 
SEWARD. 187 
 
 The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, 
 
 But it bides no tyrant s word, 
 As it chants unceasing the anthem grand 
 
 Of its Freedom to the Lord. 
 The fisherman floating on its breast 
 
 Has caught up the key-note true : 
 " De sea works, massa, for t sef and God, 
 
 And so must de brack man too. 
 
 " Den gib him de work, and gib him de pay, 
 
 For de chillen an wife him love, 
 And de yam shall grow, and de cotton shall blow, 
 
 And him nebber, nebber rove ; 
 For him love de ole Carlina State, 
 
 And de ole magnolia tree : 
 Oh ! nebber him trouble de icy Norf, 
 
 Ef de brack folks am go free." 
 
 SEWARD. 
 
 BY A. D. F. RANDOLPH. 
 
 WELL, be it so ! The not uncommon fate 
 
 Of greatness overtakes thee in thy prime : 
 He who is mighty will have foes who hate, 
 Thou hast false friends, who only consummate 
 
 Their own destruction in attempting thine. 
 O, peerless Champion of the Cause so Just, 
 
 When some, o er zealous now, were cold or mute, 
 Thou, with sublimest courage, took the Trust 
 And priceless venture, conscious that thou must 
 
 Bear scorn of those who would thy cause dispute. 
 
 Keep heart ! the Great Hereafter will refute 
 Each slander born of envy or of hate, 
 
 And thus thy final labors will compute : 
 " He Freedom saved, by saving first the State ! " 
 
1 88 THE SONG OF THE CAMPS. 
 THE SONG OF THE CAMPS. 
 
 BY J. R. M. 
 
 FAR away in the piney woods, 
 
 Where the dews foil heavy and damp, 
 
 A soldier sat by the smouldering fire 
 And sang the song of the camp. 
 
 " It is not to be weary and worn, 
 
 It is not to feel hunger and thirst, 
 It is not the forced march nor the terrible fight, 
 
 That seems to the soldier the worst. 
 
 " But to sit through the comfortless hours, 
 The lonely, dull hours that will come, 
 
 With his head in his hands and his eyes on the fire, 
 And his thoughts on visions of home. 
 
 " To wonder how fares it with those 
 Who mingled so late with his life, 
 
 Is it well with my little children three ? 
 Is it well with my sickly wife ? 
 
 " This night-air is chill to be sure, 
 
 But logs lie in plenty around ; 
 How is it with them where wood is so dear, 
 
 And the cash for it hard to be found ? 
 
 " Oh, that North air cuts bitterly keen, 
 
 And the ground is hard as a stone ; 
 It would comfort me just to know that they sit 
 
 By a fire as warm as my own. 
 
 " And have they enough to eat? 
 My lads are growing boys, 
 
THE SONG OF THE CAMPS. 189 
 
 And my girl is a little tender thing, 
 With her mother s smile and voice. 
 
 " My wife she should have her tea, 
 
 Or maybe a sup of beer ; 
 It went to my heart to look on her face, 
 
 So white, with a smile and a tear. 
 
 " Her form it is weak and thin, 
 
 She would gladly w r ork if she could, 
 
 But how can a \voman have daily strength 
 Who wants for daily food ? 
 
 " My oldest boy he can cut wood, 
 
 And Johnny can carry it in ; 
 But then, how frozen their feet must be 
 
 If their bhoes are worn and thin ! 
 
 " I hope they don t cry with the cold 
 Are there tears in my little girl s eyes ? 
 
 O God ! say peace ! to these choking fears, 
 These fears in my heart that rise. 
 
 " Many rich folks are round them, I know, 
 And their hearts are not hard nor cold ; 
 
 They would give to my wife if they only knew, 
 And my little one three years old. 
 
 " They would go, like God s angels fair, 
 
 And enter the lowly door, 
 And make the sorrowful glad with gifts 
 
 From their abundant store. 
 
 " In this blessed Christmas-time, 
 
 When the great gift came to men, 
 They would show, by their gentle and generous deeds, 
 
 How He cometh in hearts again. 
 
190 SOLDIER S TALK. 
 
 " And my sickly, patient wife, 
 
 And my little children three, 
 Would be kindly warmed and fed and clothed 
 
 As part of Christ s family. 
 
 " Well, I leave it all with God, 
 
 For my sight is short and dim ; 
 He cares for the falling sparrow, 
 
 My dear ones are safe with Him." 
 
 So the soldier watched through the night, 
 Through the dew-fall, heavy and damp ; 
 
 And as he sat by the smouldering fire, 
 He sang the song of the camp. 
 
 ST. PAUL, Minn. Church Journal. 
 
 SOLDIER S TALK. 
 
 BY CHARLES G. HALPIN. 
 
 WE have heard the rebel yell, 
 
 We have heard the Union shout, 
 We have weighed the matter very well, 
 
 And mean to fight it out ; 
 In victory s happy glow, 
 
 In the gloom of utter rout, 
 We have pledged ourselves Corne weal or woe, 
 
 By Heaven ! we fight it out. 
 
 T is now too late to question 
 
 What brought the war about ; 
 T is a thing of pride and passion 
 
 And we mean to fight it out. 
 Let the u big wigs " use the pen, 
 
 Let them caucus, let them spout, 
 
SOLDIER S TALK. j 
 
 We are half a million weaponed men 
 And mean to fight it out. 
 
 Our dead, our loved, are crying 
 
 From many a stormed redoubt, 
 In the swamps and trenches lying, 
 
 " Oh, comrades, fight it out ! 
 T was our comfort as we fell 
 
 To hear your gathering shout, 
 Rolling back the rebels weaker yell, 
 
 God speed you, fight it out ! " 
 
 The negro free or slave 
 
 We care no pin about, 
 But for the flag our fathers gave 
 
 We mean to fight it out ; 
 And while that banner brave 
 
 Ont, rebel rag shall flout, 
 With volleying arm and flashing glaive 
 
 By Heaven ! we fight it out ! 
 
 Oh, we ve heard the rebel yell, 
 
 We have heard the Union shout, 
 We have weighed the matter very well, 
 
 And mean to fight it out ; 
 In the flush of perfect triumph, 
 
 And the gloom of utter rout, 
 We have sworn on many a bloody field 
 
 We mean to fight it out ! 
 
 Harpers 1 Weddy. 
 
PER TENEBRAS LVAIINA. 
 PER TENEBRAS LUMINA. 
 
 BY MKS. WHITNEY. 
 
 I KNOW how, through the golden hours, 
 When summer sunlight floods the deep, 
 
 The fairest stars of all the heaven 
 
 Climb up, unseen, the effulgent steep. 
 
 Orion girds him with a flame ; 
 
 And king-like, from the eastward seas, 
 Comes Aldebaran, with his train 
 
 Of Hyades and Pleiades. 
 
 In far meridian pride, the Twins 
 
 Build, side by side, their luminous throm-s ; 
 And Sirius and Procyon pour 
 
 A splendor that the day disowns. 
 
 And stately Leo, undismayed, 
 
 With fiery footstep tracks the Sun, 
 
 To plunge adown the western blaze, 
 Sublimely lost in glories won. 
 
 I know, if I were called to keep 
 
 Pale morning watch with grief and pain, 
 
 Mine eyes should see their gathering might 
 Rise grandly through the gloom again. 
 
 And when the winter solstice holds 
 In his diminished path the sun, 
 
 When hope, and growth, and joy are o er, 
 And all our harvesting is done, 
 
 When, stricken like our mortal life, 
 
 Darkened and chill, the year lays down 
 
THE CONFEDERATE PRIMEll. 193 
 
 The summer beauty that she wore, 
 
 Her summer stars of harp and crown, 
 
 Thick trooping with their golden tread 
 
 They come, as nightfall fills the sky, 
 Those strong and solemn sentinels, 
 
 To hold their mightier watch on high. 
 
 Ah ! who shall shrink from dark and cold, 
 
 Or fear the sad and shortening days. 
 Since God doth only so unfold 
 
 The wider glory to his gaze ? 
 
 Since loyal Truth, and holy Trust, 
 
 And kingly Strength defying Pain, 
 Stern Courage, and sure Brotherhood 
 
 Are born from out the depths again ? 
 
 Dear country of our love and pride ! 
 
 So is thy stormy winter given ! 
 So, through the terrors that betide, 
 
 Look up, and hail thy kindling heaven ! 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 THE CONFEDERATE PRIMER.* 
 
 AT Nashville s fall 
 We sinned all. 
 
 * Only those can appreciate this burlesque who know the Alpha 
 bet Rhymes in the old New-England Primer, beginning 
 
 In Adam s fall 
 
 We sinned all. 
 And containing also these impressive rhymes, 
 
 The cat doth play 
 
 And after slay. 
 
 The royal oak it was the tree 
 That saved his royal majesty. 
 13 
 
AN IDYL. 
 
 At Number Ten 
 We sinn d again. 
 
 Thy purse to mend 
 Old Floyd attend. 
 
 Abe Lincoln bold 
 Our ports doth hold. 
 
 Jeff Davis tells a lie, 
 And so must you and I. 
 
 Isham doth mourn 
 His case forlorn. 
 
 Brave Pillow s flight 
 Is out of sight. 
 
 Buell doth play 
 And after slay. 
 
 Yon oak will be the gallows-tree 
 Of Richmond s fallen majesty. 
 
 Nashville Union. 
 
 AN IDYL.* 
 
 Dedicated to the Georgia Regiments, and others of the C. S. R., 
 that is, the Confederate States Resurrectionists. 
 
 BY II. BEDLOW. 
 
 You, forsooth, and valor brothers ! 
 
 You the types of knighthood s braves ! 
 
 * I should willingly have omitted these verses, which seem like 
 a rhymed combination of the Papal anathema with a treatise on 
 purulent diseases. But they are the expression, gross and liendi?h 
 though it be, of a feeling excited in some people by the language 
 
AN IDYL. 195 
 
 Offspring of degraded mothers, 
 
 Suckled at the dugs of slaves ! 
 You at Freedom s holy altars, 
 
 Chanting your blaspheming psalm ; 
 Candidates for loyal halters ; 
 
 Confed rates in a monstrous sham ! 
 
 Catiline s own spawn and scions, 
 
 Daring what no manhood dares ; 
 Gascons with the lungs of lions, 
 
 But the speed and hearts of hares ! 
 Apostates from the faith of sages ; 
 
 Fools, confounding wrong and right ; 
 Rushing on the thick-bossed segis 
 
 Of fair Freedom s belted knight ! 
 
 Swaggering braggarts, peculators ! 
 
 Swindlers of the swell-mob grade ! 
 Fratricidal, perjured traitors ! 
 
 Heroes of an ambuscade ! 
 Miscreants, scorn of all the nation ; 
 
 Priesthood of the gyves and lash ; 
 Ruffians, worthier flagellation 
 
 Than the nobler slaves you gash ! 
 
 As gainst hell s insurgent banners, 
 
 Ithuriel to the battle posts, 
 Freemen march with loud hosannas, 
 
 Freedom lord of loyal hosts. 
 Some must fall in this endeavor, 
 
 But where each sacred corse is found, 
 To the nation s heart forever, 
 
 That dear spot is holy ground. 
 
 of most and the acts of many rebels during the Avar. There was not 
 a little of such writing on the rebel side, as the reader may see; but 
 in all the multitudinous mass of verses that I have examined I have 
 found only this example of its kind among loyal writers. The fact 
 that it is unique is another reason for its preservation. 
 
196 AN IDYL. 
 
 Were you littered, whelps inhuman, 
 
 To bay great freedom s climbing moon ? 
 Abortions of the womb of woman ! 
 
 Dear saints in heaven ! a boon, a boon ! 
 Curse me now, each foul hyena, 
 
 Charnel burglar, ghoul or worse ; 
 Make his leprous body leaner, 
 
 Than a three-months buried corse. 
 
 In each joint s articulation, 
 
 Plant an anguish fixed and sore ; 
 Through the ducts of circulation, 
 
 Madness and delirium pour. 
 In idiot frenzy let him tattle, 
 
 How he rifled loyal graves ; 
 Let his limbs with palsy rattle, 
 
 Like a gibbet swinging knaves. 
 
 Pain and spasm lancinating, 
 
 Fill his days and nights with moans ; 
 Cramp and rack excruciating, 
 
 Twitch his cursed coward bones. 
 In foretaste of meed hereafter, 
 
 Mock his fevered thirst with streams ; 
 Let him hear hell s goblin laughter, 
 
 In convulsed and nightmare dreams. 
 
 By disease s vitiation, 
 
 Corrupt his scoundrel carcass more ; 
 Loathsome forms of suppuration 
 
 Abscess, ulcer, cancerous sore. 
 In his own putrescence stifled ; 
 
 By a gangrene agonized ; 
 Horrors of the graves he s rifled, 
 
 In his own flesh vitalized. 
 
 Let him seeming dead but lying 
 In trance s awful consciousness, 
 
AN IDYL. 197 
 
 Yield the grave its rights undying 
 
 Corruption claiming its redress. 
 With his death-glazed sight, beholding 
 
 All the dark funereal show ; 
 Feeling living fibre mouldering, 
 
 And the crawling worms also. 
 
 Let him see grim insurrection, 
 
 (Rebellion by rebellion paid,) 
 Arson, pillage, fierce defection, 
 
 Blazing homestead, murderous raid. 
 Or hear to merry music treading, 
 
 Ransomed slaves, rejoicing well, 
 For him, an undersong pervading 
 
 Muttering? of defrauded hell. 
 
 Failing this then retribution 
 
 Blight his hopes, disgrace his name, 
 Blast his roof-tree with pollution, 
 
 Drag his household down to shame. 
 Let consuming hate and malice 
 
 Gnaw his heart like vultures then 
 Commend unto his lips a chalice, 
 
 Poisoned with the scorn of men. 
 
 Skulking, (guilty fear confounding,) 
 
 In his forests dank and grim, 
 Every loyal bugle sounding 
 
 Like the judgment trump to him. 
 Let his last breath be, when dying, 
 
 Miasma from his Southern bogs ; 
 Dead, then leave his carrion lying, 
 
 " In that last ditch " like a do^ s. 
 
198 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 
 THE OLD SERGEANT.* 
 
 THE Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 
 
 With which he used to go, 
 Rhyming the grand-rounds of the happy New-Years 
 
 That are now beneath the snow ; 
 
 For the same awful and portentous shadow 
 
 That overcast the earth, 
 And smote the land last year with desolation, 
 
 Still darkens every hearth. 
 
 And the Carrier hears Beethoven s mighty death-march 
 
 Come up from every mart, 
 And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom, 
 
 And beating in his heart. 
 
 And to-day, like a scarred and weatherbeaten veteran, 
 
 Again he comes along, 
 To tell the story of the Old Year s struggles, 
 
 In another New- Year s song. 
 
 And the song is his, but not so with the story ; 
 
 For the story, you must know, 
 Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon Austin, 
 
 By a soldier of Shiloh : 
 
 By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, 
 
 With his death-wound in his side ; 
 And who told the story to the Assistant-Surgeon 
 
 On the same night that he died : 
 
 But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, 
 If all should deem it right, 
 
 * This poem was distributed on the first day of the year, 18G3, 
 by the carriers of the Louisville Journal. 
 
THE OLD SERGEANT. 199 
 
 To sing the story as if what it speaks of 
 Had happened but last night : 
 
 " Come a little nearer, Doctor Thank you ! let me take 
 
 the cup ! 
 Draw your chair up draw it closer just another little 
 
 sup ! 
 Maybe you may think I m better, but I m pretty well 
 
 used up 
 Doctor, you ve done all you could do, but I in just a 
 
 going up. 
 
 " Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it is no use to 
 
 try." 
 " Never say that," said the surgeon, as he smothered down 
 
 a sigh, 
 
 " It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die ! " 
 " What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when 
 
 you come to die. 
 
 " Doctor, what has been the matter ? " " You were very 
 
 faint, they say ; 
 You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, have I 
 
 been away ? " 
 " No, my venerable comrade." " Doctor, will you please 
 
 to stay ? 
 There is something I must tell you, and you won t have 
 
 long to stay ! 
 
 " I have got my inarching orders, and am ready now to 
 
 g; 
 
 Doctor, did you say I fainted ? but it could n t have 
 
 been so 
 For as sure as I in a sergeant and was wounded at 
 
 Shiloh, 
 I ve this very night been back there on the old field 
 
 of Shiloh ! 
 
200 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 
 " You may think it all delusion all the sickness of the 
 
 brain 
 
 If you do, you are mistaken, and mistaken to my pain ; 
 For upon my dying honor, as I hope to live again, 
 I have just been back to Shiloh, and all over it again ! 
 
 " This is all that I remember : the last time the Lighter 
 
 came, 
 And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much 
 
 the same ; 
 He had not been gone five minutes before something 
 
 called my name 
 ORDERLY SERGEANT ROBERT BURTON! just that 
 
 way it called my name. 
 
 " Then I thought, who could have called me so distinctly 
 
 and so slow ? 
 It can t be the Lighter, surely ; he could not have 
 
 spoken so ; 
 And I tried to answer, Here, sir ! but I could n t make 
 
 it go, 
 For I could n t move a muscle, and I could n t make it 
 
 go! 
 
 " Then I thought, it s all a nightmare all a humbug 
 and a bore ! 
 
 It is just another grapevine* and it won t come any 
 more ; 
 
 But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same words as 
 before, 
 
 4 ORDERLY SERGEANT ROBERT BURTON ! more dis 
 tinctly than before ! 
 
 " That is all that I remenber, till a sudden burst of light, 
 And I stood beside the river, where w r e stood that Sun 
 day night, 
 
 * I am unable to explain this slang, which appears to be Western, 
 and born of the war. 
 
THE OLD SERGEANT. 201 
 
 Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, 
 When the river seemed perdition and all hell seemed 
 opposite ! 
 
 " And the same old palpitation came again with all its 
 power, 
 
 And I heard a bugle sounding as from heaven or a tower ; 
 
 And the same mysterious voice said : IT is THE ELEV 
 ENTH HOUR ! 
 
 ORDERLY SERGEANT ROBERT BURTON IT is THE 
 
 ELEVENTH HOUR ! 
 
 " Doctor Austin, what day is this ? " " It is Wednesday 
 
 night, you know." 
 " Yes ! To-morrow will be New- Year s, and a right good 
 
 time below ! 
 What time is it, Doctor Austin ? " " Nearly twelve." 
 
 " Then don t you go ! 
 Can it be that all this happened all this not an hour 
 
 ago! 
 
 " There was where the gunboats opened on the dark, 
 
 rebellious host, 
 And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the 
 
 coast ; 
 There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else 
 
 their ghost ; 
 And the same old transport came and took me over or 
 
 its ghost ! 
 
 " And the whole field lay before me, all deserted far and 
 
 wide : 
 There was where they fell on Prentiss there McCler- 
 
 nand met the tide ; 
 There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurl- 
 
 but s heroes died ; 
 Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept 
 
202 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 
 " There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of 
 the canny kin ; 
 
 There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rous 
 seau waded in ; 
 
 There Me Cook sent them to breakfast, and we all began 
 to win ; 
 
 There was where the grape-shot took me just as we began 
 to win. 
 
 " Now a shroud of snow and silence over everything was 
 
 spread ; 
 And but for this old blue mantle, and the old hat on my 
 
 head, 
 I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was 
 
 dead ; 
 For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the 
 
 dead. 
 
 " Death and silence ! Death and silence ! starry silence 
 
 overhead ! 
 
 And behold a mighty tower, as if builded to the dead, 
 To the heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty head ! 
 Till the Stars and Stripes of heaven all seemed waving 
 
 from its head ! 
 
 " Round and mighty-based, it towered up into the in 
 finite ! 
 
 And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so 
 bright ; 
 
 For it shone like solid sunshine ; and a winding stair of 
 light 
 
 Wound around it and around it, till it wound clear out of 
 sight ! 
 
 " And behold ! as I approached it with a rapt and daz 
 zled stare, 
 
 Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the 
 great stair, 
 
THE OLD SERGEANT. 203 
 
 Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of, Halt ! and 
 
 Who goes there ? 
 I m a friend, I said, if you are. Then advance, sir, 
 
 to the stair. 
 
 " I advanced ; that sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballan- 
 
 tyne 
 First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the 
 
 line. 
 Welcome ! my old sergeant, welcome ! Welcome by that 
 
 countersign ! 
 And he pointed to the scar there under this old cloak of 
 
 mine ! 
 
 " As he grasped my hand I shuddered thinking only of 
 the grave ; 
 
 But he smiled and pointed upward, with a bright and 
 bloodless glaive : 
 
 That s the way, sir, to headquarters. What head 
 quarters ? Of the brave ! 
 
 But the great tower ? That was builded of the great 
 deeds of the brave ! 
 
 " Then a sudden shame came o er me at his uniform of 
 
 light ; 
 At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and 
 
 bright : 
 Ah ! said he, you have forgotten the new uniform 
 
 to-night ! 
 Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o clock 
 
 to-night ! 
 
 " And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, 
 
 and I 
 Doctor, it is hard to leave you Hark ! God bless you 
 
 all ! Good-bye ! 
 
204 AV THE SEPULCHRE. 
 
 Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when 
 
 I die, 
 To my son my son that s coming he won t get here 
 
 till I die ! 
 
 " Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did 
 
 before ; 
 And to carry that old musket Hark ! a knock is at the 
 
 door ! 
 Till the Union see ! it opens ! " " Father ! father ! 
 
 speak once more ! " 
 " Bless you ! " gasped the old gray Sergeant ; and he lay 
 
 and said no more ! 
 
 When the surgeon gave the heir-son the old Sergeant s 
 
 last advice, 
 And his musket and his knapsack, how the fire flashed 
 
 in his eyes ! 
 He is on the march this morning, and will march on till 
 
 he dies ; 
 He will save this bleeding country, or will fight until he 
 
 dies ! 
 
 IN THE SEPULCHRE. 
 
 O KEEPER of the Sacred Key 
 And the Great Seal of Destiny ! 
 Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
 
 Look down upon the world once more, and tell us what 
 the end will be. 
 
 Three cold bright moons have filled and wheeled, 
 And the white cerement that concealed 
 The lifeless Figure on the shield 
 
 Is turned to verdure, and the land is now one mighty 
 battle-field. 
 
IN THE SEPULCHRE. 205 
 
 And the twin brothers that we said 
 Had clashed above the fallen head, 
 Heedless of all on which they tread, 
 
 Now crimson with each other s blood the vernal drapery 
 of the dead. 
 
 And all their children, far and wide, 
 That are so greatly multiplied, 
 Rise up in frenzy and divide, 
 
 And all, according to their might, unsheathe the sword 
 and choose their side. 
 
 I see the champion sword-strokes flash, 
 I see them fall and hear them clash, 
 I hear the murderous engines crash, 
 
 I see a brother stoop to loose his foeman-brother s bloody 
 sash. 
 
 I hear the curses and the thanks, 
 I see the mad charge on the flanks, 
 The rents the gaps the broken ranks, 
 And seen the vanquished driven headlong down the 
 river s bridgeless banks. 
 
 I see the death-gripe on the plain, 
 The grappling monsters on the main ; 
 I see the thousands that are slain, 
 
 And all the speechless suffering and agony of heart and 
 brain. 
 
 I see the torn and mangled corpse, 
 The dead and dying heaped in scores, 
 The heedless rider by his horse, 
 
 The wounded captives bayoneted through and through 
 without remorse. 
 
 I see the dark and bloody spots, 
 
 The crowded rooms and crowded cots, 
 
206 IN THE SEPULCHRE. 
 
 The bleaching bones, the battle-blots ; 
 And write on many a nameless grave a legend of forget- 
 me-nots. 
 
 I see the assassin crouch and fire ; 
 I see his victim fall expire 
 I see the victor creeping nigher, 
 
 To strip the dead he turns the head the face ! the 
 son beholds life sire ! 
 
 I hear the dying sufferer cry, 
 With his crushed face turned to the sky ; 
 I see him crawl in agony 
 
 To the foul pool, and bow his head into its bloody slime 
 and die. 
 
 And in the low sun s bloodshot rays 
 Portentous of the coming days 
 I see the oceans blush and blaze, 
 
 And the emergent continent between them wrapt in 
 crimson haze. 
 
 And I foreorder and ordain, 
 That ere the sixth red moon shall wane 
 Those brothers swords shall cross again, 
 And the True shall smite down the False within the Vir 
 gin s waste domain. 
 
 And lo ! the bloody dew shall fall, 
 And my great darkness, like a pall 
 Of deep compassion, cover all, 
 
 Till the dead nation rise, transformed by truth, to tri 
 umph over all. 
 
 Thus saith the Keeper of the Key 
 And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
 
UNCLE SAM. 207 
 
 Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
 
 And casts the pall of his great darkness over a) I the land 
 and sea. 
 
 Louisville .Jnurnul. 
 
 UNCLE SAM. 
 
 AIR " Tom Brown." 
 
 THE king will take the queen, 
 
 And the queen will take the jack ; 
 And down we march to Dixie s land, 
 
 With knapsacks at our back. 
 Chorus Here s to you, Uncle Sam, 
 
 And your flag shall be our chart ; 
 Here s to you, with hand and heart ; 
 And for you we 11 win a battle or two, 
 And that before we part ; 
 Here s to you, Uncle Sam! {Repeat. 
 
 The jack will take the ten, 
 
 And the ten will take the nine ; 
 And over Richmond s rebel walls 
 
 The Stars and Stripes must shine. 
 Chorus Here s to you, etc. 
 
 The nine will take the eight, 
 
 And the eight will take the seven ; 
 
 And out of Old Virginia s soil 
 
 Secession shall be driven. 
 Chorus Here s to you, etc. 
 
 The seven will take the six, 
 
 And the six will take the five ; 
 King Davis and his wretched crew 
 
 From Dixie s land we 11 drive. 
 Chorus Here s to you, etc. 
 
208 WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME. 
 
 The five \vill take the four, 
 
 And the four will take the tray ; 
 
 And all the ragged rebel rogues 
 
 We 11 shortly sweep away. 
 Chorus Here s to you, etc. 
 
 The tray will take the deuce, 
 
 But the deuce can t take the ace ; 
 
 And so the Devil and Davis both 
 
 Must leave their power and place. 
 Chorus Here s to you, etc. 
 
 WHEN JOPINNY COMES MARCHING HOME.* 
 
 WHEN Johnny comes marching home again, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 We 11 give him a hearty welcome then, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 The men will cheer, the boys will shout, 
 The ladies, they will all turn out, 
 
 And we 11 all feel gay, 
 When Johnny conies marching home. 
 
 CHORUS TO EACH VERSE. 
 
 The men will cheer, the boys will shout, 
 The ladies, they will all turn out, 
 
 And we 11 all feel gay, 
 When Johnny comes marching home. 
 
 The old church-bell will peal with joy, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 To welcome home our darling boy, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 * A very popular street-song during the last two years of the 
 war. It was sung to a kind of jig, in the minor key. 
 
SONNET. 209 
 
 The village lads and lasses say, 
 With roses they will strew the way ; 
 
 And we 11 all feel gay, 
 When Johnny comes marching home. 
 
 Get ready for the jubilee, 
 
 Hurrah! hurrah! 7. 
 
 We 11 give the hero three times three, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 The laurel-wreath is ready now 
 To place upon his loyal brow ; 
 
 And we 11 all feel gay, 
 When Johnny comes inarching home. 
 
 Let love and friendship on that day, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 Their choicest treasures then display, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 And let each one perform some part, 
 To fill with joy the warrior s heart ; 
 
 And we 11 all feel gay, 
 When Johnny comes marching home. 
 Chorus The men will cheer, the boys will shout, 
 The ladies, they will all turn out, 
 
 And we 11 all feel gay, 
 When Johnny comes marching home. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BY GEORGE II. BOKEK. 
 
 BLOOD, blood ! the lines of every printed sheet 
 Through their dark arteries reek with running gore; 
 At hearth, at board, before the household door, 
 Tis the sole subject with which neighbors meet. 
 Girls at the feast, and children in the street 
 14 
 
210 THE BRAVE AT HOME. 
 
 Prattle of horrors flash their little store 
 Of simple jests against the cannon s roar, 
 
 As if mere slaughter kept existence sweet. 
 
 Oh, Heaven ! I quail at the familiar way 
 
 This fool the world disports his jingling cap; 
 Murdering or dying, with one grin agap ! 
 
 Our very Love comes draggled from the fray, 
 Smiling at victory, scowling at mishap, 
 With gory Death companioned and at play. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BY GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 On ! craven, craven ! while my brothers fall 
 Like grass before the mower, in the fight, 
 I, easy vassal to my own delight, 
 
 Am bound with flowers, a far too willing thrall. 
 
 Day after day along the streets I crawl, 
 
 Shamed in my manhood, reddening at the sight 
 Of every soldier who upholds the Right, 
 
 With no more motive than his country s call. 
 
 I love thee more than honor ; ay, above 
 
 That simple duty, conscience plain and clear 
 To dullest minds, whose summons all men hear. 
 
 Yet, as I blush and loiter, who should move 
 In the grand marches, I cannot but fear 
 That thou wilt scorn me for my very love. 
 
 THE BRAVE AT HOME. 
 
 BY THOMAS BUCHANAN RKAD. 
 
 THE maid who binds her warrior s sash 
 With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
 
WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER. 211 
 
 The while beneath her drooping lash 
 
 One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, 
 
 Though Heaven alone records the tear, 
 And Fame shall never know her story, 
 
 Her heart shall shed a drop as dear 
 As ever dewed the field of glory. 
 
 The wife who girds her husband s sword 
 
 Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
 And gravely speaks the cheering word, 
 
 What though her heart be rent asunder ; 
 Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
 
 The bolts of war around him rattle, 
 Hath shed as sacred blood as e er 
 
 Was poured upon a field of battle. 
 
 The mother who conceals her grief 
 
 When to her breast her son she presses, 
 Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 
 
 Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
 With no one but her secret God 
 
 To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
 Sheds holy blood as e er the sod 
 
 Received on Freedom s field of honor. 
 
 WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER* 
 
 DEAREST love, do you remember 
 When we last did meet, 
 
 * Of all the songs which the war produced, this was the most 
 sung, except, perhaps, the John Brown Song. At one time the air 
 was heard out of doors and in public places constantly, sung, 
 whistled, hummed, or played on barrel-organs. Sitting with open 
 windows one evening in the summer of 18G3, I heard this air at 
 intervals of not more than live minutes (it seemed without inter 
 mission) from eight o clock until long after midnight. 
 
212 WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER. 
 
 How you told me that you loved me, 
 
 Kneeling at your feet ? 
 O, how proud you stood before me 
 
 In your suit of blue, 
 When you vowed to me and country 
 
 Ever to be true. 
 Chorus Weeping, sad and lonely, 
 
 Hopes and fears, how vain ; 
 Yet praying 
 
 When this cruel war is over, 
 Praying that we meet again. 
 
 When the summer breeze is sighing 
 
 Mournfully along, 
 Or when autumn leaves are falling, 
 
 Sadly breathes the song. 
 Oft in dreams I see thee lying 
 
 On the battle-plain, 
 Lonely, wounded, even dying, 
 
 Calling, but in vain. 
 Chorus Weeping, sad, &c. 
 
 If, amid the din of battle, 
 
 Nobly you should fall, 
 Far away from those who love you, 
 
 None to hear you call, 
 Who would whisper words of comfort ? 
 
 AVho would soothe your pain ? 
 Ah, the many cruel fancies 
 
 Ever in my brain ! 
 Chorus Weeping, sad, &c. 
 
 But our country called you, darling, 
 
 Angels cheer your way ! 
 While our nation s sons are fighting, 
 
 We can only pray. 
 Nobly strike for God and liberty, 
 
APRIL 20, 1864. 213 
 
 Let all nations see 
 How we love the starry banner, 
 
 Emblem of the free ! 
 Chorus Weeping, sad and lonely, 
 
 Hopes and fears, how vain ; 
 Yet praying 
 
 When this cruel war is over, 
 Praying that we meet again. 
 
 APRIL 20, 1864. 
 
 BY CHARLES G. HALPIN. 
 
 THREE years ago to-day 
 
 We raised our hands to heaven, 
 And on the rolls of muster 
 
 Our names were thirty-seven ; 
 There were just a thousand bayonets, 
 
 And the swords wei*e thirty-seven, 
 As we took the oath of service 
 
 W T ith our right hands raised to heaven. 
 
 Oh, t was a gallant day, 
 
 In memory still adored, 
 That day of our sun-bright nuptials 
 
 With the musket and the sword ! 
 Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared, 
 
 And beneath a cloudless heaven 
 Twinkled a thousand bayonets, 
 
 And the swords were thirty-seven. 
 
 Of the thousand stalwart bayonets 
 
 Two hundred march to-day ; 
 Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps, 
 
 And hundreds in Maryland clay ; 
 Arid other hundreds, less happy, drag 
 
 Their shattered limbs around, 
 
214 GRANT. 
 
 And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep 
 Of the battle-field s holy ground. 
 
 For the swords one night, a week ago, 
 
 The remnant, just eleven, 
 Gathered around a banqueting board 
 
 With seats for thirty-seven ; 
 There were two limped in on crutches, 
 
 And two had each but a hand 
 To pour the wine and raise the cup 
 
 As we toasted " Our flag and land ! " 
 
 And the room seemed filled with Avhispers 
 
 As we looked at the vacant seats, 
 And, with choking throats, we pushed aside 
 
 The rich but untasted meats ; 
 Then in silence we brimmed our glasses, 
 
 As we rose up just eleven 
 And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead 
 
 Who had made us thirty-seven ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 GRANT. 
 
 BY GEORGE II. BOKER. 
 
 As Moses stood upon the flaming hill, 
 With all the people gathered at his feet, 
 Waiting in Sinai s valley, there to meet 
 
 The awful bearer of Jehovah s will, 
 
 So, Grant, thou stand st, amidst the trumpets shrill, 
 And the wild fiery storms that flash and beat 
 In iron thunder and in leaden sleet, 
 
 Topmost of all, and most exposed to ill. 
 
 O, stand thou firm, great leader of our race, 
 Hope of our future, till the times grow bland, 
 And into ashes drops war s dying brand ; 
 
THE B UN TY- JUMPER. 2 1 5 
 
 Then let us see thee, with benignant grace, 
 Descend thy height, God s glory on thy face, 
 And the law s tables safe within thy hand ! 
 
 THE BOUNTY-JUMPER.* 
 
 BY J. CROSS CASTEN. 
 
 MY song is of a fast young man whose name was Billy 
 
 Wires ; 
 
 He used to run with the machine and go to all the fires : 
 But as he loved a Soldier s life, and wished strange things 
 
 to see, 
 So the thought struck him that he would go and jump 
 
 the Bounti-e. 
 
 At once he went to see a friend, whose maiden name 
 
 was Cal, 
 
 When they started to the office of the Provost Marshi-al. 
 The Surgeon found that they would pass, as either had no 
 
 scars, 
 And they received the Bounty of Five Hundred Dol-li-ars. 
 
 They were then marched into a room that was extremely 
 
 near, 
 Where they were dressed in the latest style as Union 
 
 Cavaliers ; 
 
 Into this room they were locked up, no longer to be free : 
 Says Billy, "the first chance that I get I ll jump the 
 
 Bounti-e ! " 
 
 Three days elapsed, when they were marched to the depot 
 
 through the street : 
 Says Cal to Billy, " Let s get away, for nimble are our 
 
 feet." 
 
 * The author calls this song "A pathetic ditty, written for Pony 
 Smith, the favorite Ethiopian Comedian," which perhaps means 
 negro minstrel. 
 
2l6 THE BOUNTY-JUMPER. 
 
 As they got near the depot the guard told all to stop ; 
 When Billy and Cal as quick as you please popped into 
 a Policy shop. 
 
 When the guard found out that they were gone they 
 
 did n t know what to do : 
 They went in every Gin-mill, and searched the place all 
 
 through ; 
 
 But their search was fruit-i-less, as you may plainly see, 
 For, says Billy to Cal, " We re hunkey boys that have 
 
 jumped the Bounti-e." 
 
 As soon as they found that the guard had gone they 
 
 resolved upon a spree ; 
 
 They travelled all around the town the Elephant to see ; 
 They treated everybody, and to please all they tried 
 
 hard ; 
 But there was one whom they could not please, for he 
 
 happened to be the guard. 
 
 Poor Cal was seized and hurried to jail, his time there to 
 
 serve out ; 
 But Billy escaped through the back door, for he knew 
 
 that route. 
 That night, as Billy lay on his couch, his sin he plainly 
 
 did see, 
 In cheating the Government out of funds in jumping the 
 
 Bounti-e. 
 
 He rolled all over that night in bed to sleep he vainly 
 
 tried ; 
 He pitied Cal who in pris-u-on was, and resolved on 
 
 suicide ; 
 He bought six dozen wrought-iron spikes, and swallowed 
 
 them three by three, 
 And that was the last of Billy Wires, who jumped the 
 
 Bounti-e. 
 
THE SONG OF KLLP AT RICK S TROOPERS. 217 
 
 THE SONG OF KILPATRICK S TROOPERS. 
 
 UP from the ground at break of day, 
 
 When the bugle s note is heard, 
 From the cold, hard ground, where all night we lay, 
 
 To rise with the waking bird. 
 Right merrily our sabres ring 
 
 As we scour along on our steeds ; 
 Oh, true and tried are the hearts of those 
 
 Whom the brave Kilpatrick leads ! 
 
 Away, away, o er the plain we go, 
 
 Away on our steeds so fleet ! 
 Ah, well the foeman s path we know 
 
 By the print of the foeman s feet ! 
 So on we ride while our sabres ring 
 
 A merrily sounding tune, 
 By field and river and wooded steep, 
 
 To the halt which comes with noon. 
 
 And then in the forest s welcome shade, 
 
 Neath the pine-trees dark and high, 
 We rest till the burning heat is past 
 
 From the Southern noonday sky. 
 Then up and away o er the rolling plain, 
 
 Away on our gallant steeds ! 
 What foe is there whom we would not dare 
 
 When the brave Kilpatrick leads ? 
 
 Of Northern steel our good blades are, 
 
 Our carbines are true of aim ; 
 The Southern traitor hears with dread 
 
 The sound of our leader s name. 
 Oh, wild is the life we troopers live, 
 
 But a merrier none may know, 
 To scour the plain on our gallant steeds 
 
 In search of the traitorous foe ! 
 
2l8 THE SONG OF GRANT S SOLDIERS. 
 
 And when on the battle-field we meet, 
 
 And loud on the echoing air 
 The bugles sound, and quick in the sun 
 
 Our blades gleam bright and bare, 
 Away we go at the one word charge, 
 
 With a cheer, at the flying foe ; 
 While the bullets sing, and our scabbards ring, 
 
 And the bugles loudly blow ! 
 
 Oh, long shall the tale of our deeds be told 
 
 When this cruel war shall cease, 
 On winter eves, by the glowing hearth, 
 
 AVhen the land shall be blessed with peace. 
 And long shall live in the hearts of all 
 
 Our valiant leader s fame, 
 And our children lisp with their infant lips 
 
 The brave Kilpatrick s name. 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 THE SONG OF GRANT S SOLDIERS. 
 
 PILE on the rails ! Come, comrades, all, 
 
 We 11 sing a song to-night ; 
 To-morroAv, when the bugles call, 
 
 Be ready for the fight. 
 Be ready then with loud hurrah 
 
 To battle or to die ; 
 When Grant shall yield, the Northern star 
 
 Will fade from out the sky. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Before us lies the rebel host, 
 Their watch-fires we can see ; 
 
THE SONG OF GRANTS SOLDIERS. 219 
 
 We laugh to hear the traitor boast 
 
 Of Southern victory. 
 Three cheers for Grant, and one more cheer, 
 
 Until the woods ring back ! 
 Ah, well the rebel chief may fear 
 
 The blood-hound on his track. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 In Freedom s cause our blades were drawn : 
 
 The traitor yet shall feel 
 Before the day of Peace shall dawn 
 
 How strong is Northern steel. 
 Three cheers for Grant, my gallant men ! 
 
 Give three loud, roaring cheers ! 
 Until the foe within his den 
 
 Shall tremble while he hears. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Thus far we ve come through fire and flood ; 
 
 Still further on we 11 press, 
 Although the way be red with blood 
 
 As through the wilderness. 
 Then cheer, brave comrades ; let the night 
 
 King with your loud hurrahs 
 For Grant, who knows so well to fight, 
 
 And for the Stripes and Stars. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Our longing eyes shall yet behold 
 
 Proud Richmond s slender spires ; 
 Our children s children will be told 
 
 How fought their valiant sires. 
 Look well to cap and cartridge, too ; 
 
 And as we onward press 
 We 11 cheer for Grant, who brought us through 
 
 The bloody wilderness. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
220 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 Brave soldiers of the Lord are we, 
 
 In solid ranks we come ! 
 The Southern traitors yet shall see 
 
 How light the Northern u scum." 
 Be ready, then, with loud hurrah, 
 
 To battle or to die ; 
 When Grant shall yield, the Northern star 
 
 Will drop from out the sky. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass, 
 He turned them into the river-lane ; 
 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 Then fastened the meadow bars again. 
 
 Under the willows and over the hill, 
 He patiently followed their sober pace ; 
 
 The merry whistle for once was still, 
 
 And something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy ! and his father had said 
 He never could let his youngest go ! 
 
 Two already were lying dead, 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was done, 
 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun 
 
 And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 
 
 Across the clover and through the wheat, 
 With resolute heart and purpose grim, 
 
DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 221 
 
 Though cold Avas the dew on his hurrying feet, 
 And the blind bats flitting startled him. 
 
 Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
 And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 
 
 And now, when the cows came back at night, 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely farm 
 
 That three were lying where two had lain ; 
 
 And the old man s tremulous, palsied arm 
 Could never lean on a son s again. 
 
 The summer day grew cool and late ; 
 
 He went for the cows when the work was done ; 
 But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
 
 He saw them coming, one by one. 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 
 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the grass 
 But who was it following close behind ? 
 
 Loosely swang in the idle air 
 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 
 
 Looked out a face that the father knew ; 
 
 For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
 And yield their dead unto life again ; * 
 
 * Yet there are twelve thousand nine hundred and nineteen 
 graves of Union soldiers at the one rebel prison-pen of Anderson- 
 ville; while from the comfortable quarters in which the rebel pris 
 oners were kept, there went back into the rebel armies some of 
 "the finest lighting material" the rebel Commissioner of Ex 
 change ever saw. 
 
222 ON PICKET DUT Y. 
 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 
 
 For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 Harpers Magazine. 
 
 ON PICKET DUTY. 
 
 WITHIN a green and shadowy wood, 
 Circled with spring, alone I stood : 
 The nook was peaceful, fair, and good. 
 
 The wild-plum blossoms lured the bees, 
 The birds sang madly in the trees, 
 Magnolia-scents were on the breeze. 
 
 All else was silent ; but the ear 
 Caught sounds of distant bugle clear, 
 And heard the bullets whistle near, 
 
 When from the winding river s shore 
 
 The Rebel guns began to roar, 
 
 And ours to answer, thundering o er ; 
 
 And echoed from the wooded hill, 
 
 Repeated and repeated still, 
 
 Through all my soul they seemed to thrill. 
 
 For, as their rattling storm awoke, 
 And loud and fast the discord broke, 
 In rude and trenchant words they spoke. 
 
ON PICKET DUTY. 223 
 
 " We hate ! " boomed fiercely o er the tide ; 
 " We fear not ! " from the other side ; 
 " We strike ! " the Rebel guns replied. 
 
 Quick roared our answer, " We defend ! " 
 " Our rights ! " the battle-sounds contend ; 
 " The rights of all ! " we answer send. 
 
 " We conquer ! " rolled across the wave ; 
 " We persevere ! " our answer gave ; 
 " Our Chivalry ! " they wildly rave. 
 
 " Ours are the brave !" " Be ours the free ! " 
 " Be ours the slave, the masters we ! " 
 " On us their blood no more shall be ! " 
 
 As when some magic word is spoken, 
 By which a wizard spell is broken, 
 There was a silence at that token. 
 
 The wild birds dared once more to sing, 
 I heard the pine bough s whispering, 
 And trickling of a silver spring. 
 
 Then, crashing forth with smoke and din, 
 Once more the rattling sounds begin, 
 Our iron lips roll forth, " We win ! " 
 
 And dull and wavering in the gale 
 That rushed in gusts across the vale 
 Came back the faint reply, " We fail ! " 
 
 And then a word, both stern and sad, 
 
 From throat of huge Columbiad, 
 
 " Blind fools and traitors ! ye are mad ! " 
 
224 ON PICKET DUTY. 
 
 Again the Rebel answer came, 
 Muffled and slow, as if in shame, 
 " All, all is lout ! " in smoke and flame. 
 
 Now bold and strong and stern as Fate 
 The Union guns sound forth, " We wait ! 
 Faint comes the distant cry, " Too late ! " 
 
 " Return ! return ! " our cannon said ; 
 
 And, as the smoke rolled overhead, 
 
 " We dare not ! " was the answer dread. 
 
 Then came a sound, both loud and clear, 
 A godlike word of hope and cheer, 
 " Forgiveness ! " echoed far and near ; 
 
 As when beside some death-bed still 
 We watch, and wait God s solemn will, 
 A bluebird warbles his soft trill. 
 
 I clenched my teeth at that blest word, 
 And, angry, muttered, " Not so, Lord ! 
 The only answer is the sword ! " 
 
 I thought of Shiloh s tainted air, 
 
 Of Richmond s prisons, foul and bare, 
 
 And murdered heroes, young and fair, 
 
 Of block and lash and overseer, 
 And dark, mild faces pale with fear, 
 Of baying hell-hounds panting near. 
 
 But then the gentle story told 
 My childhood, in the days of old, 
 Rang out its lessons manifold. 
 
THE HEART OF THE WAR. 22$ 
 
 O prodigal, and lost ! arise 
 
 And read the welcome blest that lies 
 
 In a kind Father s patient eyes ! 
 
 Thy elder brother grudges not 
 
 The lost and found should share his lot, 
 
 And wrong in concord be forgot. 
 
 Thus mused I, as the hours went by, 
 Till the relieving guard drew nigh, 
 And then was challenge and reply. 
 
 And as I hastened back to line, 
 
 It seemed an omen half divine 
 
 That " Concord " was the countersign. 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 THE HEART OF THE WAR. 
 
 PEACE in the clover-scented air, 
 
 And stars within the dome ; 
 And underneath, in dim repose, 
 
 A plain New-England home. 
 Within, a murmur of low tones 
 
 And sighs from hearts oppressed, 
 Merging in prayer at last, that brings 
 
 The balm of silent rest. 
 
 I ve closed a hard day s work, Marty, 
 The evening chores are done ; 
 
 And you are weary with the house, 
 And with the little one. 
 15 
 
226 THE HEART OF THE WAR. 
 
 But he is sleeping sweetly now, 
 
 With all our pretty brood ; 
 So come and sit upon my knee, 
 
 And it will do me good. 
 
 Oh, Marty ! I must tell you all 
 
 The trouble in my heart, 
 And you must do the best you can 
 
 To take and bear your part. 
 You ve seen the shadow on my face, 
 
 You ve felt it day and night ; 
 For it has filled our little home, 
 
 And banished all its light. 
 
 I did not mean it should be so, 
 
 And yet I might have known 
 That hearts that live as close as ours 
 
 Can never keep their own. 
 But we are fallen on evil times, 
 
 And, do whate er I may, 
 My heart grows sad about the war, 
 
 And sadder every day. 
 
 I think about it when I work, 
 
 And when I try to rest, 
 And never more than when your head 
 
 Is pillowed on my breast ; 
 For then I see the camp-fires blaze, 
 
 And sleeping men around, 
 Who turn their faces toward their homes, 
 
 And dream upon the ground. 
 
 I think about the dear, brave boys, 
 
 My mates in other years, 
 Who pine for home and those they love, 
 
 Till I am choked with tears. 
 With shouts and cheers they marched away 
 
 On glory s shining track, 
 
THE HEART OF THE WAR. 227 
 
 But, all ! how long, how long they stay ! 
 How few of them come back ! 
 
 One sleeps beside the Tennessee, 
 
 And one beside the James, 
 And one fought on a gallant ship 
 
 And perished in its flames. 
 And some, struck down by fell disease, 
 
 Are breathing out their life ; 
 And others, maimed by cruel wounds, 
 
 Have left the deadly strife. 
 
 Ah, Marty ! Marty ! only think 
 
 Of all the boys have done 
 And suffered in this weary war ! 
 
 Brave heroes, every one ! 
 Oh ! often, often in the night, 
 
 I hear their voices call : 
 "Come on and help us! Is it right 
 
 That we should bear it all ? " 
 
 And when I kneel and try to pray, 
 
 My thoughts are never free, 
 But cling to those who toil and fight 
 
 And die for you and me. 
 And when I pray for victory, 
 
 It seems almost a sin 
 To fold my hands and ask for what 
 
 I will not help to win. 
 
 Oh ! do not cling to me and cry, 
 
 For it will break my heart ; 
 I m sure you d rather have me die 
 
 Than not to bear my part. 
 You think that some should stay at home 
 
 To care for those away ; 
 But still I m helpless to decide 
 
 If I should go or stay. 
 
228 THE DRUMMER-BOYS BURIAL. 
 
 For, Marty, all the soldiers love, 
 
 And all are loved again ; 
 And I am loved, and love, perhaps, 
 
 No more than other men. 
 I cannot tell I do not know 
 
 Which way my duty lies, 
 Or where the Lord would have me build 
 
 My fire of sacrifice. 
 
 I feel I know I am not mean ; 
 
 And though I seem to boast, 
 I m sure that I would give my life 
 
 To those who need it most. 
 Perhaps the Spirit will reveal 
 
 That which is fair and right ; 
 So, Marty, let us humbly kneel 
 
 And pray to Heaven for light. 
 
 Peace in the clover-scented air, 
 
 And stars within the dome ; 
 And, underneath, in dim repose, 
 
 A plain, New-England home. 
 Within, a widow in her weeds, 
 
 From whom all joy is flown, 
 Who kneels among her sleeping babes, 
 
 And weeps and prays alone ! 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 THE DRUMMER-BOY S BURIAL. 
 
 ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled 
 
 valley swept ; 
 All night long the stars in heaven o er the slain sad vigils 
 
 kept. 
 
THE DRUMMER-BOY S BURIAL. 229 
 
 Oh the ghastly, upturned faces gleaming whitely through 
 
 the night ! 
 Oh the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral 
 
 light ! 
 
 One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morn 
 ing broke ; 
 
 But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death 
 awoke. 
 
 Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright sum 
 mer day, 
 
 And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied 
 lay: 
 
 Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, un 
 ceasing prayer, 
 
 For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and 
 air. 
 
 But the foemen held possession of that hard-won battle 
 
 plain, 
 In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. 
 
 Once again the night dropped round them night so 
 
 holy and so calm 
 That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of 
 
 prayer or psalm. 
 
 On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the 
 
 rest, 
 Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on 
 
 his breast. 
 
 Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in 
 
 sleep ; 
 Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber 
 
 calm and deep. 
 
230 THE DRUMMER BOYS BURIAL. 
 
 For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the 
 
 face, 
 And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added 
 
 nought of grace 
 
 To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, 
 Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying 
 foes. 
 
 And the broken drum beside him all his life s short story 
 
 told: 
 How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o er him 
 
 rolled. 
 
 Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, 
 While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet 
 Mai s. 
 
 Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whisper 
 ing low, 
 
 Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet s 
 murmuring flow ? 
 
 Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look 
 
 round 
 As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the 
 
 ground, 
 
 Came two little maidens, sisters, with a light and 
 
 hasty tread, 
 And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread. 
 
 And they did. not pause nor falter till, with throbbing 
 hearts, they stood 
 
 Where the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial soli 
 tude. 
 
THE DRUMMER BOY S BURIAL. 231 
 
 They had brought some simple garments from their ward 
 robe s scanty store, 
 
 And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they 
 bore. 
 
 Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the 
 
 pitying tears, 
 For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish 
 
 fears. 
 
 And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden 
 shame 
 
 Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lam 
 bent flame. 
 
 For their saintly hearts yearned o er it in that hour of 
 
 sorest need, 
 And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the 
 
 deed. 
 
 But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, 
 
 strange task was o er, 
 And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments 
 
 wore. 
 
 Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hol 
 lowed out, 
 
 And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that 
 lay about. 
 
 But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was 
 
 done, 
 And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. 
 
 And then those little maidens they were children of 
 
 our foes 
 
 Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose. 
 
 Harpers^ Mayazine. 
 
232 THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 (Mobile Bay, August 5, 1804.) 
 
 BY II. H. BROWMELL, U. S. N. 
 
 " On the forecastle, Ulf the Red 
 
 AVatched the lashing of the ships. 
 If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 
 We shall have hard work of it here, 
 Said he." 
 
 THREE days through sapphire seas we sailed, 
 The steady Trade blew strong and free, 
 
 The Northern Light his banners paled, 
 
 The Ocean Stream our channels wet, 
 We rounded low Canaveral s lee, 
 
 And passed the isles of emerald set 
 In blue Bahamas turquoise sea. 
 
 By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, 
 And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, 
 
 The palmy Western Key lay lapped 
 In the Avarm washing of the Gulf. 
 
 But weary to the hearts of all 
 
 The burning glare, the barren reach 
 Of Santa Rosa s Avithered beach, 
 
 And Pensacola s ruined wall. 
 
 And weary was the long patrol, 
 
 The thousand miles of shapeless strand, 
 
 From Brazos to San Bias that roll 
 Their drifting dunes of desert sand. 
 
 Yet, coastwise as we cruised or lay, 
 The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, 
 
 By beach and fortress-guarded bay, 
 Sweet odors from the enemy s shore, 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 233 
 
 Fresh from the forest solitudes, 
 
 Unchallenged of his sentry lines, 
 The bursting of his cypress buds, 
 
 And the warm fragrance of his pines. 
 
 Ah, never braver bark and crew, 
 
 Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare, 
 Had left a wake on ocean blue 
 
 Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer ! * 
 
 But little gain by that dark ground 
 
 Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath 
 
 For friend or brother strangely found, 
 Scaped from the drear domain of death. 
 
 And little venture for the bold, 
 
 Or laurel for our valiant Chief, 
 
 Save some blockaded British thief, 
 Full fraught with murder in his hold, 
 
 Caught unawares at ebb or flood ; 
 Or dull bombardment, day by day, 
 With fort and earth-work, far away, 
 
 Low couched in sullen leagues of mud. 
 
 A weary time but to the strong 
 
 The day at last, as ever, came ; 
 And the volcano, laid so long, 
 
 Leaped forth in thunder and in flame ! 
 
 " Man your starboard battery ! " 
 
 Kimberly shouted ; 
 The ship, with her hearts of oak, 
 Was going, mid roar and smoke, 
 On to victory ! 
 
 None of us doubted, 
 
 * The flag-ship of Richard I. 
 
234 THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 No, not our dying, 
 Farragut s Flag was flying ! 
 
 Gaines growled low on our left, 
 
 Morgan roared on our right 
 Before us, gloomy and fell, 
 With breath like the fume of hell, 
 Lay the Dragon of iron shell, 
 Driven at last to the fight ! 
 
 Ha, old ship ! do they thrill, 
 The brave two hundred scars 
 You got in the River- Wars ? 
 That were leeched with clamorous skill, 
 
 (Surgery savage and hard,) 
 Splinted with bolt and beam, 
 Probed in scarfing and seam, 
 Rudely linted and tarred 
 With oakum and boiling pitch, 
 And sutured with splice and hitch, 
 At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard ! 
 
 Our lofty spars were down, 
 To bide the battle s frown, 
 (Wont of old renown,) 
 But every ship was drest 
 In her bravest and her best, 
 
 As if for a July day ; 
 Sixty flags and three, 
 
 As we floated up the bay, 
 Every peak and mast-head flew 
 The brave Red, White, and Blue, 
 
 We were eighteen ships that day. 
 
 With hawsers strong and taut, 
 The weaker lashed to port, 
 On we sailed, two by two, 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 23$ 
 
 That if either a bolt should feel 
 Crash through caldron or wheel, 
 Fin of bronze or sinew of steel, 
 
 Her mate might bear her through. 
 
 Steadily nearing the head, 
 The great Flag- Ship led, 
 
 Grandest of sights ! 
 On her lofty mizen flew 
 Our Leader s dauntless Blue, 
 
 That had waved o er twenty fights. 
 So we went, with the first of the tide, 
 
 Slowly, mid the roar 
 
 Of the rebel guns ashore, 
 And the thunder of each full broadside. 
 
 Ah, how poor the prate 
 Of statute and state, 
 
 We once held with these fellows : 
 Here, on the flood s pale-green, 
 
 Hark how he bellows, 
 
 Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer ! 
 Talk to them Dahlgren, 
 
 Parrott, and Sawyer! 
 
 On in the whirling shade 
 
 Of the cannon s sulphury breath, 
 
 We drew to the Line of Death 
 That our devilish Foe had laid ; 
 Meshed in a horrible net, 
 
 And baited villainous well, 
 Right in our path were set 
 
 Three hundred traps of hell ! 
 
 And there, O sight forlorn ! 
 There, while the cannon 
 Hurtled and thundered, 
 
236 THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 (Ah what ill raven 
 Flapped o er the ship that morn !) 
 Caught by the under-death, 
 In the drawing of a breath, 
 
 Down went dauntless Craven, 
 He and his hundred ! 
 
 A moment we saw her turret, 
 
 A little heel she gave, 
 And a thin white spray went o er her, 
 
 Like the crest of a breaking wave ; 
 In that great iron coffin, 
 
 The channel for their grave, 
 
 The fort their monument, 
 (Seen afar in the offing,) 
 Ten fathom deep lie Craven 
 
 And the bravest of our brave. 
 
 Then, in that deadly trade, 
 A little the ships held back, 
 
 Closing up in their stations : 
 There are minutes that fix the fate 
 
 Of battles and of nations, 
 
 (Christening the generations,) 
 When valor were all too late, 
 
 If a moment s doubt be harbored ; 
 From the main-top, bold and brief, 
 Came the word of our grand old Chief, 
 " Go on ! " t was all he said ; 
 
 Our helm was put to the starboard, 
 And the Hartford passed ahead. 
 
 Ahead lay the Tennessee, 
 On our starboard bow he lay, 
 
 With his mail-clad consorts three, 
 (The rest had run up the Bay), 
 
 There he was, belching flame from his bow, 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 237 
 
 And the steam from his throat s abyss 
 Was a Dragon s maddened hiss, 
 
 In sooth a most cursed craft ! 
 In a sullen ring, at bay, 
 By the Middle Ground they lay, 
 
 Raking us, fore and aft. 
 
 Trust me, our berth was hot, 
 Ah, wickedly well they shot ; 
 How their death-bolts howled and stung ! 
 And the water-batteries played 
 With their deadly cannonade 
 Till the air around us rung ; 
 So the battle raged and roared 
 Ah, had you been aboard 
 
 To have seen the fight we made ! 
 How they leaped, the tongues of flame, 
 
 From the cannon s fiery lip ! 
 How the broadsides, deck and frame, 
 Shook the great ship ! 
 
 And how the enemy s shell 
 
 Came crashing, heavy and oft, 
 
 Clouds of splinters flying aloft 
 And falling in oaken showers : 
 
 But ah, the pluck of the crew ! 
 Had you stood on that deck of ours, 
 
 You had seen what men may do. 
 
 Still, as the fray grew louder, 
 
 Boldly they worked and well, 
 Steadily came the powder, 
 
 Steadily came the shell. 
 And if tackle or truck found hurt, 
 
 Quickly they cleared the wreck ; 
 And the dead were laid to port, 
 
 All a-row, on our deck. 
 
238 THE BA Y FI GUT. 
 
 Never a nerve that failed, 
 
 Never a cheek that paled, 
 Not a tinge of gloom or pallor : 
 
 There was bold Kentucky s grit, 
 And the old Virginian valor, 
 
 And the daring Yankee wit. 
 
 There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon, 
 There were black orbs from palmy Niger, 
 
 But there alongside the cannon, 
 Each man fought like a tiger ! 
 
 A little, once, it looked ill, 
 
 Our consort began to burn ; 
 They quenched the flames with a will, 
 But our men were falling still, 
 
 And still the fleet was astern. 
 
 Right abreast of the Fort 
 
 In an awful shroud they lay, 
 
 Broadsides thundering away, 
 And lightning from every port 
 
 Scene of glory and dread ! 
 A storm-cloud all aglow 
 
 With flashes of fiery red ; 
 The thunder raging below, 
 
 And the forest of flags o erhead ! 
 
 So grand the hurly and roar, 
 
 So fiercely their broadsides blazed, 
 
 The regiments fighting ashore 
 Forgot to fire as they gazed. 
 
 There, to silence the Foe, 
 Moving grimly and slow, 
 They loomed in that deadly wreath, 
 
 Where the darkest batteries frowned, 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 Death in the air all round, 
 And the black torpedoes beneath ! 
 
 And now, as we looked ahead, 
 All for ard, the long white deck 
 
 Was growing a strange dull red ; 
 But soon, as once and agen 
 
 Fore and aft we sped, 
 
 (The firing to guide or check,) 
 
 You could hardly choose but tread 
 On the ghastly human wreck 
 
 (Dreadful gobbet and shred 
 
 That a minute ago were men ! ) 
 
 Red, from main-mast to bitts ! 
 
 Red, on bulwark and wale ! 
 Red, by combing and hatch ! 
 
 Red, o er netting and rail ! 
 And ever, with steady con, 
 
 The ship forged slowly by; 
 And ever the crew fought on, 
 
 And their cheers rang loud and high. 
 
 Grand was the sight to see 
 
 How by their guns they stood, 
 Right in front of our dead 
 Fighting square abreast 
 Each brawny arm and chest 
 All spotted with black and red, 
 Chrism of fire and blood ! 
 
 Worth our watch, dull and sterile, 
 
 Worth all the weary time ; 
 Worth the woe and the peril, 
 
 To stand in that strait sublime ! 
 
 Fear ? A forgotten form ! 
 
 Death ? A dream of the eyes ! 
 
 239 
 
240 THE BA Y FIGHT. 
 
 We were atoms in God s great storm 
 That roared through the angry skies 
 
 One only doubt was ours, 
 
 One only dread we knew : 
 Could the day that dawned so well 
 
 Go down for the Darker Powers ? 
 
 Would the fleet get through ? 
 And ever the shot and shell 
 Came with the howl of hell, 
 The splinter-clouds rose and fell, 
 
 And the long line of corpses grew : 
 
 Would the fleet win through ? 
 
 They are men that never will fail, 
 
 (How aforetime they ve fought !) 
 But Murder may yet prevail, 
 
 They may sink as Craven sank. 
 Therewith one hard fierce thought, 
 Burning on heart and lip, 
 Han like fire through the ship : 
 Fight her, to the last plank ! 
 
 A dimmer Renown might strike 
 If Death lay square alongside ; 
 
 But the Old Flag has no like, 
 She must fight, whatever betide : 
 
 When the War is a tale of old, 
 
 And this day s story is told, 
 
 They shall hear how the Hartford died ! 
 
 But as we ranged ahead, 
 
 And the leading ships worked in, 
 Losing their hope to win, 
 The enemy turned and fled : 
 And one seeks a shallow reach, 
 
 And another, winged in her flight, 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in ; 
 And one, all torn in the fight, 
 Runs for a wreck on the beach, 
 
 Where her flames soon fire the night. 
 
 And the Ram, when well up the Bay, 
 
 And we looked that our stems should meet, 
 (He had us fair for a prey,) 
 Shifting his helm midway, 
 
 Sheered off, and ran for the fleet ; 
 There, without skulking or sham, 
 
 He fought them, gun for gun, 
 And ever he sought to ram, 
 
 But could finish never a one. 
 
 From the first of the iron shower 
 
 Till we sent our parting shell, 
 T was just one savage hour 
 
 Of the roar and the rage of hell. 
 With the lessening smoke and thunder, 
 
 Our glasses around we aim, 
 What is that burning yonder ? 
 
 Our Philippi aground and in flame ! 
 
 Below, t was still all a-roar, 
 As the ships went by the shore, 
 
 But the fire of the Fort had slacked, 
 (So fierce their volleys had been) ; 
 And now, with a mighty din, 
 The whole fleet came grandly in, 
 
 Though sorely battered and wracked. 
 
 So, up the Bay we ran, 
 
 The Flag to port and ahead, 
 And a pitying rain began 
 
 To wash the lips of our dead. 
 16 
 
 2 4 I 
 
242 THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 A league from the Fort we lay, 
 
 And deemed that the end must lag ; 
 
 When lo ! looking down the Bay, 
 There flaunted the Rebel Rag : 
 
 The Ram is again under way, 
 And heading dead for the Flag ! 
 
 Steering up with the stream, 
 
 Boldly his course he lay, 
 Though the fleet all answered his fire, 
 And, as he still drew nigher, 
 Ever on bow and beam 
 
 Our Monitors pounded away, 
 How the Chickasaw hammered away ! 
 
 Quickly breasting the wave, 
 
 Eager the prize to win, 
 First of us all the brave 
 
 Monongahela went in, 
 Under full head of steam ; 
 Twice she struck him abeam, 
 Till her stem was a sorry work ; 
 
 (She might have run on a crag !) 
 The Lackawana hit fair ; 
 He flung her aside like cork, 
 
 And still he held for the Flag. 
 
 High in the mizzen-shroud, 
 
 (Lest the smoke his sight o erwhelm,) 
 Our Admiral s voice rang loud : 
 
 " Hard-a-starboard your helm ! 
 Starboard ! and run him down ! " 
 
 Starboad it was ; and so, 
 Like a black squall s lifting frown, 
 Our mighty bow bore down 
 
 On the iron beak of the Foe. 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 243 
 
 We stood on the deck together, 
 
 Men that had looked on death 
 In battle and stormy weather ; 
 
 Yet a little we held our breath, 
 
 When, with the hush of death, 
 The great ships drew together. 
 
 Our Captain strode to the bow, 
 
 Dray ton, courtly and wise, 
 
 Kindly cynic, and wise, 
 (You hardly had known him now, 
 
 The flame of fight in his eyes !) 
 His brave heart eager to feel 
 How the oak would tell on the steel ! 
 
 But, as the space grew short, 
 
 A little he seemed to shun us ; 
 Out peered a form grim and lanky, 
 
 And a voice yelled : " Hard-a-port ! 
 Hard-a-port ! here s the damned Yankee 
 Coming right down on us ! " 
 
 He sheered, but the ships ran foul ; 
 With a gnarring shudder and growl, 
 
 He gave us a deadly gun ; 
 But, as he passed in his pride, 
 (Rasping right alongside !) 
 
 The Old Flag, in thunder-tones, 
 Poured in her port broadside, 
 Rattling his iron hide, 
 
 And cracking his timber bones ! 
 
 Just then, at speed on the Foe, 
 
 With her bow all weathered and brown, 
 The great Lackawana came down 
 
 Full tilt for another blow : 
 
 We were forging ahead, 
 
 She reversed ; but, for all our pains, 
 
244 THE i BAY FIGHT. 
 
 Rammed the old Hartford instead, 
 Just for ard the mizzen-chains ! 
 
 Ah ! how the masts did buckle and bend, 
 And the stout hull ring and reel, 
 
 As she took us right on end! 
 
 (Vain were engine and wheel, 
 She was under full steam), 
 
 With the roar of a thunder-stroke 
 
 Her two thousand tons of oak 
 Brought up on us, right abeam ! 
 
 A wreck, as it looked, we lay ; 
 (Rib and plankshear gave way 
 
 To the stroke of that giant wedge !) 
 Here, after all, we go ; 
 The old ship is gone ! ah, no, 
 
 But cut to the water s edge. 
 
 Never mind then ; at him again ! 
 
 His flurry now can t last long ; 
 He 11 never again see land ; 
 Try that on him, Marchand ! 
 
 On him again, brave Strong ! 
 
 Heading square at the hulk, 
 
 Full on his beam we bore ; 
 But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog 
 Lay on the tide like a log, 
 
 He vomited flame no more. 
 
 By this, he had found it hot : 
 
 Half the fleet, in an angry ring, 
 Closed round the hideous thing, 
 Hammering with solid shot, 
 And bearing down, bow on bow 
 He has but a minute to choose ; 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 245 
 
 Life or renown ? which now 
 Will the Rebel Admiral lose ? 
 
 Cruel, haughty, and cold, 
 
 He ever was strong and bold, 
 
 Shall he shrink from a wooden stem ? 
 He will think of that brave band 
 He sank in the Cumberland : 
 
 Ay, he will sink like them. 
 
 Nothing left but to fight 
 Boldly his last sea-fight ! 
 
 Can he strike ? By Heaven, t is true ! 
 
 Down comes the traitor Blue, 
 And up goes the captive White ! 
 
 Up went the White ! Ah, then. 
 The hurrahs that, once and agen, 
 Rang from three thousand men, 
 
 All flushed and savage with fight ! 
 Our dead lay cold and stark, 
 But our dying, down in the dark, 
 
 Answered as best they might, 
 Lifting their poor lost arms, 
 
 And cheering for God and Right ! 
 
 Ended the mighty noise, 
 Thunder of forts and ships, 
 
 Down we went to the hold ! 
 Oh, our dear dying boys ! 
 
 How we pressed their poor brave lips, 
 
 (Ah, so pallid and cold !) 
 And held their hands to the last 
 (Those that had hands to hold). 
 
 Still thee, O woman heart ! 
 (So strong an hour ago), 
 
246 THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 If the idle tears must start, 
 T is not in vain they flow. 
 
 They died, our children dear, 
 
 On the drear berth-deck they died ; 
 
 Do not think of them here, 
 
 Even now their footsteps near 
 
 The immortal, tender sphere, 
 
 (Land of love and cheer ! 
 Home of the Crucified !) 
 
 And the glorious deed survives. 
 
 Our threescore, quiet and cold, 
 Lie thus, for a myriad lives 
 
 And treasure-millions untold, 
 (Labor of poor men s lives, 
 Hunger of weans and wives, 
 
 Such is war-wasted gold.) 
 
 Our ship and her fame to-day 
 
 Shall float on the storied Stream, 
 
 When mast and shroud have crumbled away, 
 And her long white deck is a dream. 
 
 One daring leap in the dark, 
 
 Three mortal hours, at the most, 
 
 And hell lies stiff and stark 
 
 On a hundred leagues of coast. 
 
 For the mighty Gulf is ours, 
 The bay is lost and won, 
 An Empire is lost and won ! 
 Land, if thou yet hast flowers. 
 Twine them in one more wreath 
 
 Of tenderest white and red, 
 (Twin buds of glory and death !) 
 
 For the brows of our brave dead, 
 For thy Navy s noblest Son. 
 
THE BAY FIGHT. 247 
 
 Joy, O Land, for thy sons, 
 
 Victors by flood and field ! 
 The traitor walls and guns 
 
 Have nothing left but to yield 
 (Even now they surrender !) 
 
 And the ships shall sail once more, 
 
 And the cloud of war sweep on 
 To break on the cruel shore, 
 
 But Craven is gone, 
 
 He and his hundred are gone. 
 
 The flags flutter up and down, 
 
 At sunrise and twilight dim, 
 The cannons menace and frown, 
 
 But never again for him, 
 
 Him and the hundred. 
 
 The Dalgrens are dumb, 
 
 Dumb are the mortars ; 
 Never more shall the drum 
 
 Beat to colors and quarters : 
 
 The great guns are silent. 
 
 O brave heart and loyal ! 
 
 Let all your colors dip ; 
 
 Mourn him, proud Ship ! 
 From main-deck to royal. 
 
 God rest our Captain, 
 
 Rest our lost hundred. 
 
 Droop, flag and pennant ! 
 
 What is your pride for ? 
 
 Heaven, that he died for, 
 Rest our Lieutenant, 
 
 Rest our brave threescore. 
 
248 THE BAY FIGHT. 
 
 O Mother Land ! this weary life 
 We led, we lead, is long of thee ; 
 
 Thine the strong agony of strife, 
 And thine the lonely sea. 
 
 Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent, 
 The weary rows of cots that lie 
 
 With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent, 
 Neath Pensacola s sky. 
 
 And thine the iron caves and dens 
 
 Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives ; 
 
 The fiery vaults, whose breath is men s 
 Most dear and precious lives. 
 
 Ah, ever, when with storm sublime 
 Dread Nature clears our murky air, 
 
 Thus in the crash of falling crime 
 Some lesser guilt must share. 
 
 Full red the furnace fires must glow 
 That melt the ore of mortal kind : 
 
 The Mills of God are grinding slow, 
 But ah, how close they grind ! 
 
 To-day the Dahlgren and the drum 
 Are dread Apostles of His Name ; 
 
 His Kingdom here can only come 
 By chrism of blood and flame. 
 
 Be strong : already slants the gold 
 
 Athwart these wild and stormy skies ; 
 
 From out this blackened waste, behold, 
 What happy homes shall rise ! 
 
 But see thou well no traitor gloze, 
 
 No striking hands with Death and Shame, 
 
. THE CHICAGO SURRENDER. 249 
 
 Betray the sacred blood that flows 
 So freely for thy name. 
 
 And never fear a victor foe, 
 
 Thy children s hearts are strong and high ; 
 Nor mourn too fondly, well they know 
 
 On deck or field to die. 
 
 Nor shalt thou want one willing breath, 
 Though, ever smiling round the brave, 
 
 The blue sea bear us on to death, 
 The green were one wide grave. 
 
 V. S. Flag Shi^ Hartford, 
 Mobile Bay, August, 1804. 
 
 Harpers 1 Magazine. 
 
 THE CHICAGO SURRENDER.* 
 
 BY BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 WHAT ! hoist the white flag when our triumph is nigh ? 
 What ! crouch before Treason ? make Freedom a lie ? 
 What ! spike all our guns when the foe is at bay, 
 And the rags of his black banner dropping away ? 
 Tear down the strong name that our nation has won, 
 And strike her brave bird from his home in the sun ? 
 
 * The Democratic Party Convention for the nomination of a can 
 didate to oppose President Lincoln, of which Mr. August Behnont 
 was temporary chairman, and Mr. Horatio Seymour permanent 
 chairman, and which resolved, among other things, that " four 
 years of failure to restore the Union by the experiment of war, 
 and " public liberty and private right alike stricken down," " de 
 mand that immediate efforts be made for a cessation of hostilities; " 
 also that " the sympathy of the Democratic party is heartily 
 and earnestly extended to the soldiers of our army," was held on 
 the 20th of August, 1864. 
 
250 THE CHICAGO SURRENDER. 
 
 He s a coward who shrinks from the lift of the sword ; 
 He s a traitor who mocks at the sacrifice poured ; 
 Nameless and homeless the doom that should blast 
 The knave who stands idly till peril is past ; 
 But he who submits when the thunders have burst 
 And victory dawns, is of cowards the worst ! 
 
 Is the old spirit dead ? Are we broken and weak, 
 That cravens so shamelessly lift the white cheek 
 To court the swift insult, nor blush at the blow, 
 The tools of the treason and friends of the foe ? 
 See ! Anarchy smiles at the Peace which they ask, 
 And the eyes of Disunion flash out through the mask ! 
 
 Give thanks, ye brave boys, who by vale and by crag 
 Bear onward, unfaltering, our noble old flag, 
 Strong arms of the Union, heroes living and dead, 
 For the blood of your valor is uselessly shed ! 
 No soldier s green laurel is promised you here, 
 But the white rag of " sympathy " softly shall cheer ! 
 
 And you, ye war-martyrs, who preach from your graves 
 
 How captives are nursed by the masters of slaves, 
 
 Or, living, still linger in shadows of Death, 
 
 Puff out the starved muscle, recall the faint breath, 
 
 And shout, till those cowards rejoice at the cry, 
 
 " By the hands of the Union we fought for we die ! " 
 
 By the God of our fathers ! this shame we must share ; 
 But it grows too debasing for freemen to bear ; 
 And Washington, Jackson, will turn in their graves, 
 When the Union shall rest on two races of slaves ; 
 Or, spurning the spirit which bound it of yore, 
 And sundered, exist as a nation no more ! 
 
 New York Tribune. 
 
SHERIDAN S RIDE. 251 
 
 SHERIDAN S RIDE. 
 
 BY T. BUCHANAN HEAD. 
 
 UP from the South at break of day, 
 Bringing to Winchester fres>h dismay, 
 The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
 Like a herald in haste to the chieftain s door, 
 The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, 
 Telling the battle was on once more, 
 And Sheridan was twenty miles away. 
 
 And wider still those billows of war 
 
 Thundered along the horizon s bar, 
 
 And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
 
 The war of that red sea uncontrolled, 
 
 Making the blood of the listener cold, 
 
 As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 But there s a road from Winchester town, 
 
 A good, broad highway leading down, 
 
 And there, through the flush of the morning light, 
 
 A steed, as black as the steeds of night, 
 
 Was seen to pass as with eagle flight ; 
 
 As if he knew the terrible need, 
 
 He stretched away with his utmost speed ; 
 
 Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, 
 
 With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs thundering South 
 The dust, like the smoke from the cannon s mouth, 
 Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, 
 Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster ; 
 The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
 Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
 
25 1 SHERIDAN S RIDE. 
 
 Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
 With Sheridan only ten miles away. 
 
 Under his spurning feet, the road 
 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed ; 
 
 And the landscape sped away behind, 
 
 Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 
 
 And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
 
 Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire. 
 
 But lo ! he is nearing his heart s desire ; 
 
 He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
 
 With Sheridan only five miles away. 
 
 The first that the General saw were the groups 
 
 Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops : 
 
 What was done what to do a glance told him both ; 
 
 Then striking his spurs, with a terrrible oath, 
 
 He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas, 
 
 And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because 
 
 The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
 
 With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; 
 
 By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils play, 
 
 He seemed to the whole great army to say : 
 
 "I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
 
 From Winchester down to save the day ! " 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
 Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
 And when their statues are placed on high 
 Under the dome of the Union sky, 
 The American Soldier s Temple of Fame, 
 There, with the glorious General s name, 
 Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
 " Here is the steed that saved the day 
 By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
 From Winchester twenty miles away ! " 
 
AFTER ALL. 253 
 
 AFTER ALL. 
 
 BY WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 THE apples are ripe in the orchard, 
 The work of the reaper is done, 
 
 And the golden woodlands redden 
 In the blood of the dying sun. 
 
 At the cottage-door the grandsire 
 
 Sits pale in his easy-chair, 
 While the gentle wind of twilight 
 
 Plays with his silver hair. 
 
 A woman is kneeling beside him ; 
 
 A fair young head is pressed, 
 In the first wild passion of sorrow, 
 
 Against his aged breast. 
 
 And far from over the distance 
 
 The faltering echoes come 
 Of the flying blast of trumpet, 
 
 And the rattling roll of drum. 
 
 And the grandsire speaks in a whisper . 
 
 " The end no man can see ; 
 But we gave him to his country, 
 
 And we give our prayers to Thee." 
 
 The violets star the meadows, 
 
 The rose-buds fringe the door, 
 And over the grassy orchard 
 
 The pink-white blossoms pour. 
 
 But the grandsire s chair is empty, 
 
 The cottage is dark and still ; 
 There s a nameless grave in the battle-field, 
 
 And a new one under the hill. 
 
254 THE YEAR OF JUBILEE. 
 
 And a pallid, tearless woman 
 By the cold hearth sits alone, 
 
 And the old clock in the corner 
 Ticks on with a steady drone. 
 
 THE YEAR OF JUBILEE.* 
 
 SAY, darkies, hab you seen de massa, 
 
 Wid de muffstash on he face, 
 Go long de road some time dis morn in , 
 
 Like he gwine to leabe de place ? 
 He see de smoke way up de ribber 
 Whar de Lincum gun-boats lay ; 
 He took he hat and leff berry sudden, 
 And I spose he s runned away. 
 De massa run, ha ! ha ! 
 
 De darky stay, ho ! ho ! 
 It mus be now de kingdum comin , 
 An de yar ob Jubilo. 
 
 He six foot one way and two foot todder, 
 
 An he weigh six hundred poun ; 
 His coat so big he could n t pay de tailor, 
 
 An it won t reach half way roun ; 
 He drill so much dey calls him cap n, 
 
 An he git so mighty tan d, 
 I spec he 11 try to fool dem Yankees 
 For to tink he contraband. 
 De niassa run, ha ! ha ! 
 
 De darkey stay, ho ! ho ! 
 It mus be now de kingdum comin , 
 An de yar ob Jubilo. 
 
 * In 1864 the negro slaves began to see that the year of jubilee 
 was certainly coming, and this song, expressive of their views upon 
 the subject, appeared. In April, 1805, a detachment of negro troops 
 sang it as they marched into Richmond. 
 
ABOLITION OF SLAVERY. 255 
 
 De darkies got so lonesome Hbb n 
 
 In de log hut on de lawn, 
 Dey move dere tings into massa s parlor 
 
 For to keep it while he gone. 
 Dar s wine and cider in de kichin, 
 
 And de darkies dey hab some, 
 I spec it will all be fiscated, 
 When de Lincum sojers come. 
 De massa run, ha ! ha ! 
 
 De darkey stay, ho ! ho ! 
 It mus be now de kingdum cornin , 
 An de yar ob Jubilo. 
 
 De oberseer, he makes us trubble, 
 
 An he dribe us roun a spell, 
 We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar, 
 
 Wid de key flung in de well. 
 De whip am lost, de han -cuff broke, 
 
 But de massa hab his pay ; 
 He big an ole enough for to know better 
 Dan to went an run away. 
 De massa run, ha! ha! 
 
 De darkey stay, ho ! ho ! 
 It mus be now de kingdum comiii , 
 An de yar ob Jubilo. 
 
 ABOLITION OF SLAVERY BY CONSTITU 
 TIONAL AMENDMENT.* 
 
 NOT unto us who did but seek, 
 
 The word that burned within to speak ; 
 
 Not unto us this day belong 
 
 The triumph and exulting song. 
 
 * Passed the House of Representatives, January 3 1st, 1865, by 
 vote of 119 to 56. 
 
256 ABOLITION OF SLAVERY. 
 
 Upon us fell in early youth 
 The burden of unwelcome truth, 
 And left us, weak and frail, and few, 
 The censor s painful work to do. 
 
 Thenceforth our life a fight became ; 
 The air we breathed was hot with blame ; 
 For not with gauged and softened tone 
 We made the bondman s cause our own. 
 
 We bore, as Freedom s hope forlorn, 
 The private hate, the public scorn ; 
 Yet held through all the paths we trod 
 Our faith in man and trust in God. 
 
 We prayed and hoped ; but still with awe 
 The corning of the sword we saw ; 
 We heard the nearing steps of doom, 
 And saw the shade of things to come. 
 
 We hoped for peace : our eyes survey 
 The blood-red dawn of Freedom s day ; 
 We prayed for love to loose the chain ; 
 *T was shorn by battle-axe in twain. 
 
 Nor skill nor strength nor zeal of ours 
 Has mined and heaved the hostile towers ; 
 Not by our hands is turned the key 
 That sets the sighing captive free. 
 
 A redder sea than Egypt s wave 
 Is piled and parted for the slave ; 
 A darker cloud moves on in light ; 
 A fiercer fire is guide by night ! 
 
 The praise, O Lord ! be Thine alone ; 
 In Thy own way Thy work be done ! 
 Our poor gifts at Thy feet we cast, 
 To whom be glory, first and last. 
 
BROTHER JONATHAN AND TAXES. 257 
 
 BROTHER JONATHAN AND TAXES. 
 
 I GUESS I mean to tax myself, 
 
 In every jot and tittle, 
 Of all I eat and drink and wear, 
 
 And all I chew and whittle ; 
 In flour and sperrits, ale and wine, 
 
 In oils and in tobackers ; 
 In papers, gas, salt, soap, and skins, 
 
 And meal and malt and crackers. 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 The leather that we walk upon, 
 
 The upper and the under, 
 The electric fluid in the wires, 
 
 (Guess I can t catch the thunder ;) 
 Each passenger that takes the cars, 
 
 Each bus that runs on tramrods, 
 Advertisements and steamboats too, 
 
 And guns, locks, stocks, and ramrods. 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 There s not a billiard-ball shall spin, 
 
 But into Guv ment s pockets ; 
 No draughts or pill cure human ill, 
 
 Without the Guv ment dockets ; 
 All carriages taxed carts shall be ; 
 
 Watches go tick for taxes ; 
 And messages shall pay, both eends, 
 
 Who answers and who axes. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 No banker shall shinplasters make, 
 
 No pedler cheat the farmers, 
 No liquor-store shall sell its drams, 
 
 No theatres its drainers ; 
 17 
 
258 A LITTLE JEU D ESPRIT. 
 
 No rider spring round the circus-ring, 
 
 No bowling-alley roll up, 
 But shall to Guv ment needs help bring 
 The totle of the whole up. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, etc. 
 
 London Punch. 
 
 A LITTLE JEU D ESPRIT : 
 
 SHOWING HOW AUGUST BECAME JULY AND MARCH, AND A 
 LITTLE MAN GREW TO A GREAT HEIGHT. 
 
 THE august name Auguste, 
 
 (From the Emperor Augustus,) 
 With its late associations 
 
 Doth mightily disgust us, 
 Doth mightily disgust us. 
 
 For the snobbish individual, 
 
 To whom it don t apply, 
 Since the falsehoods of Chicago 
 
 Should be surely named July, 
 Should be surely named July. 
 
 The elections of November 
 
 Will take out all his starch ; 
 Then all our friends, and he himself, 
 
 Will wish to make him March, 
 Will wish to make him March. 
 
 For his vile and nasty politics, 
 
 Let him take his carcass hence ; 
 He is, indeed, a little man, 
 
 Yet the height of Impudence, 
 Yet the height of Impudence. 
 
 Evening Post. 
 
A II AIR-DRESSER S STORY. 259 
 
 A HAIR-DRESSER S STORY. 
 
 The story runs, that to a certain town 
 
 Of much renown 
 
 For teas aesthetic, and for streets that wind, 
 With his fair wife, a whilom General carne, 
 
 Well known to fame. 
 Whose tactics were of the defensive sort, 
 Whose masterly retreats and memory short 
 Had proved him fitted for a sphere confined. 
 
 At least the people thought him not designed, 
 
 In spite of his refined 
 And gentlemanly manners, for the place 
 Of President. They voted that too large 
 
 For little George : 
 
 Thus snubbed, disgusted he has left his home 
 To join his sympathizing friends at Rome, 
 In papal patriarehism finding his solace. 
 
 Nor shall we care again to see his face 
 
 Who in disgrace- 
 fill forced inaction kept an army tried, 
 And trained to war. Whose mole-like strategy 
 
 And sullen vanity, 
 
 Whose organizing skill and nice precision, 
 Whose imperturbable, slow indecision, 
 Deceived the trust that in him most relied. 
 
 But to my story. In this city, where 
 
 The very air 
 
 Dampens your soul with intellectual dew, 
 The General s friends, with just appreciation, 
 
 Did an " ovation " 
 
 Of costly banquet and " reception " offer, 
 For his delight ; and frowned down any scoffer 
 Who thought at his campaigns to glance askew. 
 
260 A HAIR-DRESSER S STORY. 
 
 For this reunion, where professors drew 
 
 Out ladies blue, 
 
 A hair-dresser was sent for, to arrange 
 The lady s tresses in the newest fashion, 
 
 (Braids a discretion) 
 
 Regardless of expense, that should amaze 
 The souls of all men privileged to gaze 
 Upon that head of complications strange. 
 
 And while his well-trained fingers swiftly range 
 
 And deftly change 
 
 From rats to mice, from curl to smoothest roll, 
 Before a glass that in a corner stood, 
 
 In thoughtful mood, 
 The General his razor did prepare, 
 And with a cautious, meditative care 
 His coat and waistcoat from his trunk unfold. 
 
 And then the lady, thoughtful of her spouse, 
 
 Did him arouse 
 
 In gentle accents : " General, are you ready ? " 
 (She had her back turned to him that the light 
 
 Might fall aright.) 
 
 The General, waking from a reverie, 
 (In Spain he often won a victory,) 
 Answered her, " No," in tone composed and steady 
 
 But soon again : " Now, General are you ready ? " 
 
 Said his good lady, 
 
 With slight impatience. " It is nearly time 
 That we were off. You know of all the guests 
 
 We should be first ; 
 
 And I am much afraid you will be late." 
 He plainly saw that she would be irate, 
 Yet answered " No," with constancy sublime. 
 
 This answer did not with her humor chime : 
 The clock struck nine. 
 
SHERMAN S MARCH. 261 
 
 She scarcely her impatience could control. 
 At last, her head completed, round she turned, 
 
 With eyes that burned, 
 
 Upon her lord : " Why, are you not yet ready ? 
 Oh, dear ! You know, George, you are never ready ! " 
 Broke in sad truth from that Ions: wearied soul. 
 
 SHERMAN S MARCH. 
 
 BY A SOLDIER. 
 
 THEIR lips are still as the lips of the dead, 
 The gaze of their eyes is straight ahead ; 
 The tramp, tramp, tramp of ten thousand feet 
 Keep time to that muffled, monotonous beat, 
 Rub-a-dub-dub ! rub-a-dub-dub ! 
 
 Ten thousand more ! and still they come 
 To fight a battle for Christendom ! 
 With cannon and caissons, and flags unfurled, 
 The foremost men in all the world ! 
 
 Rub-a-dub-dub ! rub-a-dub-dub ! 
 ? K . <f ... 
 
 The foe is intrenched on the frowning hill, 
 A natural fortress, strengthened by skill ; 
 But vain are the walls to those who face 
 The champions of the human race ! 
 
 Rub-a-dub-dub ! rub-a-dub-dub ! 
 
 " By regiment ! Forward into line ! " 
 Then sabres and guns and bayonets shine. 
 Oh ye who feel your fate at last 
 Repeat the old prayer as your hearts beat fast 
 Rub-a-dub-dub ! rub-a-dub-dub ! 
 
262 THE CRAVEN. 
 
 Oli ye who ve waited and prayed so long 
 That Right might have a fair fight with Wrong, 
 No more in fruitless marches shall plod, 
 But smite the foe with the wrath of God ! 
 Rub-a-dub-dub ! rub-a-dub-dub ! 
 
 O Death ! what a charge that carried the hill ! 
 That carried, and kept, and holds it still ! 
 The foe is broken and flying with fear, 
 While far on their route our drummers I hear, 
 Rub-a-dub-dub ! rub-a-dub-dub ! 
 
 Harper s Weekly. 
 
 THE CRAVEN. 
 
 FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY ALFRED ANDHISOX. 
 
 ON that mighty day of battle, mid the booming and the 
 
 rattle, 
 Shouts of victory and of anguish, wherewith Malvern s 
 
 hill did roar, 
 Did a General now quite fameless, who in these lines 
 
 shall be nameless, 
 Show himself as rather gameless, gameless on the James s 
 
 shore, 
 Safely smoking on a gunboat, while the tempest raged on 
 
 shore, 
 
 Only this, and nothing more. 
 
 The Congressional Committee sat within the nation s city, 
 And each Congressman so witty did the General implore : 
 " Tell us if thou at that battle, mid the booming and the 
 
 rattle, 
 Wert on a gunboat or in saddle, while the tempest raged 
 
 ashore ? " 
 
THE HOUR OF NORTHERN VICTORY. 263 
 
 Answered he : "I don t remember, might have been." 
 What more ? 
 
 Only this, and nothing more. 
 
 " By the truth which is eternal, by the lies that are 
 
 diurnal, 
 
 By our Abraham paternal, General, we thee implore, 
 Tell the truth and shame the devil, parent of old Jeff. 
 
 and evil ; 
 Give us no more of such drivel. Tell us, wert thou on 
 
 the shore." 
 " Don t remember, might have been ; " thus spoke ho 
 
 o er and o er, 
 
 Only this, and nothing more. 
 
 " On that day, sir, had you seen a gunboat of the name 
 Galena, 
 
 In an anchorage, to screen a man from danger on the 
 shore ? 
 
 Was a man about your inches, smoking with those three 
 French Princes, 
 
 With a caution which evinces care for such a garde de- 
 corps f 
 
 Were you that man on the gunboat ? " " Don t remem 
 ber, might have been. The bore." 
 Only this, and nothing more. 
 
 Evening Post. 
 
 THE HOUR OF NORTHERN VICTORY. 
 
 BY FANNY KEMBLE. 
 
 ROLL not a drum, sound not a clarion note 
 Of haughty triumph to the silent sky ; 
 
 Hush d be the shout of joy in ev ry throat, 
 And veil d the flash of pride in ev ry eye. 
 
264 THE HOUR OF NORTHERN VICTORY. 
 
 Not with Te Demrn loud and high Hosannas 
 Greet we the awful victory we have won ; 
 
 But with our arms revers d and lower d banners 
 We stand, our work is done ! 
 
 Thy work is done, God, terrible and just, 
 
 Who laidst upon our hearts and hands this task ; 
 
 And kneeling, with our foreheads in the dust, 
 We venture Peace to ask. 
 
 Bleeding and writhing underneath our sword, 
 Prostrate our brethren lie, Thy fallen foe, 
 
 Struck down by Thee through us, avenging Lord, 
 By Thy dread hand laid low. 
 
 For our own guilt have AVC been doomed to smite 
 These our kindred, Thy great laws defying, 
 
 These, our own flesh and blood, who now unite 
 In one thing only with us, bravely dying. 
 
 Dying how bravely, yet how bitterly ! 
 
 Not for the better side, but for the worse, 
 Blindly and madly striving against Thee, 
 
 For the bad cause where Thou hast set Thy curse. 
 
 At whose defeat we may not raise our voice, 
 Save in the deep thanksgiving of our prayers : 
 
 " Lord ! we have fought the fight ! " But to rejoice 
 Is ours no more than theirs. 
 
 Call back thy dreadful ministers of wrath 
 
 Who have led on our hosts to this great day ; 
 
 Let our feet halt now in the avenger s path, 
 And bid our weapons stay. 
 
 Upon our land, Freedom s inheritance, 
 
 Turn Thou once more the splendor of Thy face, 
 
THE FREEDMAN S SONG. 265 
 
 Where nations serving Thee to light advance, 
 Give us again our place. 
 
 Not our bewildering past prosperity, 
 
 Not all thy former ill-requited grace, 
 But this one boon, Oh ! grant us still to be 
 
 The home of Hope to the whole human race. 
 April 25/A, 1805. London Spectator. 
 
 COTTON AND CORN. 
 
 COTTON and Corn were mighty kings,* 
 Who differed at times on certain things, 
 
 To the country s dire confusion : 
 Corn was peaceable, mild, and just, 
 But Cotton was fond of saying " you must " ; 
 So, after he d boasted, bullied, and cussed, 
 
 He got up a revolution. 
 
 But in the course of time the bubble is bursted, 
 And Corn is the King, and Cotton is worsted. 
 
 THE FREEDMAN S SONG. 
 
 DE Lord, He make us free indeed 
 In His own time an way ; 
 
 * The phrase " King Cotton " was brought into use by the fol 
 lowing passage in a speech Senator Hammond, of South Carolina, 
 made in the Senate, March 4th, 1858: " No, you dare not make 
 war upon cotton ; no power upon earth dares to make war upon 
 it. Cotton is king : until lately the Bank of England was king; 
 but she tried to put her screws, as usual, the fall before last, on the 
 cotton crop, and was utterly vanquished. The last power has been 
 conquered: who can doubt, that has looked at recent events, that 
 cotton is supreme ! " 
 
266 TEE FREEDMAN S SONG. 
 
 We plant de rice an cotton seed, 
 
 An see de sprout some day ; 
 We know it come, but not de why, 
 
 De Lord know more dan we ; 
 We spected freedom by-an -by, 
 An now we all are free. 
 
 Praise de Lord ! Praise de Lord ! 
 For now we all are free. 
 
 De Norf is on de side of right, 
 
 An full of men, dey say ; 
 An dere, when poor man work, at night 
 
 He sure to get his pay ; 
 De Lord, He glad dey are so good, 
 
 An make dem bery strong ; 
 An when dey called to give deir blood 
 
 Dey all come right along. 
 
 Praise de Lord ! Praise de Lord ! 
 Dey all come right along. 
 
 Deir blue coats cover all de groun , 
 
 An make it like de sky ; 
 An ebery gray back loafing romi 
 
 He tink it time to fly : 
 We not afraid ; we bring de child 
 
 An stan beside de door, 
 An oh ! we hug it bery wild, 
 
 An keep it ebermore. 
 
 Praise de Lord ! Praise de Lord ! 
 We keep it ebermore. 
 
 De mas er s come back from his tramp, 
 
 Pears he is broken quite ; 
 He takes de basket to de camp 
 
 For rations ebery night ; 
 Dey fought him when he loud and strong, 
 
 Dey ieed him when he low, 
 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 267 
 
 Dey say (ley will forgive de wrong 
 And bid him pent and go. 
 
 Praise de Lord ! Praise de Lord ! 
 Dey bid him pent and go. 
 
 De rice is higher far dis year, 
 
 De cotton taller grow ; 
 De lowest corn-silk on de ear 
 
 Is higher dan de hoe ; 
 De Lord He lift up ebery ting 
 
 Cept rebel in his grave ; 
 De negro bress de Lord, an sing 
 He is no longer slave. 
 
 Praise de Lord ! Praise de Lord ! 
 De negro no more slave. 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 ASSASSINATED GOOD FRTDAY, 1835. 
 BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN. 
 
 FORGIVE them, for they know not what they do!" 
 
 He said, and so went shriven to his fate. 
 Unknowing went, that generous heart and true. 
 
 Even while he spoke the slayer lay in wait ; 
 
 And when the morning opened Heaven s gate 
 There passed the whitest soul a nation knew. 
 
 Henceforth all thoughts of pardon are too late ; 
 They, in whose cause that arm its weapon drew, 
 
 Have murdered Mercy. Now alone shall stand 
 Blind Justice, with the sword unsheathed she wore. 
 
 Hark ! from the eastern to the western strand, 
 The swelling thunder of the people s roar, 
 
 What words they murmur : Fetter not her hand ! 
 So let it smite : such deeds shall be no more ! 
 
 April 15, 1865. New York Tribune. 
 
2 68 REUNION. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULL EN BRYANT. 
 
 O, SLOW to smite and swift to spare, 
 
 Gentle and merciful and just ! 
 Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
 
 The sword of power a nation s trust. 
 
 In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
 
 Amid the awe that hushes all, 
 And speak the anguish of a land 
 
 That shook with horror at thy fall. 
 
 Thy task is done the bond are free ; 
 
 We bear thee to an honored grave, 
 Whose noblest monument shall be 
 
 The broken fetters of the slave. 
 
 Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 
 
 Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 
 
 Among the noble host of those 
 
 Who perished in the cause of right. 
 
 Evening Post. 
 
 REUNION. 
 
 BY JOHN NICIIOL. 
 
 AN end at last ! The echoes of the war 
 The weary war beyond the western waves - 
 
 Die in the distance. Freedom s rising star 
 Beacons above a hundred thousand graves : 
 
 The graves of heroes who have won the fight, 
 Who in the storming of the stubborn town 
 
REUNION. 269 
 
 Have rung the marriage-peal of might and right, 
 And scaled the cliffs and cast the dragon down. 
 
 Paeans of armies thrill across the sea, 
 
 Till Europe answers : " Let the struggle cease, 
 The bloody page is turned ; the next may be 
 
 For ways of pleasantness and paths of peace ! " 
 
 A golden morn a daAvn of better things 
 The olive-branch clasping of hands again 
 
 A noble lesson read to conquering kings 
 A sky that tempests had not scoured in vain. 
 
 This from America we hoped, and him 
 
 Who ruled her " in the spirit of his creed." 
 
 Does the hope last when all our eyes are dim, 
 As history records her darkest deed ? 
 
 The pilot of his people through the strife, 
 
 With his strong purpose turning scorn to praise, 
 
 E en at the close of battle reft of life, 
 And fair inheritance of quiet days. 
 
 Defeat and triumph found him calm and just ; 
 
 He showed how clemency should temper power ; 
 And, dying, left to future times in trust 
 
 The memory of his brief victorious hour. 
 
 O ermastered by the irony of fate, 
 
 The last and greatest martyr of his cause ; 
 
 Slain like Achilles at the Scaean gate, 
 
 He saw the end, and fixed " the purer laws." 
 
 May these endure, and, as his work, attest 
 The glory of his honest heart and hand : 
 
 The simplest, and the bravest, and the best, 
 The Moses and the Cromwell of his land. 
 
270 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 Too late the pioneers of modern spite, 
 Awe-stricken by the universal gloom, 
 
 See his name lustrous in Death s sable night, 
 And offer tardy tribute at his tomb. 
 
 But we who have been with him all the while, 
 Who knew his worth, and loved him long ago, 
 
 Rejoice that in the circuit of our isle 
 
 There is no room at last for Lincoln s foe. 
 
 London Spectatoi 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 FOULLY ASSASSINATED, APRIL 14, 1805. 
 
 You lay a wreath on murdered LINCOLN S bier, 
 You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, 
 
 Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, 
 
 His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, 
 
 His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, 
 His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 
 
 His lack of all we prize as debonair, 
 
 Of power or will to shine, of art to please : 
 
 You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil s laugh, 
 Judging each step, as though the way were plain ; 
 
 Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, 
 Of chief s perplexity, or people s pain. 
 
 Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet 
 The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, 
 
 Between the mourners at his head and feet, 
 Say, scurrile-j ester, is there room for you 1 
 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 2/1 
 
 Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer, 
 
 To lame my pencil and confute my pen ; 
 To make me own this hind of princes peer, 
 
 This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. 
 
 My shallow judgment I had learnt to rue, 
 
 Noting how to occasion s height he rose ; 
 How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true, 
 
 How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. 
 
 How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be, 
 How in good fortune and in ill the same : 
 
 Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 
 Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 
 
 He went about his work such work as few 
 Ever had laid on head and heart and hand 
 
 As one who knows, where there s a task to do, 
 
 Man s honest will must Heaven s good grace command ; 
 
 Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, 
 That God makes instruments to work His will, 
 
 If but that will we can arrive to know, 
 
 Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. 
 
 So he went forth to battle on the side 
 
 That he felt clear was Liberty s and Right s, 
 
 As in his peasant boyhood he had plied 
 
 His warfare with rude Nature s thwarting mights, 
 
 The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil ; 
 
 The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer s axe ; 
 The rapid, that o erbears the boatman s toil ; 
 
 The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer s tracks ; 
 
 The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear, 
 Such were the needs that helped his youth to train : 
 
272 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, 
 If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. 
 
 So he grew up, a destined work to do, 
 
 And lived to do it : four long suffering years 
 
 Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, 
 
 And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, 
 
 The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, 
 
 And took both with the same unwavering mood ; 
 
 Till, as he came on light from darkling days, 
 
 And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, 
 
 A felon hand, between the goal and him, 
 
 Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, 
 
 And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, 
 Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest ! 
 
 The words of mercy were upon his lips, 
 Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, 
 
 AVhen this vile murderer brought swift eclipse 
 To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men. 
 
 The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, 
 Utter one voice of sympathy and shame ! 
 
 Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high : 
 Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came. 
 
 A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before 
 By the assassin s hand, whereof men doubt 
 
 If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; 
 
 But thy foul crime, like CAIN S, stands darkly out. 
 
 Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, 
 
 Whate er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven ; 
 
 And with the martyr s crown crownest a life 
 With much to praise, little to be forgiven ! 
 
 London Pundt. 
 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 273 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE LONDON PUNCH, BY ALICE CARY. 
 
 No glittering chaplet brought from other lands ! 
 
 As in his life, this man, in death, is ours ; 
 His own loved prairies o er his " gaunt gnarled hands " 
 
 Have fitly drawn their sheet of summer flowers ! 
 
 What need hath he now of a tardy crown, 
 
 His name from mocking jest and sneer to save ? 
 
 When every ploughman turns his furrow down 
 As soft as though it fell upon his grave. 
 
 He was a man whose like the world again 
 
 Shall never see, to vex with blame or praise ; 
 
 The landmarks that attest his bright, brief reign, 
 Are battles, not the pomps of gala-days ! 
 
 The grandest leader of the grandest war 
 That ever time in history gave a place, 
 
 What were the tinsel flattery of a star 
 
 To such a breast ! or what a ribbon s grace ! 
 
 Tis to th man, and th* man s honest worth, 
 The nation s loyalty in tears upsprings ; 
 
 Through him the soil of labor shines henceforth, 
 High o er the silken broideries of kings. 
 
 The mechanism of external forms 
 
 The shifts that courtiers put their bodies through 
 Were alien ways to him : his brawny arms 
 
 Had other work than posturing to do ! 
 
 Born of the people, well he knew to grasp 
 
 The wants and wishes of the weak and small ; 
 
 Therefore we hold him with no shadowy clasp, 
 Therefore his name is household to us all. 
 18 
 
274 IN STATE. 
 
 Therefore we love him with a love apart 
 From any fawning love of pedigree : 
 
 His was the royal soul and mind and heart, 
 Not the poor outward shows of royalty. 
 
 Forgive us, then, O friends, if we are slow 
 To meet your recognition of his worth : 
 
 We re jealous of the very tears that flow 
 
 From eyes that never loved a humble hearth. 
 
 IN STATE. 
 
 BENEATH the vast and vaulted dome 
 That copes the Capitol, he lies ; 
 It is a dreary, dreary night : 
 
 The stars in their eternal home 
 Seem like the sad ethereal eyes 
 Of seraphs, filled with tender light. 
 
 The Capitol is wrapt in mist ; 
 Strangely the shadows come and go : 
 The dome seems floating into air, 
 Upborne by unseen hands, I wist : 
 In solemn state he lies below, 
 His pure hands folded as in prayer. 
 
 He lies in solemn state, alone, 
 Alone, with only silence there, 
 Alone with lofty lamps that rim 
 Almost the very coping-stone ; 
 Yet not alone, for all the air 
 Is filled with tender thoughts of him. 
 
 And all night long the marble floors 
 Have echoed to the gentle tread 
 
AN HORATIAN ODE. 275 
 
 Of blessed and immortal feet; 
 And through the open corridors 
 The mighty and illustrious dead 
 Have thronged all night his face to greet. 
 
 And they have bent, full-browed with pain, 
 And gazed through their celestial tears 
 Upon the face so dear to them, 
 
 Upon the man whose heart was fain 
 
 Above all hearts these latter years 
 
 To be like His of Bethlehem. 
 
 And so our heads are bowed with grief 
 Because we loved him, and because 
 But yesterday this great man stood 
 
 Of many States the perfect chief, 
 
 Dispensing justice and the laws, 
 
 And mindful of the public good. 
 
 Alas ! it is a dreary night ; 
 
 For he we loved so much now lies 
 
 Beneath the vast and vaulted dome ; 
 And in his eyes there is no light, 
 No light is in those loving eyes 
 Which kindliness had made her home. 
 
 Harpers Wetkly. 
 
 AN HORATIAN ODE. 
 
 BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARP. 
 
 NOT as when some great captain falls 
 In battle, where his country calls, 
 Beyond the struggling lines 
 That push his dread designs 
 
276 AN HORAT1AN ODE. 
 
 To doom, by some stray ball struck dead 
 Or, in the last charge, at the head 
 Of his determined men, 
 Who must be victors then ! 
 
 Nor as when sink the civic great, 
 The safer pillars of the State, 
 
 Whose calm, mature, wise words 
 Suppress the need of swords ! 
 
 With no such tears as e er were shed 
 Above the noblest of our dead 
 Do we to-day deplore 
 The man that is no more ! 
 
 Our sorrow hath a wider scope, 
 Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, 
 A wonder, blind and dumb, 
 That waits what is to 
 
 Not more astounded had we been 
 If madness, that dark night, unseen, 
 Had in our chambers crept, 
 And murdered while we slept ! 
 
 We woke to find a mourning earth 
 Our Lares shivered on the hearth, 
 The roof-tree fallen, all 
 That could affright, appall ! 
 
 Such thunderbolts, in other lands, 
 Have smitten the rod from royal hands, 
 But spared, with us, till now, 
 Each laurelled Caesar s brow ! 
 
 No Caesar he, whom we lament, 
 A man without a precedent, 
 
AN HORAT1AN ODE. 277 
 
 Sent it would seem, to do 
 His work and perish too ! 
 
 Not by the weary cares of state, 
 
 The endless tasks, which will not wait, 
 
 Which, often done in vain, 
 
 Must yet be done again : 
 
 Not in the dark, wild tide of war, 
 Which rose so high, and rolled so far, 
 
 Sweeping from sea to sea 
 
 In awful anarchy ; 
 
 Four fateful years of mortal strife, 
 Which slowly drained the nation s life, 
 (Yet, for each drop that ran 
 There sprang an armed man !) 
 
 Not then ; but when by measures meet, 
 
 By victory, and by defeat, 
 
 By courage, patience, skill, 
 The people s fixed " We will ! " 
 
 Had pierced, had crushed rebellion dead, 
 Without a hand, without a head : 
 
 At last, when all was well, 
 
 He fell, O how he fell ! 
 
 The time, the place, the stealing shape, 
 The coward shot, the swift escape, 
 
 The wife the widow s scream, 
 
 It is a hideous dream ! 
 
 A dream ? what means this pageant, then ? 
 These multitudes of solemn men, 
 
 Who speak not when they meet, 
 
 But throno- the silent street ? 
 
278 AN HOE ATI AN ODE. 
 
 The flags half-mast, that late so high 
 Flaunted at each new victory ? 
 
 (The stars no brightness shed, 
 But bloody looks the red !) 
 
 The black festoons that stretch for miles, 
 And turn the streets to funeral aisles ? 
 (No house too poor to show 
 The nation s badge of woe !) 
 
 The cannon s sudden, sullen boom, 
 The bells that toll of death and doom, 
 The rolling of the drums, 
 The dreadful car that comes ? 
 
 Cursed be the hand that fired the shot ! 
 
 The frenzied brain that hatched the plot ! 
 Thy country s father slain 
 By thee, thou worse than Cain ! 
 
 Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, 
 And good hath followed, may it now ! 
 (God lets bad instruments 
 Produce the best events.) 
 
 But he, the man we mourn to-day, 
 No tyrant was : so mild a sway 
 
 In one such weight who bore 
 Was never known before ! 
 
 Cool should he be, of balanced powers, 
 The ruler of a race like ours, 
 
 Impatient, headstrong, wild, 
 The man to guide the child ! 
 
 And this he was, who most unfit 
 (So hard the sense of God to hit !) 
 
AN HORATIAN ODE. 279 
 
 Did seem to fill his place. 
 With such a homely face, 
 
 Such rustic manners, speech uncouth, 
 (That somehow blundered out the truth !) 
 
 Untried, untrained to bear 
 
 The more than kingly care ! 
 
 Ay ! And his genius put to scorn 
 
 The proudest in the purple born, 
 Whose wisdom never grew 
 To what, untaught, he knew, 
 
 The people, of whom he was one. 
 No gentleman like Washington, 
 
 (Whose bones, methinks, make room, 
 
 To have him in their tomb !) 
 
 A laboring man, with horny hands, 
 W T ho swung the axe, who tilled his lands, 
 
 AV^lio shrank from nothing new, 
 
 But did as poor men do ! 
 
 One of the people ! Born to be 
 Their curious epitome ; 
 
 To share, yet rise above 
 
 Their shifting hate and love. 
 
 Common his mind (it seemed so then), 
 His thoughts the thoughts of other men : 
 
 Plain were his words, and poor, 
 
 But now they will endure ! 
 
 No hasty fool, of stubborn will, 
 But prudent, cautious, pliant, still ; 
 
 Who, since his work was good, 
 
 Would do it, as he could. 
 
28 J AN HORATIAN ODE. 
 
 Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, 
 And, lacking prescience, went without : 
 Often appeared to halt, 
 And was, of course, at fault : 
 
 Heard all opinions, nothing loth, 
 And loving both sides, angered both : 
 Was not like Justice, blind, 
 But watchful, clement, kind. 
 
 No hero this, of Roman mould ; 
 
 Nor like our stately sires of old : 
 
 Perhaps he was not great, 
 But he preserved the State ! 
 
 O honest face, which all men knew ! 
 
 O tender heart, but known to few ! 
 O wonder of the age, 
 Cut off by tragic rage ! 
 
 Peace ! Let the long procession come, 
 For hark ! the mournful, muffled drum, 
 The trumpet s wail afar, 
 And see ! the awful car ! 
 
 Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 
 While cannon boom, and bells toll slow : 
 And go, thou sacred car, 
 Bearing our woe afar ! 
 
 Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
 Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 
 To honor all they can 
 The dust of that good man ! 
 
 Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
 As greatest kings might die to gain : 
 
A N HORA TLA N ODE. 28 1 
 
 The just, the wise, the brave 
 Attend thee to the grave ! 
 
 And you, the soldiers of our wars, 
 Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 
 Salute him once again, 
 Your late commander slain ! 
 
 Yes, let your tears, indignant, fall, 
 But leave your muskets on the wall : 
 
 Your country needs you now 
 
 Beside the forge, the plough ! 
 
 (When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, 
 If Mercy may not stay her hand, 
 
 Nor would we have it so, 
 
 She must direct the blow !) 
 
 And you, amid the master-race, 
 Who seem so strangely out of place, 
 
 Know ye who cometh ? He 
 
 Who hath declared you free ! 
 
 Bow while the body passes, nay, 
 
 Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray ! 
 
 Weep, weep I would ye might 
 Your poor, black faces white ! 
 
 And, children, you must come in bands, 
 With garlands in your little hands, 
 
 Of blue, and white, and red, 
 
 To strew before the dead ! 
 
 So, sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
 The fallen to his last repose : 
 
 Beneath no mighty dome, 
 
 But in his modest home : 
 
282 SOUTH CAROLINA. 
 
 The churchyard where his children rest, 
 The quiet spot that suits him best : 
 
 There shall his grave be made, 
 And there his bones be laid ! 
 
 And there his countrymen shall come, 
 With memory proud, with pity dumb, 
 And strangers far and near, 
 For many and many a year ! 
 
 For many a year, and many an age, 
 While history on her ample page 
 The virtues shall enroll 
 Of that paternal soul ! 
 
 SOUTH CAROLINA. 18G5. 
 
 BEHOLD her now, with restless, flashing eyes, 
 Crouching, a thing forlorn, beside the way ! 
 Behold her ruined altars heaped to-day 
 
 With ashes of her costly sacrifice ! 
 
 How changed the once proud State that led the strife, 
 And flung the war-cry first throughout the land ! 
 See helpless now the parricidal hand 
 
 Which aimed the first blow at the nation s life ! 
 
 The grass is growing in the city s street, 
 
 Where stand the shattered spires, the broken walls ; 
 
 And through the solemn noonday silence falls 
 The sentry s footstep as he treads his beat. 
 
 Behold once more the old flag proudly wave 
 
 Above the ruined fortress by the sea ! 
 
 No longer shall that glorious banner be 
 The ensi<rn of a land where dwells the slave. 
 
10 TRIUMPHE! 283 
 
 Hark ! on the air what swelling anthems rise : 
 A ransomed people, by the sword set free, 
 Are chanting now a song of liberty ; 
 
 Hear how their voices echo to the skies ! 
 
 Oh righteous retribution, great and just! 
 Behold the palm-tree fallen to the earth, 
 AVhere Freedom, rising from a second birth, 
 
 No more shall trail her garments in the dust ! 
 
 Harpers Weekly. 
 
 IO TRIUMPHE! 
 
 BY LIEUTENANT RICHARD REALF. 
 
 NOT ever, in all human time, 
 
 Did any man or nation 
 Plant foot upon the peaks sublime 
 
 Of Mount Transfiguration, 
 But first in long preceding hours 
 
 Of dread and solemn being, 
 Clashed battle gainst Satanic powers, 
 
 Alone with the All-seeing. 
 
 God s glory lights no mortal brows 
 
 Which sorrow hath not wasted ; 
 No wine hath He for lips of those 
 
 His lees who never tasted. 
 Nor ever, till in bloodiest stress 
 
 The heart is well approved, 
 Does the All-brooding Tenderness 
 
 Cry, " This is my beloved ! " 
 
 O land, through years of shrouded nights 
 
 In triple blackness groping, 
 Toward the far prophetic lights 
 
 That beacon the world s hoping, 
 
284 10 TRIUMPH E! 
 
 Behold ! no tittle slialt tliou miss 
 Of that transforming given 
 
 To all who, dragged through hell s abyss, 
 Hold fast their grip on heaven. 
 
 The Lord God s purpose throbs along 
 
 Our stormy turbulences ; 
 He keeps the sap of nations strong 
 
 By hidden recompenses. 
 The Lord God sows his righteous grain 
 
 In battle-blasted furrows, 
 And draws from present days of pain 
 
 Large peace for calm to-morrows. 
 
 From strokes of unseen cimitars 
 
 A million hearts are bleeding ; 
 A cry runs tingling to the stars 
 
 Of babes and widows pleading : 
 While at hell s altars sacrificed, 
 
 God s martyred son forever, 
 Lies the clear life that crystallized 
 
 Our kingliest endeavor. 
 
 And yet beneath our brimming tears 
 
 Lies nobler cause for singing 
 Than ever in the shining years, 
 
 When all our vales were ringing 
 With happy sounds of mellow peace ; 
 
 And all our cities thundered 
 With lusty echoes, and our seas 
 
 By freighted keels were sundered. 
 
 For lo ! the branding flails that drave 
 Our husks of foul self from us 
 
 Show all the watching heavens we have 
 Immortal grain of promise. 
 
10 TRIUMPHE! 285 
 
 And lo ! the dreadful blasts that blew 
 
 In gusts of fire amid us 
 Have scorched and winnowed from the true 
 
 The falseness which undid us. 
 
 No floundering more, for mind or heart, 
 
 Among the lower levels ; 
 No welcome more for moods that sort 
 
 With satyrs and with devils ; 
 But over all our fruitful slopes, 
 
 On all our plains of beauty, 
 Fair temples for fair human hopes, 
 
 And altar-thrones for duty. 
 
 Wherefore, O ransomed people, shout ! 
 
 O banners, wave in glory ! 
 O bugles, blow the triumph out ! 
 
 O drums, strike up the story ! 
 Clang, broken fetters, idle swords ! 
 
 Clap hands, O States, together ! 
 And let all praises be the Lord s, 
 
 Our Saviour and our Father. 
 
 Harper? Wttkly. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 REBEL POETRY. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 FAREWELL TO BROTHER JONATHAN.* 
 
 BY CAROLINE. 
 
 FAREWELL ! we must part ; we have turned from the land 
 Of our cold-hearted brother, with tyrannous hand, 
 Who assumed all our rights as a favor to grant, 
 And whose smile ever covered the sting of a taunt ; 
 
 Who breathed on the fame he was bound to defend, 
 Still the craftiest foe, neath the guise of a friend ; 
 Who believed that our bosoms would bleed at a touch, 
 Yet could never believe he could goad them too much ; 
 
 Whose conscience affects to be seared with our sin, 
 Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in ; 
 The mote in our eye so enormous has grown, 
 That he never perceives there s a beam in his own. 
 
 O Jonathan, Jonathan ! vassal of pelf, 
 Self-righteous, self-glorious, yes, every inch self. 
 Your loyalty now is all bluster and boast, 
 But was dumb when the foemen invaded our coast. 
 
 lu vain did your country appeal to you then, 
 You coldly refused her your money and men ; 
 
 * A reply to " Brother Jonathan s Farewell to Sister Caroline, 
 p. 1. 
 
 19 
 
290 FAREWELL TO BROTHER JONATHAN. 
 
 Your trade interrupted, you slunk from her wars, 
 
 And preferred British gold to the Stripes and the Stars ! 
 
 Then our generous blood was as water poured forth, 
 And the sons of the South were the shields of the North ; 
 Nor our patriot ardor one moment gave o er, 
 Till the foe you had fed we had driven from the shore ! 
 
 Long years we have suffered opprobrium and wrong, 
 But we clung to your side with affection so strong, 
 That at last, in mere wanton aggression, you broke 
 All the ties of our hearts with one murderous stroke. 
 
 We are tired of contest for what is our own, 
 We are sick of a strife that could never be done ; 
 Thus our love has died out, and its altars are dark, 
 Not Prometheus s self could rekindle the spark. 
 
 O Jonathan, Jonathan ! deadly the sin 
 Of your tigerish thirst for the blood of your kin ; 
 And shameful the spirit that gloats over wives 
 And maidens despoiled of their honor and lives ! 
 
 Your palaces rise from the fruits of our toil, 
 Your millions are fed from the wealth of our soil ; 
 The balm, of our air brings the health to your cheek, 
 And our hearts are aglow with the welcome we speak. 
 
 O brother ! beware how you seek us again, 
 Lest you brand on your forehead the signet of Cain ; 
 That blood and that crime on your conscience must sit : 
 We may fall we may perish but never submit ! 
 
 The pathway that leads to the Pharisee s door 
 We remember, indeed, but we tread it no more ; 
 Preferring to turn, with the Publican s faith, 
 To the path through the valley and shadow of death ! 
 
" CALL ALL ! CALL ALL ! " 
 "CALL ALL! CALL ALL!" 
 
 BY " GEORGIA." 
 
 WHOOP ! the Doodles have broken loose, 
 Roaring round like the very deuce 
 Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack, 
 After em boys, and drive em back, 
 
 Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice, 
 Back to the beggarly land of ice ; 
 Worry em, bite em, scratch and tear 
 Everybody and everywhere. 
 
 Old Kentucky is caved from under, 
 Tennessee is split asunder, 
 Alabama awaits attack, 
 And Georgia bristles up her back. 
 
 Old John Brown is dead and gone ! 
 Still his spirit is marching on, 
 Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys, 
 Long as an ape s from Illinois ! 
 
 Want a weapon ? Gather a brick, 
 Club or cudgel, or stone or stick ; 
 Anything with a blade or butt, 
 Anything that can cleave or cut. 
 
 Anything heavy, or hard, or keen ! 
 Any sort of slaying machine ! 
 Anything with a willing mind, 
 And the steady arm of a man behind. 
 
 Want a weapon ? Why, capture one ! 
 Every Doodle has got a gun, 
 Belt, and bayonet, bright and new; 
 Kill a Doodle, and capture two ! 
 
 2 9 I 
 
2Q2 MARYLAND. 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire ! 
 All, call all ! to the feast of fire ! 
 Mother and maiden, and child and slave, 
 A common triumph or a single grave. 
 
 Rocldiiyham Register. 
 
 MARYLAND.* 
 
 BY JAMES K. RANDALL. 
 
 THE despot s heel is on thy shore, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 His torch is at thy temple door, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 Avenge the patriotic gore 
 That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
 And be the battle-queen of yore, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Hark to wand ring son s appeal, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 My mother State ! to thee I kneel, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 For life and death, for woe and weal, 
 Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
 Maryland ! 
 
 * No song was such a favorite as this among Rebels at the South 
 and " Copperheads " at the North. Officers have told me that they 
 have heard it in the small hours of the night sung in undertones 
 but with fierce enthusiasm in Baltimore, by people professing 
 Union sentiments," and who supposed that their secret and pre 
 tended social gatherings were unobserved. 
 
MARYLAND. 293 
 
 Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 Remember Carroll s sacred trust ; 
 Remember HoAvard s warlike thrust; 
 And all thy slumberers with the just, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! t is the red dawn of the day, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! with thy panoplied array, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 With Ringgold s spirit for the fray, 
 With Watson s blood, at Monterey, 
 With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! ibr thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! to thine own heroic throng, 
 That stalks with Liberty along, 
 And give a new Key to thy song,* 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant s chain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Virginia should not call in vain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 She meets her sisters on the plain : 
 " Sic semper" t is the proud refrain, 
 That baffles minions back amain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Arise in majesty again, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 * " The Star Spangled Banner" was written during the war of 
 1812 by Francis Key of Maryland. 
 
294 TIIE DESPOTS SONG. 
 
 I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But thou wast ever bravely meek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 But lo ! there surges forth a shriek 
 From hill to hill, from creek to creek, - 
 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thou will not crook to his control, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 Better the fire upon thee roll, 
 Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, 
 Than crucifixion of the soul, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 I hear the distant thunder hum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 The Old Line s bugle, fife and drum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 
 Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
 She breathes she burns ! she 11 come ! she 11 come ! 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 FOI.NTE COUPEE, April 26, 1861. 
 
 THE DESPOT S SONG. 
 
 BY "OLE SECESH." 
 
 WITH a beard that was filthy and red, 
 His mouth with tobacco bespread, 
 Abe Lincoln sat in the gay White House, 
 A-wishiri2: that he was dead : 
 
THE DESPOTS SONG. 295 
 
 Swear! swear! swear! 
 Till his tongue was blistered o er ; 
 Then, in a voice not very strong, 
 lie slowly whined the Despot s Song : 
 
 Lie ! lie ! lie ! 
 I ve lied like the very deuce ! 
 
 Lie ! lie ! lie ! 
 
 As long as lies were of use ; 
 But now that lies no longer pay, 
 
 I know not where to turn ; 
 For when I the truth would say, 
 My tongue with lies will burn ! 
 
 Drink ! drink ! drink ! 
 Till my head feels very queer ! 
 
 Drink! drink! drink! 
 Till I get rid of all fear ! 
 Brandy and whiskey and gin, 
 
 Sherry and champagne and pop ; 
 I tipple, I guzzle, I suck em all in, 
 Till down dead-drunk I drop. 
 
 Think! think! think! 
 Till my head is very sore ! 
 
 Think! think! think! 
 Till I could n t think any more ! 
 And it s oh ! to be splitting of rails, 
 
 Back in my Illinois hut ; 
 For now that everything fails, 
 I would of my office be " shut ! " 
 
 Jeff! Jeff! Jeff! 
 To you as a suppliant I kneel ! 
 
 " Jeff! Jeff! Jeff! 
 If you could my horrors feel, 
 
296 REBELS. 
 
 You d submit at discretion, 
 And kindly give in 
 
 To all my oppression, 
 My weakness and sin ! 
 
 REBELS. 
 
 [ General Beauregard, now in command of the Rebel forces in 
 Charleston, has much fame as a tactician." Harpers Weekly. ~\ 
 
 YES, call them Rebels ! t is the name 
 
 Their patriot fathers bore ; 
 And by such deeds they 11 hallow it, 
 
 As they have done before. 
 At Lexington and Baltimore 
 
 Was poured the holy chrism, 
 For freedom marks her sons with blood, 
 
 In sign of their baptfsm. 
 
 Rebels, in proud and bold protest, 
 
 Against a power unreal, 
 A unity which every quest 
 
 Proves false as t is ideal. 
 A brotherhood, whose ties are chains, 
 
 Which crushes what it holds, 
 Like the old marble Laocoon, 
 
 Beneath its serpent folds. 
 
 Rebels against the malice vast, 
 
 Malice that naught disarms, 
 Which fills the quiet of their homes 
 
 With vague and dread alarms. 
 Against the invader s daring feet, 
 
 Against the tide of wrong, 
 Which has been borne, in silence borne, 
 
 But borne perchance too long. 
 
FLIGHT OF DOODLES. 297 
 
 They would be cowards, did they crouch 
 
 Beneath the lifted hand, 
 Whose very wave, ye seem to think, 
 
 Will chill them where they stand. 
 Yes, call them Rebels ! t is a name 
 
 Which speaks of other days, 
 Of gallant deeds and gallant men, 
 
 And wins them to their ways. 
 
 Fair was the edifice they raised, 
 
 Uplifting to the skies ; 
 A mighty Samson neath its dome 
 
 In grand quiescence lies. 
 Dare not to touch his noble limb, 
 
 With thong or chain to bind, 
 Lest ruin crush both you and him, 
 
 This Samson is not blind ! 
 
 FLIGHT OF DOODLES. 
 
 I COME from old Manassas, with a pocket full of fun ; 
 I killed forty Yankees with a single-barrelled gun : 
 It don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, 
 Big Yankee, Little Yankee, all run or die. 
 
 I saw all the Yankees at Bull Run ; 
 They fought like the devil when the battle first begun : 
 But it don t make a nifl-a-stifference to neither you nor I, 
 They took to their heels, boys, and you ought to see em fly. 
 
 I saw old Fuss-and-Feathers Scott, twenty miles away ; 
 His horses stuck up their ears, and you ought to hear em 
 
 neigh : 
 
 But it don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, 
 Old Scott fled like the devil, boys ; root, hog, or die. 
 
298 FLIGHT OF DOODLES. 
 
 I then saw a " Tiger," from the old Crescent City ; 
 
 He cut down the Yankees without any pity : 
 
 Oh ! it don t make a diff-a-bitterence to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 We whipped the Yankee boys, and made the boobies cry. 
 
 I saw South Carolina, the first in the cause, 
 
 Shake the dirty Yankees till she broke all their jaws : 
 
 Oh ! it don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 South Carolina give em , boys ; root, hog, or die. 
 
 I saw old Virginia, standing firm and true ; 
 
 She fought mighty hard to whip the dirty crew : 
 
 Oh ! it don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 Old Virginia s blood and thunder, boys ; root, hog, or 
 
 die. 
 
 I saw old Georgia, the next in the van ; 
 
 She cut down the Yankees almost to a man : 
 
 Oh ! it don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 Georgia s sum in a fight, boys ; root, hog, or die. 
 
 I saw Alabama in the midst of the storm ; 
 
 She stood like a giant in the contest so warm : 
 
 Oh ! it don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 Alabama fought the Yankees, boys, till the last one did 
 
 fly. 
 
 I saw Texas go in with a smile, 
 
 But, I tell you what it is, she made the Yankees bile : 
 
 Oh ! it don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 Texas is the devil, boys ; root, hog, or die. 
 
ANOTHER YANKEE DOODLE. 299 
 
 I saw North Carolina in the deepest of the battle ; 
 
 She knocked down the Yankees and made their bones 
 
 rattle : 
 Oh ! it don t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 North Carolina s got the grit, boys ; root, hog, or die. 
 
 Old Florida came in with a terrible shout ; 
 
 She frightened all the Yankees till their eyes stuck out : 
 
 Oh ! it don t make a niff-a-stiflerence to neither you 
 
 nor I, 
 Florida s death on Yankees ; root, hog, or die. 
 
 ANOTHER YANKEE DOODLE. 
 
 YANKEE Doodle had a mind 
 
 To whip the Southern traitors, 
 Because they did n t choose to live 
 On codfish and potatoes. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 And so, to keep his courage up, 
 He took a drink of brandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle said he found 
 
 By all the census figures, 
 That he could starve the Rebels out 
 If he could steal their niggers. 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 And then he took another drink 
 Of gunpowder and brandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle made a speech ; 
 T was very full of feeling : 
 
300 ANOTHER YANKEE DOODLE. 
 
 " I fear," says he, " I cannot fight, 
 But I am good at stealing." 
 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 Hurrah for Lincoln ! he s the boy 
 To take a drop of brandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle drew his sword, 
 And practised all the passes : 
 Come, boys, we ll take another drink 
 When we get to Manassas. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 They never reached Manassas plain, 
 And never got the brandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle soon found out 
 
 That Bull Run was no trifle ; 
 For if the North knew how to steal, 
 The South knew how to rifle. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 T is very clear I took too much 
 Of that infernal brandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle wheeled about, 
 
 And scampered off at full run ; 
 And such a race was never seen 
 As that he made at Bull Run. 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 I have n t time to stop just now 
 To take a drop of brandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, oh, for shame ! 
 
 You re always intermeddling ; 
 Let guns alone, they re dangerous things, 
 
 You d better stick to peddling. 
 
JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY. 301 
 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-cloo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 When next I go to Bully Run 
 
 I 11 throw away the brandy. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, you had ought 
 
 To be a little smarter ; 
 Instead of catching woolly heads, 
 I vow you ve caught a tartar. 
 
 Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, 
 
 Yankee Doodle dandy ; 
 Go to hum, you ve had enough 
 Of Rebels and of brandy. 
 
 JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY. 
 
 [Copy of verses found in a pocket-book picked up by a private 
 of the Fifth Regiment Zouaves, U. S. A. There was no date at 
 tached to them.] 
 
 WE RE free from Yankee despots, 
 
 We ve left, the foul mudsills ; 
 Declared fore er our freedom, 
 
 We 11 keep it, spite of ills. 
 
 Bring forth your scum and rowdies, 
 
 Thieves, vagabonds, and all ; 
 March down your Seventh regiment, 
 
 Battalions great and small. 
 
 We 11 meet you in Virginia, 
 
 A Southern battle-field, 
 Where Southern men will never 
 
 To Yankee foemen yield. 
 
302 THE STARS AND BARS. 
 
 Equip your Lincoln cavalry, 
 Your NEGRO %/^-brigade, 
 
 Your hodmen, boot-blacks, tinkers, 
 And scum of every grade. 
 
 Pretended love for negroes 
 Incites you to the strife ; 
 
 Well, come each Yankee white man 
 And take a negro wife. 
 
 You VI make fit black companions, 
 Black heart joined to black skin ; 
 
 Such unions would be glorious, 
 They d make the devil grin. 
 
 Our freedom is our panoply : 
 
 Come on, you base black-guards, 
 
 We 11 snuff you like wax-candles, 
 Led by our Beauregards. 
 
 P. G. T. B. is not alone, 
 Men like him with him fight ; 
 
 God s providence is o er us, 
 He will protect the right. 
 
 THE STARS AND BARS. 
 
 BY A. J. REQUIER. 
 
 FLING wide the dauntless banner 
 To every Southern breeze, 
 
 Baptized in flame with Sumter s name, 
 
 A patriot and a hero s fame, 
 From Moultrie to the seas ! 
 
 That it may cleave the morning sun, 
 And, streaming, sweep the night, 
 
THE STARS AND BARS. 303 
 
 The emblem of a battle won 
 With Yankee ships in sight. 
 
 Come, hucksters, from your markets ; 
 
 Come, bigots, from your caves ; 
 Come, venal spies, with brazen lies 
 Bewildering your deluded eyes, 
 
 That we may dig your graves ; 
 Come, creatures of a sordid clown 
 
 And drivelling traitor s breath, 
 A single blast shall blow you down 
 
 Upon the fields of Death. 
 
 The very flag you carry 
 
 Caught its reflected grace, 
 In fierce alarms, from Southern arms, 
 When foemen threatened all your farms, 
 
 And never saw your face ; 
 Ho ! braggarts of New-England s shore, 
 
 Back to your hills, and delve 
 The soil whose craven sons forswore 
 
 The flag in eighteen-twelve ! 
 
 We wreathed around the roses 
 
 It wears before the world, 
 And made it bright with storied light, 
 In every scene of bloody fight 
 
 Where it has been unfurled ; 
 And think ye now the dastard hands 
 
 That never yet could hold 
 Its staff", shall wave it o er our lands, 
 
 To glut the greed of gold ? 
 
 No ! by the truth of Heaven 
 
 And its eternal Sun, 
 By every sire whose altar-fire 
 Burns on to beckon and inspire, 
 
304 THE HUSH BATTALION. 
 
 It never shall be done ; 
 Before that day the kites shall wheel 
 
 Hail-thick on Northern heights, 
 And there our bared aggressive steel 
 
 Shall countersign our rights ! 
 
 Then, spread the flaming banner 
 
 O er mountain, lake, and plain ; 
 Before its bars degraded Mars 
 Has kissed the dust with all his stare, 
 
 And will be struck again ; 
 For, could its triumph now be stayed 
 
 By Hell s prevailing gates, 
 A sceptred Union would be made 
 
 The grave of sovereign States. 
 
 THE IRISH BATTALION.* 
 
 WHEN Old Virginia took the field, 
 
 And wanted men to rally on, 
 To be at once her sword and shield, 
 
 She formed her First Battalion. 
 
 Although her sons were Volunteers, 
 
 And brave as ever bore a brand, 
 The good old lady had her fears 
 
 That they might prove but weak of hand. 
 
 * It is worthy of remark, that while Rebel organs made great 
 and constant boast of that poor inheritance, Cavalier and Jacobite 
 blood, and reviled the Union armies on account of the number of 
 Irishmen in their ranks, the proportion of which was in reality very 
 small, there was yet occasion for such verses as these, and the 
 " Song of the Irish Brigade," which follows. It seems, after all 
 rather a sorry confession that u Old Virginia" took three hundred 
 Irishmen to form her First Battalion. 
 
THE IRISH BATTALION. 305 
 
 She therefore wisely cast about 
 
 For men of mettle and of mould, 
 With nerve of steel and muscle stout, 
 
 Like those that lived in days of old. 
 
 She wanted men of pluck and might, 
 
 Of fiery heart and horny hand, 
 To wield a pick as well as fight, 
 
 Or build a breastwork out of sand. 
 
 Or should she march to meet the foe 
 That threatened on her western border, 
 
 She wanted Avilling men to go, 
 
 When told, to put her roads in order. 
 
 Or should the Volunteers retreat, 
 
 With baggage that might make them tarry, 
 T would blunt the edge of their defeat 
 
 To bear a hand and help them carry. 
 
 Or should some die of fell disease, 
 The surgeons having failed to save, 
 
 Sure men who work with so much ease, 
 Would volunteer to dig a grave ! 
 
 For these, and reasons quite as sound, 
 
 When Old Virginia went to war, 
 She circumspectly viewed the ground 
 
 And plumped the middle man from taw ! 
 
 In other words, to change the figure, 
 When she stood up and took her rifle, 
 
 And put her finger on the trigger, 
 She meant to work, and not to trifle. 
 
 And standing thus, yet wanting then 
 Some regulars to rally on, 
 
 20 
 
306 BOMBARDMENT OF V1CKSBURG. 
 
 She took three hundred Irishmen 
 And formed her First Battalion. 
 
 And when the storm of battle sweeps, 
 Where fiercest foeinen sally on, 
 
 There, hard at work, or piled in heaps, 
 She 11 find her bold Battalion. 
 
 BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG. 
 
 DEDICATED WITH RESPECT AND ADMIRATION TO MAJOR- 
 GENE UAL EARL VAN DOKN. 
 
 FOR sixty days and upwards 
 
 A storm of shell and shot 
 Rained round us in a flaming shower, 
 
 But still we faltered not ! 
 " If the noble city perish," 
 
 Our grand young leader said, 
 " Let the only walls the foe shall scale 
 
 Be ramparts of the dead ! " 
 
 For sixty days and upwards 
 
 The eye of heaven waxed dim ; 
 And even throughout God s holy morn, 
 
 O er Christian s prayer and hymn, 
 Arose a hissing tumult, 
 
 As if the fiends of air 
 Strove to engulf the voice of faith 
 
 In the shrieks of their despair. 
 
 There was wailing in the houses, 
 There was trembling on the marts, 
 
 While the tempest raged and thundered, 
 Mid the silent thrill of hearts : 
 
BOMBARDMENT OF V1CKSBURG. 30? 
 
 But, the Lord, our shield, was with us ; 
 
 And ere a month had sped, 
 Our very women walked the streets 
 
 With scarce one throb of dread. 
 
 And the little children gambolled, 
 
 Their faces purely raised, 
 Just for a wondering moment, 
 
 As the huge bombs whirled and blazed ! 
 Then turning with silvery laughter 
 
 To the sports which children love, 
 Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought, 
 
 That the good God watched above.* 
 
 , Yet the hailing bolts fell faster 
 
 From scores of flame-clad ships, 
 And above us denser, darker, 
 
 Grew the conflict s wild eclipse ; 
 Till a solid cloud closed o er us, 
 
 Like a type of doom and ire, 
 Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues 
 
 Of forked and vengeful fire. 
 
 But the unseen hands of angels 
 
 These death-shafts warned aside, 
 And the dove of heavenly mercy 
 
 Ruled o er the battle-tide ; 
 In the houses ceased the wailing, 
 
 And through the war-scarred marts 
 The people strode with the step of hope 
 
 To the music in their hearts. 
 COLUMBIA, S. C., August 6, 1862. 
 
 * It has been stated by one professing to have witnessed the fact, 
 that some weeks after the beginning of this terrific bombardment, 
 not only were ladies seen coolly walking the streets, but that iu 
 some parts of the town children were observed at play, only inter 
 rupting their sports to gaze and listen at the bursting shells. 
 
308 A SOUTHERN SCENE. 
 
 A SOUTHERN SCENE. 
 
 " O MAMMY ! have you heard the news ? 
 
 Thus spake a Southern child, 
 As in the nurse s aged face 
 
 She upward glanced and smiled. 
 
 " What news you mean, my little one ? 
 
 It must be mighty fine 
 To make my darling s face so red, 
 
 Her sunny blue eyes shine." 
 
 " Why, Abram Lincoln, don t you know, 
 
 The Yankee President, 
 Whose ugly picture once we saw, 
 
 When up to town we went, 
 
 " Well, he is going to free you all, 
 And make you rich and grand, 
 
 And you 11 be dressed in silk and gold, 
 Like the proudest in the land. 
 
 " A gilded coach shall carry you 
 
 Where er you wish to ride ; 
 And, mammy, all your work shall be 
 
 Forever laid aside." 
 
 The eager speaker paused for breath, 
 And then the old nurse said, 
 
 While closer to her swarthy cheek 
 She pressed the golden head : 
 
 " My little missus, stop and res , 
 
 You talking mighty fas ; 
 Jes look up dere, and tell me what 
 
 You see in yonder glass ? 
 
A SOUTHERN SCENE. 309 
 
 " You sees old mammy s wrinkly face, 
 
 As black as any coal, 
 And underneath her handkerchief 
 
 Whole heaps of knotty wool. 
 
 " My darlin s face is red and white, 
 
 Her skin is sofF and fine, 
 And on her pretty little head 
 
 De yallar ringlets shine. 
 
 " My chile, who made dis difference 
 
 Twixt mammy and twixt you ? 
 You reads the dear Lord s blessed book, 
 
 And you can tell me true. 
 
 " De dear Lord said it must be so ; 
 
 And, honey, I for one, 
 Wid tankful heart will always say, 
 
 His holy will be done. 
 
 " I tanks mas Linkum all de same, 
 
 But when I wants for free, 
 I 11 ask de Lord of glory, 
 
 Not poor buckra man like he. 
 
 " And as for gilded carriages, 
 
 Dey s notin t all to see ; 
 My massa s coach, what carries him, 
 
 Is good enough for me. 
 
 " And, honey, when your mammy wants 
 
 To change her homespun dress, 
 She 11 pray like dear old missus, 
 
 To be clothed with righteousness. 
 
 " My work s been done dis many a day, 
 And now I takes my ease, 
 
310 BEYOND THE POTOMAC. 
 
 A waitin for the Master s call, 
 Jes when the Master please. 
 
 " And when at las de time s done come, 
 And poor old mammy dies, 
 
 Your own dear mother s soff white hand 
 Shall close dese tired old eyes. 
 
 " De dear Lord Jesus soon will call 
 Old mammy home to Him, 
 
 And He can wash my guilty soul 
 From ebery spot of sin. 
 
 " And at His feet I shall lie down, 
 Who died and rose for me ; 
 
 And den, and not till den, my chile, 
 Your mammy will be free. 
 
 " Come, little missus, say your prayers ; 
 
 Let old mas Linkum lone, 
 The debil knows who b longs to him, 
 
 And he 11 take care of his own." 
 
 BEYOND THE POTOMAC. 
 
 BY PAUL H. HAYNE.* 
 
 THEY slept on the fields which their valor had won ! 
 But arose with the first early blush of the sun, 
 For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, 
 When they passed o er the River. 
 
 * This piece was originally published in the Richmond Whiy al 
 the time of " Stonewall " Jackson s last raid into Maryland. 
 
BEYOND THE POTOMAC. 311 
 
 They rose with the sun, and caught life from his light, 
 Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight, 
 And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, 
 Marching swift for the River. 
 
 On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills, 
 On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, 
 And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills 
 At the thought of the River. 
 
 On ! the sheen of their swords ! the fierce gleam of their 
 
 eyes 
 
 It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, 
 And king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies, 
 O er the path to the River. 
 
 But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with 
 
 gore, 
 
 On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before, 
 Like the wings of Death-angels swept fast to the shore, 
 The green shore of the River. 
 
 As they march, from the hill-side, the hamlet, tho 
 
 stream, 
 
 Gaunt throngs whom the Foeman had manacled, teem, 
 Like men just roused from some terrible dream, 
 To pass o er the River. 
 
 They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair 
 And a moment dissolves the las*, spell of despair, 
 While a peal as of victory swells on the air, 
 Rolling out to the River. 
 
 And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread, 
 Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed, 
 And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead, 
 Ay ! press on to the River. 
 
312 
 
 THE OLD R1FLKMAN. 
 
 On ! on ! like the rushing of storms through the hills, 
 On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, 
 And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and 
 thrills, 
 
 As they pause by the River. 
 
 Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn, 
 At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, 
 And she turned on the Foeinan full statured in scorn, 
 Pointing stern to the River. 
 
 And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her breast, 
 With her low-lying billows all bright in the west, 
 For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest 
 Of the fair rolling River. 
 
 Passed ! passed ! the glad thousands march safe through 
 
 the tide. 
 
 (Hark, Despot ! and hear the wild knell of your pride, 
 Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side 
 Of the calm-flowing River.) 
 
 Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall : 
 Vain ! vain ! to his God swells a desolate call, 
 For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall, 
 Since they passed o er the River. 
 
 THE OLD RIFLEMAN. 
 
 BY FRANK TICKXOR, M. D. 
 
 Now, bring me out my buckskin suit ! 
 
 My pouch and powder, too ! 
 We 11 see if seventy -six can shoot 
 
 As sixteen used to do. 
 
THE OLD RIFLEMAN. 313 
 
 Old Bess ! we ve kept our barrels bright ! 
 
 Our triggers quick and true ! 
 As far, if not as fine a sight, 
 
 As long ago we drew ! 
 
 And pick me out a trusty flint ! 
 
 A real white and blue ; 
 Perhaps t will win the other tint 
 
 Before the hunt is through ! 
 
 Give boys your brass percussion-caps ! 
 
 Old " shut-pan " suits as well ! 
 There s something in the sparks : perhaps 
 
 There s something in the smell ! 
 
 We ve seen the red-coat Briton bleed ! 
 
 The red-skin Indian too ! 
 We never thought to draw a bead 
 
 On Yankee-doodle-doo ! 
 
 But, Bessie ! bless your dear old heart ! 
 
 Those days are mostly done ; 
 And now we must revive the art 
 
 Of shooting on the run ! 
 
 If Doodle must be meddling, why, 
 
 There s only this to do, 
 Select the black spot in his eye 
 
 And let the daylight through ! 
 
 And if he does n t like the way 
 
 That Bess presents the view, 
 He 11, maybe, change his mind and stay 
 
 Where the good Doodles do ! 
 
 Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, 
 Who kissed the Testament ; 
 
314 "SOUTHRONS." 
 
 To keep the Constitution ? No ! 
 To keep the Government ! 
 
 We 11 hunt for Lincoln, Bess ! old tool, 
 And take him half and half; 
 
 We 11 aim to hit him, if a fool, 
 And 7ni$s him, if a calf! 
 
 We 11 teach these shot-gun boys the tricks 
 
 By which a war is won ; 
 Especially how seventy-six 
 
 Took Tories on the run. 
 
 " SOUTHRONS." 
 
 You can never win them back 
 
 Never ! never ! 
 Though they perish on the track 
 
 Of your endeavor ; 
 Though their corses strew the earth 
 That SMILED upon their birth, 
 And blood pollutes each hearth- 
 Stone forever ! 
 
 They have risen to a man, 
 Stern and fearless ; 
 Of your curses and your ban 
 
 They are careless. 
 Every hand is on its knife, 
 Every gun is primed for strife, 
 Every PALM contains a life, 
 High and peerless ! 
 
 You have no such blood as theirs 
 For the shedding : 
 
THE GUERILLAS. 315 
 
 In the veins of Cavaliers 
 
 Was its heading ! 
 You have no such stately men 
 In your " abolition den," 
 To march through foe and fen, 
 
 Nothing dreading ! 
 
 They may fall before the fire 
 
 Of your legions, 
 Paid with gold for murderous hire, 
 
 Bought allegiance ; 
 But for every drop you shed 
 You shall have a mound of dead, 
 So that vultures may be fed 
 In our regions ! 
 
 But the battle to the strong 
 
 Is not given, 
 When the Judge of Right and Wrong 
 
 Sits in heaven ; 
 And the God of David still 
 Guides the pebble with His will, 
 There are giants yet to kill, 
 
 Wrongs unshriven ! 
 
 THE GUERILLAS.* 
 
 AWAKE and to horse, my brothel s ! 
 
 For the dawn is glimmering gray ; 
 And hark ! in the crackling brushwood 
 
 There are feet that tread this way. 
 
 * These stirring verses, which we .copy from a Southern ex 
 change, are from the patriotic pen of a lady of Kentucky, who has 
 achieved a national reputation as a poetess and authoress. Louis 
 ville Courier. 
 
316 THE GUERILLAS. 
 
 " Who cometh ? " "A friend." " What tidings ? " 
 
 " O God ! I sicken to tell ; 
 For the earth seems earth no longer, 
 
 And its sights are sights of hell ! 
 
 " From the far-off conquered cities 
 
 Comes a voice of stifled wail, 
 And the shrieks and moans of the houseless 
 
 Ring out, like a dirge on the gale. 
 
 " I ve seen from the smoking village 
 
 Our mothers and daughters fly ; 
 I ve seen where the little children 
 
 Sank down in the furrows to die. 
 
 " On the banks of the battle-stained river 
 
 I stood as the moonlight shone, 
 And it glared on the face of my brother, 
 
 As the sad wave swept him on. 
 
 " Where my home was glad, are ashes, 
 And horrors and shame had been there, 
 
 For I found on the fallen lintel 
 This tress of my wife s torn hair. 
 
 " They are turning the slaves upon us *, 
 
 And, with more than the fiend s worst art, 
 
 Have uncovered the fire of the savage 
 That slept in his untaught heart ! * 
 
 " The ties to our hearths that bound him 
 
 They have rent with curses away, 
 And maddened him, with their madness, 
 
 To be almost as brutal as they. 
 
 " With halter and torch and Bible, 
 
 And hymns to the sound of the drum, 
 
 * It need hardly be said that this charge is unfounded. 
 
THE GUERILLAS. 317 
 
 They preach the gospel of murder, 
 And pray for lust s kingdom to come. 
 
 " To saddle ! to saddle ! my brothers ! 
 
 Look up to the rising sun, 
 And ask of the God who shines there 
 
 Whether deeds like these shall be done ! 
 
 " Wherever the vandal cometh, 
 
 Press home to his heart with your steel ; 
 
 And when at his bosom you cannot, 
 
 Like the serpent, go strike at his heel ! 
 
 " Through thicket and wood, go hunt him ; 
 
 Creep up to his camp-fire side ; 
 And let ten of his corpses blacken 
 
 Where one of our brothers hath died. 
 
 " In his fainting, foot-sore marches, 
 
 In his flight from the stricken fray, 
 In the snare of the lonely ambush, 
 
 The debts we owe him pay. 
 
 " In God s hand alone is vengeance, 
 But he strikes with the hands of men ; 
 
 And his blight would wither our manhood, 
 If we smite not the smiter again. 
 
 " By the graves where our fathers slumber, 
 By the shrines where our mothers prayed, 
 
 By our homes and hopes and freedom, 
 Let every man swear on his blade, 
 
 " That he will not sheathe nor stay it, 
 
 Till from point to hilt it glow 
 With the flush of Almighty vengeance, 
 
 In the blood of the felon foe." 
 
* 
 
 318 THERE S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET. 
 
 They swore : and the answering sunlight 
 Leaped red from their lifted swords ; 
 
 And the hate in their hearts made echo 
 To the wrath in their burning words. 
 
 There s weeping in all New England, 
 And by Schuy Hull s banks a knell ; 
 
 And the widows there and the orphans 
 How the oath was kept, can tell.* 
 
 THERE S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET ! 
 
 BY JAMES R. RANDALL. 
 
 BY the blue Patapsco s billowy dash 
 
 The tyrant s war-shout comes, 
 Along with the cymbals fitful clash, 
 
 And the growl of his sullen drums. 
 We hear it ! we heed it with vengeful thrills, 
 
 And we shall not forgive or forget ; 
 There s faith in the streams, there s hope in the hills, 
 
 There s life in the old land yet ! 
 
 Minions ! we sleep, but we are not dead ; 
 
 We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred ; 
 We crouch t is to welcome the triumph tread 
 
 Of the peerless BEAU REGARD. 
 Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, 
 
 When the Southern braves are met ; 
 There s faith in the victor s stainless sword, 
 
 There s life in the old land yet ! 
 
 * It may add something to the interest with which these stirring 
 lines will be read, to know that they were composed within the 
 \valls of a Yankee Bastile. They reach us in manuscript, through 
 the cotirtesv of a returned prisoner. Richmond Examiner. 
 
EPIGRAM. 3 1 9 
 
 Bigots ! ye quell not the valiant mind 
 
 With the clank of an iron chain ; 
 The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind, 
 
 O er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane ; 
 And we, though we smite not, are not thralls, 
 
 Are piling a gory debt ; 
 While down by McHenry s dungeon-walls 
 
 There s life in the old land yet ! 
 
 Our women have hung their harps away, 
 
 And they scowl on your brutal bands, 
 While the nimble poinard dares the day, 
 
 In their dear defiant hands. 
 They will strip their tresses to string our bows, 
 
 Ere the Northern sun is set ; 
 There s faith in their unrelenting woes, 
 
 There s life in the old land yet ! 
 
 There s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, 
 
 T is vocal without noise ; 
 It gushed o er Manassas s solemn plains, 
 
 From the blood of the MARYLAND BOYS ! 
 That blood shall cry aloud, and rise 
 
 With an everlasting threat ; 
 By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, 
 
 There s life in the old land yet ! 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 WHILST Butler plays his silly pranks, 
 And closes up New-Orleans banks, 
 Our Stonewall Jackson, with more cunning, 
 Keeps Yankee Banks forever running. 
 
 Charleston Mercury. 
 
320 THINKING OF THE SOLDIERS. 
 
 THINKING OF THE SOLDIERS. 
 
 WE were sitting around the table, 
 
 Just a night or two ago, 
 In the little cosy parlor, 
 
 With the lamp-light burning low ; 
 And the window-blinds half opened, 
 
 For the summer air to come, 
 And the painted curtains moving 
 
 Like a busy pendulum. 
 
 Oh ! the cushions on the sofa, 
 
 And the pictures on the wall, 
 And the gathering of comforts, 
 
 In the old familiar hall ; 
 And the wagging of the pointer, 
 
 Lounging idly by the door, 
 And the flitting of the shadows 
 
 From the ceiling to the floor. 
 
 Oh ! they wakened in my spirit, 
 
 Like the beautiful in art, 
 Such a busy, busy thinking, 
 
 Such a dreaminess of heart, 
 That I sat among the shadows, 
 
 With my spirit all astray ; 
 Thinking only thinking only 
 
 Of the soldiers far away : 
 
 Of the tents beneath the moonlight, 
 
 Of the stirring tattoo s sound, 
 Of the soldier in his blanket, 
 
 In his blanket on the ground ; 
 Of the icy winter coming, 
 
 Of the cold, bleak winds that blow, 
 And the soldier in his blanket, 
 
 In his blanket on the snow. 
 
STONEWALL JACKSON S WAY." 321 
 
 Of the blight upon the heather, 
 
 And the frost upon the hill, 
 And the whistling, whistling ever, 
 
 And the never, never still ; 
 Of the little leaflets falling, 
 
 With the sweetest, saddest sound, 
 And the soldier oh ! the soldier, 
 
 In his blanket on the ground. 
 
 Thus I lingered in my dreaming, 
 
 In my dreaming far away. 
 Till the spirit s picture-painting 
 
 Seemed as vivid as the day ; 
 And the moonlight faded softly 
 
 From the window opened wide, 
 And the faithful, faithful pointer 
 
 Nestled closer by my side. 
 
 And I knew that neath the starlight, 
 
 Though the chilly frosts may fall, 
 That the soldier will be dreaming, 
 
 Dreaming often of us all. 
 So I gave my spirit s painting 
 
 Just the breathing of a sound, 
 For the dreaming, dreaming soldier, 
 
 In his slumber on the ground. 
 November 24, 1861. 
 
 "STONEWALL JACKSON S WAY." 
 
 COME, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rail*, 
 
 Stir up the camp-fire bright ; 
 No matter if the canteen fails, 
 
 We 11 make a roaring night. 
 Here Shenandoah brawls along, 
 There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, 
 21 
 
322 "STONEWALL JACKSON S WAY." 
 
 To swell the brigade s rousing song 
 Of " Stonewall Jackson s way." 
 
 We see him now, the old slouched hat 
 
 Cocked o er his eye askew ; 
 The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat, 
 
 So calm, so blunt, so true. 
 The " Blue-Light Elder " knows em well ; 
 Says he, " That s Banks he s fond of shell ; 
 Lord save his soul ! we 11 give him ; " well, 
 
 That s Stonewall Jackson s way." 
 
 Silence ! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off! 
 
 Old Blue-Light s going to pray. 
 Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! 
 
 Attention ! it s his way. 
 Appealing from his native sod, 
 In forma pauperis to God : 
 " Lay bare Thine arm ; stretch forth Thy rod ! 
 
 Amen ! " That s " Stonewall s way." 
 
 He s in the saddle now. Fall in ! 
 
 Steady ! the whole brigade ! 
 Hill s at the ford, cut off; we 11 win 
 
 His way out, ball and blade ! 
 What matter if our shoes are worn ? 
 What matter if our feet are torn ? 
 " Quick-step ! we re with him before dawn ! " 
 
 That s " Stonewall Jackson way," 
 
 The sun s bright lances rout the mists 
 
 Of morning, and by George ! 
 Here s Longstreet struggling in the lists, 
 
 Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
 Pope and his Yankees, whipped before ; 
 " Bay nets and grape ! " near Stonewall roar ; 
 " Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashby s score ! J> 
 
 Is " Stonewall Jackson s way." 
 
SONG FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE. 323 
 
 Ah ! maiden, wait and watch and yearn 
 
 For news of Stonewall s band ! 
 Ah ! widow, read with eyes that burn 
 
 That ring upon thy hand. 
 Ah ! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on, 
 Thy life shall not be all forlorn. 
 The foe had better ne er been born 
 
 That gets in " Stonewall s way." 
 
 SONG FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE. 
 
 BY " SHAMROCK " OF THE SUMPTER UIFLES. 
 
 NOT now for the songs of a nation s wrongs, 
 
 Nor the groans of starving labor ; 
 Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing 
 
 To the clash of the flashing sabre ! 
 There are Irish ranks on the tented banks 
 
 Of Columbia s guarded ocean, 
 And an iron clank, from flank to flank, 
 
 Tells of armed men in motion. 
 
 And the frank souls there, clear, true, and bare 
 
 To all, as the steel beside them. 
 Can love or hate, with the strength of Fate, 
 
 Till the grave of the valiant hide them, 
 Each seems to be mailed Ard Righ, 
 
 Whose sword s avenging glory 
 Might light the fight and smite for Right, 
 
 Like Brian s in olden story ! 
 
 With pale affright and panic flight 
 
 Shall dastard Yankees, base and hollow, 
 
 Hear a Celtic race, from their battle-place, 
 Charge to the shout of " Faugh-a-ballayh ! " 
 
324 SONG FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE. 
 
 By the souls above, by the land we love, 
 
 Her tears and bleeding patience, 
 The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught 
 
 The brazen liar of nations. 
 
 The Irish green shall again be seen 
 
 As our Irish fathers bore it, 
 A burning wind from the South behind, 
 
 And the Yankee rout before it ! 
 O Neil s red hand shall purge the land, 
 
 Rain fire on men and cattle, 
 Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes 
 
 Plunge from the blaze of battle. 
 
 The knaves that rest on Columbia s breast, 
 
 And the voice of true men stifle, 
 We 11 exorcise from the rescued prize, 
 
 Our talisman, the rifle ; 
 For a tyrant s life a bowie-knife ! 
 
 Of Union-knot dissolvers, 
 The best we ken are stalworth men, 
 
 Columbiads and revolvers ! 
 
 Whoe er shall march by triumphal arch, 
 
 Whoe er may swell the slaughter, 
 Our drums shall roll from the Capitol 
 
 O er Potomac s fateful water ! 
 Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts, 
 
 For j udgment final and solemn ; 
 Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword 
 
 Is doomed, line, square, and column. 
 
THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. 325 
 
 THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. 
 
 I. 
 
 TAKE that banner down, t is weary ; 
 Round its staff t is drooping dreary ; 
 Furl it, fold it, let it rest ; 
 For there s not a man to wave it, 
 For there s not a sword to save it, 
 In the blood that heroes gave it ; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it : 
 Furl it, hide it, let it rest. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Take that banner down, t is tattered, 
 Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered, 
 Over whom it floated high. 
 Oh, t is hard for us to fold it ! 
 Hard to think there s none to hold it ; 
 Hard, for those who once unrolled it, 
 Now must furl it with a sigh. 
 
 in. 
 
 Furl that banner, furl it sadly ; 
 Once six millions hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousand wildly, madly 
 Swore it should forever wave ; 
 Swore that foeman s sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever ; 
 And that flag should float forever 
 O er their freedom or their grave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, 
 And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 
 Cold and dead are lying low ; 
 
326 THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. 
 
 And that banner, it is trailing, 
 While around it sounds the wailing 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
 v. 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it, 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ; 
 Weep for those who fell before it ; 
 Pardon those who trail and tore it : 
 Oh, how wildly they deplore it, 
 Now to furl and fold it so ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Furl that banner ! True, t is gory ; 
 But t is wreathed around with glory, 
 And t will live in song and story, 
 Though its folds are in the dust ; 
 For its fame on brightest pages, 
 Penned by poets and by sages, 
 Shall go sounding down the ages : 
 Furl its folds, for now we must. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Furl that banner softly, slowly ; 
 Furl it gently, it is holy, 
 For it droops above the dead : 
 Touch it not, unfurl it never, 
 Let it droop there, furled forever, 
 For its people s hopes are fled. 
 
 New York Freeman s Jcurnal. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 ALDRICH, T. B., 166. 
 
 ANONYMOUS, 2, 17, 27, 30, 43, 52, 55, 58, 65, 66, 69, 81, 91, 108, 
 115, 119, 127, 132, 138, 153, 157, 158, 16.0, 167, 169, 176, 177, 
 179, 180, 183, 193, 198, 204, 207, 208, 211, 217, 218, 220, 222, 
 2-25, 228, 254, 255, 257, 258, 265, 265, 270, 274, 282, 296, 297, 
 299, 304, 306, 308, 314, 315, 319, 320, 321, 325. 
 
 ANDIIISON, ALFRED, 262. 
 
 BARNEY, 93. 
 
 BEDLOW, H., 194. 
 
 BETHUNE, REV. G. W., 4. 
 
 BOKEK, GEORGE H., 33, 84, 114, 161, 209, 210, 214. 
 
 BOLTON, SARAH T., 149. 
 
 BRADBURY, WILLIAM B., 90. 
 
 BROWNELL, H. H., 79, 96, 98, 121, 232 
 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, 11, 268. 
 
 BURLEIGH, GEORGE S., 128. 
 
 BUTLER, CLARENCE. 7. 
 
 CAREY, ALICE, 273. 
 CAROLINE, 289. 
 CASTEN, J. CROSS, 215. 
 CHILD, F. J., 76. 
 CUTLER, E. JEFFERSON, 97. 
 
 DE FOREST, J. W., 151. 
 
 DE G., 301. 
 
 DUGANNE, A. J. H., 125. 
 
 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO, 139. 
 E PLURIBUS UNUM, 174. 
 
328 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 FIELDS, JAMES T., 20. 
 
 GAGE, FRANCES D., 186. 
 GEORGIA, 291. 
 GERMAN, 155. 
 GLYNDON, HOWARD, 163. 
 GRIMES, CHARITY", 117, 164, 182. 
 
 HALPIN, CHARLES G., 190, 213. 
 
 HAYNE, PAUL H., 310. 
 
 HAYS, WILL S., 144. 
 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, 1, 19. 
 
 HOWE, JULIA WAKD, 68. 
 
 JONATHAN , 72. 
 
 J. R. M., 188. 
 
 KEMBLE, FANNY, 263. 
 
 LANDER, BRIG.-GENERAL, 64, 118. 
 LARCOM, LUCY, 25. 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY W., 83. 
 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, 20, 49. 
 LOWELL, ROBERT, 9, 112. 
 
 NICHOL, JOHN, 268. 
 
 O BRIEN, FITZJAMES, 14. 
 OLE SECESH, 294. 
 
 PIERPONT, REV. JOHN, 71. 
 
 RANDOLPH, A. D. F., 187. 
 
 RANDALL, JAMES R., 318. 
 
 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN, 210, 251. 
 
 REALF, RICHARD, 283. 
 
 REQUIER, 302. 
 
 SHAMROCK, 323. 
 
 SHANLY, CHARLES DAWSON, 46. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 329 
 
 SIGMA, 62. 
 
 SOLDIER, 261. 
 
 STEDMAN, EDMUND C., 134, 142, 185, 267. 
 
 STODDART, RICHARD HENRY, 275. 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD, 249. 
 TICKNOR, FRANK, 312. 
 
 WALLACE, WILLIAM Ross, 13. 
 
 WEBB, C. IT., 23. 
 
 WHITNEY, MRS.. 192. 
 
 WHITTIER, JOHN GKEENLEAF, 53, 60, 130, 146, 171. 
 
 WINTER, WILLIAM, 253. 
 
 WOODMAN, HORATIO, 5. 
 
 W. F. W., 136. 
 A. M. W., 259. 
 R. G. W., 57, 75. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ah me ! I ve had enough of thee 138 
 
 All blessings walk with onward feet 128 
 
 All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley 
 
 swept 228 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac the} r say 119 
 
 An end at last ! The echoes of the war 268 
 
 As Moses stood upon the flaming hill 214 
 
 As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp 79 
 
 At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay 83 
 
 At Nashville s fall " 193 
 
 Awake and to horse, my brothers 315 
 
 Ay, deem us proud ! for we are more 04 
 
 Back from the trebly crimson field 134 
 
 Beneath the vast and vaulted dome 274 
 
 Behold her now with restless flashing eyes 282 
 
 Blood, blood ! the lines of every printed sheet 209 
 
 By the blue Patapsco s billowy dash 318 
 
 Come, stack arms, men. Pile on the rails 321 
 
 Cotton and corn were mighty kings 2G5 
 
 Dearest love, do you remember 211 
 
 De Lord he make us free indeed 265 
 
 Down in a small Palmetto State the curious ones may find ... 17 
 Do you know of the dreary land 98 
 
 Eighteen hundred and sixty-two 136 
 
 Farewell ! we must part; we have turned from the land 289 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 331 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Far away in the piny woods 188 
 
 Fibre by fibre, shred by shred 180 
 
 " Forgive them, for they know not what they do ! " 267 
 
 For sixty days and upwards 306 
 
 Fling wide the dauntless banner 302 
 
 God bless United States, each one 72 
 
 God of the Free ! upon Thy breath 2 
 
 God of the Free ! upon Thy breath 13 
 
 God s blessing be upon 4 
 
 God save me, great John Bull ! 57 
 
 Ha ! Bully for me again, when my turn for picket is over .... 46 
 
 Here they come t is the Twelfth, you know 121 
 
 He journeyed all creation through 30 
 
 Ho ! sons of the Puritan ! sons of the Roundhead 27 
 
 I am a gay Konservativ 164 
 
 I come from old Manassas, with a pocket full of fun 297 
 
 guess I mean to tax myself 257 
 
 hearkened to the thund ring noise 91 
 
 know how, through the golden hours 192 
 
 "m shtanding in the mud, Biddy 93 
 
 11 tell you what I heard that day 33 
 
 Individual several, indisintegrative whole ! 75 
 
 In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi s waves 108 
 
 It don t seem hardly right, John 49 
 
 It was a sturdy engineer 174 
 
 John Brown s body lies a-mouldering in the grave 66 
 
 John Bull vos a-valkin his parlor von day 55 
 
 John Bull, esquire, my jo John 52 
 
 Lay down the axe, fling by the spade 11 
 
 Like a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer-sun 158 
 
 Look how the hoofs and wheels to-day 132 
 
 Lord Lovell he sat in St. Charles Hotel 115 
 
 Lord, the people of the land 161 
 
 Midst tangled roots that lined the wild ravine 176 
 
332 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mine eves have seen the glory of the coining of the Lord G8 
 
 Mouth not to me your Union rant 125 
 
 My song is of a fast young man whose name was Billy Wires. 215 
 
 No glittering chaplet brought from other lands 273 
 
 Not as when some great captain falls 275 
 
 Not ever in all human time 283 
 
 Not now for the songs of a nation s wrongs 323 
 
 Not unto us who did but seek 255 
 
 Now bring me out my buckskin suit ! 312 
 
 Now the twilight shadows flit 97 
 
 Och ! t is nate to be captain or colonel 166 
 
 Och ! we re the boys 14 
 
 Of General Lee, the Rebel Chief, you all perhaps do know. . . . 160 
 
 Oh ! craven, craven ! while my brothers fall 210 
 
 Oh pale, pale face ! Oh helpless hands ! 183 
 
 Oh ! up in the morning, up in the morning 112 
 
 O Keeper of the Sacred Key 204 
 
 Old Shoddy sits in his easy-chair 179 
 
 O Lord of Hosts ! Almighty King 19 
 
 Old John Brown lies a-mouldering in the grave 96 
 
 Mammy, have you heard the news 308 
 
 O my darling ! my darling ! never to feel 163 
 
 Once on New England s bloody heights 118 
 
 On that mighty day of battle, mid the booming and the rattle 262 
 
 O, slow to smite and swift to spare 268 
 
 Our good steeds snuff the evening air 185 
 
 Our past is bright and grand 69 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 220 
 
 Peace in the clover-scented air 225 
 
 Pile on the rails ! Come, comrades all 218 
 
 Rally round the flag, boys 20 
 
 Resolved This nation s goin tu reuin 182 
 
 Roll not a drum, sound not a clarion note 263 
 
 Satan was chained a thousand years 62 
 
 Say, darkies, hab you seen de massa 254 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 333 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Seward, qui est re rum cantor 65 
 
 She has gone she has left us in passion and pride 1 
 
 Sons of New England in the fray 142 
 
 " Stand to your guns, men ! " Morris cried 84 
 
 Still first, as long and long ago 
 
 Straight to his heart the bullet crushed 7 
 
 Take that banner down, t is weary 325 
 
 The apples are ripe in the orchard 253 
 
 The army is gathering from near and from far 90 
 
 The august name Auguste 258 
 
 The black clouds were angrily chasing each other 144 
 
 The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads 198 
 
 The despot s heel is on thy shore 292 
 
 The flags of war like storm-birds fly 130 
 
 The harp of the minstrel with melody rings 71 
 
 The king will take the queen 207 
 
 The light of the stars shook through the trees 58 
 
 The maid who binds her warrior s sash 210 
 
 The poplar drops beside the way 167 
 
 The ripe red berries of the wintergreen 155 
 
 The spring time came, but not with mirth 23 
 
 The story runs that to a certain town 259 
 
 The tent lights glimmer on the land 146 
 
 The tide comes up. and the tide goes down 186 
 
 The word of the Lord by night 139 
 
 Their lips are still as the lips of the dead 261 
 
 There was glorious news, for our armies were victorious 157 
 
 They slept on the fields which their valor had won 310 
 
 Three days through sapphire seas we sailed 2- >2 
 
 Three years ago to-day 213 
 
 Under the apple-tree blossoms in May 169 
 
 Up from the ground at break of day 217 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn 171 
 
 Up from the South at break of day 251 
 
 We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand 
 
 more 127 
 
 We have heard the rebel yell . . .190 
 
334 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Well, be it so ! The not uncommon fate 187 
 
 " Well, Uncle Sam, 1 says Jefferson D., 76 
 
 We re free from Yankee despots 301 
 
 We wait beneath the furnace blast 60 
 
 We were sitting round the table 320 
 
 What are you waiting for, George, I pray ? 81 
 
 What, hoist the white flag when our triumph is nigh? 249 
 
 What is the threat ? " Leave her out in the cold ! " 25 
 
 What, was it a dream ? am I all alone 1 49 
 
 When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth s 
 
 aching breast 20 
 
 When Johnny comes marching home again 208 
 
 When Old Virginia took the field 304 
 
 When Robin, Swallow, Thrush, and Wren 153 
 
 AVhilst Butler plays his silly pranks 319 
 
 Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna 114 
 
 Whoop ! the Doodles have broken loose 291 
 
 Why flashed that flag on Monday morn 5 
 
 With a beard that was filthy and red 294 
 
 With measured tread along his lonely beat 177 
 
 Within a green and shadowy wood 222 
 
 Without a hillock stretched the plain 151 
 
 Yankee Doodle had a mind 299 
 
 Yankee Doodle went to war 43 
 
 Yes, call them Rebels ! t is the name 290 
 
 You flung your taunt across the wave 53 
 
 You, forsooth, and valor brothers ! 194 
 
 You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln s bier 270 
 
 You can never win them back 314 
 
 You offer us ten thousand fur the hed ov Butler, do ye 117 
 
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