"Tell Aunt Rhody,
Tell Aunt Rhody,
Tell Aunt Rhody
The old goose is dead.
Salt won't save him,
The old goose is dead."
Great stress having been laid by the opponents of Governor Andrew upon
the fact that John Brown was dead, the authors of the song spoken of
took good care to assert that, while
"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
His soul is marching on."
[Illustration: _HARPER'S FERRY_]
This was the answer of those that sympathized with John Brown, a song
which they flung at those who seemed to take delight in the fact that he
was dead.
Thane Miller, of Cincinnati, heard the melody, which is perhaps the most
popular martial melody in America, in a colored Presbyterian church in
Charleston, South Carolina, about 1859, and soon after introduced it at
a convention of the Young Men's Christian Association in Albany, New
York, with the words,--
"Say, brothers will you meet us,
Say, brothers will you meet us,
Say, brothers will you meet us,
On Canaan's happy shore?
By the grace of God we'll meet you,
By the grace of God we'll meet you,
By the grace of God we'll meet you,
Where parting is no more."
Professor James E. Greenleaf, organist of the Harvard Church in
Charlestown, found the music in the archives of that church, and fitted
it to the first stanza of the present song. It has since been claimed
that the Millerites, in 1843, used the same tune to a hymn, one verse of
which is as follows,--
"We'll see the angels coming
Through the old churchyards,
Shouting through the air
Glory, glory hallelujah!"
Whatever may have been the origin of the melody, when fitted by
Greenleaf to the first stanza of _John Brown's Body_, it became so great
a favorite with the Glee Club of the Boston Light Infantry that they
asked Mr. Hall to write the additional stanzas.
As has been the case with popular tunes in every age, verses have been
often added to it to meet the occasion. While the words are not of a
classical order, the air is of that popular kind which strikes the heart
of the average man. During the Civil War it served to cheer and inspire
the Union soldiers in their camps and on the march, and was sung at home
at every popular gathering in town or country. It seemed to be just what
the soldiers needed at the time, and served its purpose far better than
would choicer words or more artistic music. No song during all the war
fired the popular heart as did _John Brown's Body_. It crossed the sea
and became the popular street song in London. The _Pall Mall Gazette_ of
October 14, 1865, said: "The street boys of London have decided in favor
of _John Brown's Body_, against _My Maryland_, and _The Bonnie Blue
Flag_. The somewhat lugubrious refrain has excited their admiration to a
wonderful degree, and threatens to extinguish that hard-worked,
exquisite effort of modern minstrelsy, _Slap Bang_."
After the original song had gained world-wide notoriety, the following
words were written by Henry Howard Brownell, who died at Hartford,
Connecticut, October 31, 1872, aged fifty-two. Mr. Brownell entitled his
poem, "Words that can be sung to the _Hallelujah Chorus_," and says: "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.
"He shall file in front where the lines of battle form--
He shall face the front where the squares of battle form--
Time with the column and charge with the storm,
Where men are marching on.
"Ah, foul tyrants! do you hear him where he comes?
Ah, black traitors! do you know him as he comes?
In thunder of the cannon and roll of the drums,
As we go marching on.
"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."
But Mr. Brownell has shared the same fate with Miss Proctor, and his
song and hers are only curiosities to-day, which show how arbitrary the
popular will is when once the heart or the imagination is really
captured. Mr. Richard Henry Dana, Jr., writing to Mr. James T. Fields,
the famous Boston litterateur, said: "It would have been past belief had
we been told that the almost undistinguishable name of John Brown should
be whispered among four millions of slaves, and sung wherever the
English language is spoken, and incorporated into an anthem to whose
solemn cadences men should march to battle by the tens of thousands."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _DANIEL DECATUR EMMETT_]
_DIXIE._
I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten,
Look away! Look away! Look away!
In Dixie Land where I was born in,
Early on a frosty mornin',
Look away! Look away! Look away!
Den I wish I was in Dixie,
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land, I'll take my stand,
To lib and die in Dixie,
Away! Away!
Away down south in Dixie.
Old Missus marry "Will-de-weaber,"
Willium was a gay deceaber;
Look away! Look away! Look away!
But when he put his arm around 'er,
He smiled as fierce as a forty pounder,
Look away! Look away! Look away!
His face was as sharp as a butcher's cleaber,
But dat did not seem to greab 'er;
Look away! Look away! Look away!
Old Missus acted de foolish part,
And died for a man dat broke her heart.
Look away! Look away! Look away!
Now here's a health to de next old Missus,
And all de gals dat want to kiss us;
Look away! Look away! Look away!
But if you want to drive 'way sorrow,
Come and hear dis song tomorrow,
Look away! Look away! Look away!
Dar's buckwheat cakes an' Injen batter,
Makes you fat or a little fatter;
Look away! Look away! Look away!
Den hoe it down and scratch your grabble,
To Dixie's Land I'm bound to trabble,
Look away! Look away! Look away!
--_Dan Emmett._
[Illustration: _PICKING COTTON_]
Dan Emmett, who wrote the original _Dixie_, which has been paraphrased
and changed and adapted nearly as frequently as _Yankee Doodle_ was born
at Mount Vernon, Ohio, in 1815. He came from a family all of whose
members had a local reputation, still traditional in that part of the
country, as musicians. In his own case this talent, if given a fair
chance for development, would have amounted to genius. He began life as
a printer, but soon abandoned his trade to join the band of musicians
connected with a circus company. He was not long in discovering that he
could compose songs of the kind in use by clowns; one of the most
popular of these was _Old Dan Tucker_. Its success was so great
that Emmett followed it with many others. They were all negro melodies,
and many of them won great popularity. Finally he took to negro
impersonations, singing his own songs in the ring, while he accompanied
himself on the banjo. He made a specialty of old men, and he declares
with pride that when he had blackened his face, and donned his wig of
kinky white hair, he was "the best old negro that ever lived." He became
such a favorite with the patrons of the circus in the South and West,
that at last--partly by chance, and partly through intention--he became
a full-fledged actor. This was in 1842, at the old Chatham Theater in
New York City, when with two companions he gave a mixed performance,
made up largely of songs and dances typical of slave life and character.
The little troupe was billed as "The Virginia Minstrels," and their
popularity with the public was instantaneous.
This was the beginning of negro minstrelsy, which was destined to have
such a wide popularity in America. From New York the pioneer company
went to Boston, and later on sailed for England, leaving the
newly-discovered field to the host of imitators who were rapidly
dividing their success with them. Emmett had great success in the
British Isles, and remained abroad for several years. When he returned
to New York, he joined the Dan Bryant Minstrel Company, which then held
sway in Bryant's Theater on lower Broadway, which was at that time one
of the most popular resorts in New York City. Emmett was engaged to
write songs and walk-arounds and take part in the nightly performances.
It was while he was with Bryant that _Dixie_ was composed.
Emmett is still living and resides at Mount Vernon, Ohio, where he hopes
to end his days. The old man is a picturesque figure on the streets. In
his prime he was one of the mid-century dandies of New York City, but
now, with calm indifference to the conventional, he usually carries a
long staff and wears his coat fastened in at the waist by a bit of rope.
His home is a little cottage on the edge of town, where he lives
entirely alone. On almost any warm afternoon he can be found seated
before his door reading, but he is ready enough to talk with the chance
visitor whose curiosity to meet the composer of one of the National
Songs of America, has brought him thither. A newspaper man who recently
went to talk with the old minstrel found him seated in the shade by his
house with a book open before him. As he went up the path, he said, for
he had some doubt in his own mind,--
"Are you Dan Emmett, who wrote _Dixie_?"
"Well, I have heard of the fellow; sit down," and Emmett motioned to the
steps.
"Won't you tell me how the song was written?"
"Like most everything else I ever did," said Emmett, "it was written
because it had to be done. One Saturday night, in 1859, as I was leaving
Bryant's Theater, where I was playing, Bryant called after me, 'I want a
walk-'round for Monday, Dan.'
"The next day it rained and I stayed indoors. At first when I went at
the song I couldn't get anything. But a line,
'I wish I was in Dixie,'
kept repeating itself in my mind, and I finally took it for my start.
The rest wasn't long in coming. And that's the story of how _Dixie_ was
written.
"It made a hit at once, and before the end of the week everybody in New
York was whistling it. Then the South took it up and claimed it for its
own. I sold the copyright for five hundred dollars, which was all I ever
made from it. I'll show you my first copy."
He went into the house and returned in a moment with a yellow,
worn-looking manuscript in his hand.
"That's _Dixie_," he said, holding it up for inspection. "I am going to
give it to some historical society in the South, one of these days, for
though I was born here in Ohio, I count myself a Southerner, as my
father was a Virginian."
_Dixie Land_ was without question the most famous of all the Southern
war songs. But it was the tune, as in the case of _Yankee Doodle_, and
not the words that gave it its great power to fire the heart. It is
claimed that Emmett appropriated the tune from an old negro air, which
is quite probable.
The only poem set to the famous air of _Dixie_ which has any literary
merit is one that was written by General Albert Pike. Some one has said
that it is worthy of notice that the finest Puritan lyric we have was
written by an Englishwoman, Mrs. Felicia Hemans, and the most popular
Southern war song was written by a Yankee, a native of Massachusetts.
Albert Pike was born in Boston, December 29, 1809, but most of his
boyhood was spent in Newburyport. He became a teacher, but in 1831
visited what was then the wild region of the Southwest with a party of
trappers. He afterward edited a paper at Little Rock, and studied law.
He served in the Mexican War with distinction, and on the breaking out
of the Rebellion enlisted, on the Confederate side, a force of Cherokee
Indians, whom he led at the battle of Pea Ridge. After the war he edited
the Memphis _Appeal_ till 1868, when he settled in Washington as a
lawyer. He has written a number of fine poems, and retired from the
profession of law in 1880, to devote himself to literature and
Freemasonry. Mr. Pike's version of Dixie is as follows,--
[Illustration: _ALBERT PIKE_]
"Southrons, hear your Country call you!
Up, lest worse than death befall you!
To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!
Lo! all the beacon fires are lighted--
Let all hearts be now united!
To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Dixie's land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
"Hear the Northern thunders mutter!
Northern flags in South winds flutter!
To arms!
Send them back your fierce defiance!
Stamp upon the accursed alliance!
To arms!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
"Fear no danger! Shun no labor!
Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre!
To arms!
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder!
To arms!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
"How the South's great heart rejoices,
At your cannons' ringing voices!
To arms!
For faith betrayed, and pledges broken,
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken,
To arms!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
"Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!
To arms!
Cut the unequal bonds asunder!
Let them hence each other plunder!
To arms!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
"Swear upon your country's altar
Never to submit or falter!
To arms!
Till the spoilers are defeated,
Till the Lord's work is completed.
To arms!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
"Halt not till our Federation
Secures from earth's powers its station!
To arms!
Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
Hear your children tell the story!
To arms!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
"If the loved ones weep in sadness,
Victory soon will bring them gladness.
To arms!
Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow;
Smiles chase tears away tomorrow.
To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Dixie's land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!"
Since the war _Dixie_ has been as favorite a tune with bands of music
throughout the North as has _Yankee Doodle_. Abraham Lincoln set the
example for this. A war correspondent recalls an incident which occurred
only a night or two before Mr. Lincoln was assassinated. The President
had returned from Richmond, and a crowd called with a band to tender
congratulations and a serenade. The great man who was so soon to be the
victim of the assassin's bullet appeared in response to calls and
thanked his audience for the compliment. Several members of his Cabinet
surrounded him, and it was a very interesting and dramatic occasion.
Just as he was closing his brief remarks, Mr. Lincoln said: "I see you
have a band with you. I should like to hear it play _Dixie_. I have
consulted the Attorney-General, who is here by my side, and he is of the
opinion that Dixie belongs to us. Now play it." The band struck up the
old tune, and played it heartily. As the strains of the music rang out
upon the air, cheer after cheer went up from the throats of the hundreds
of happy men who had called to congratulate Mr. Lincoln upon the return
of peace. It was that great soul's olive branch which he held out to the
South.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _ABRAHAM LINCOLN_]
_THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM._
Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom,
We'll rally from the hillside, we'll gather from the plain,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!
The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!
Down with the traitor, up with the star,
While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!
We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom;
And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!
We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom;
And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!
So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom;
And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!
--_George F. Root._
This inspiring rallying song was written by George F. Root, to whom we
are indebted for so many songs of camp and field. Mr. Root also composed
the music. Perhaps no hymn of battle in America has been sung under so
many interesting circumstances as this. It was written in 1861, on
President Lincoln's second call for troops, and was first sung at a
popular meeting in Chicago and next at a great mass meeting in Union
Square, New York, where those famous singers, the Hutchinson Family,
sounded it forth like a trump of jubilee to the ears of thousands of
loyal listeners.
It was always a great favorite with the soldiers. Dr. Jesse Bowman
Young, of St. Louis, the author of _What a Boy Saw in the Army_, relates
a very affecting and pathetic incident which occurred while a portion of
the Army of the Potomac was marching across Maryland. A young officer
and his company were in the lead, and just behind them came one of the
regimental bands, while ahead of them rode General Humphreys and his
staff. As the division marched along, they passed by a country
schoolhouse in a little grove at a crossroad. The teacher, hearing the
music of the band at a distance, and expecting the arrival of the
troops, had dismissed the school to give them a sight of the soldiers.
Before the troops came in sight the boys and girls had gathered bunches
of wild flowers, platted garlands of leaves, and secured several tiny
flags, and as General Humphreys rode up in front of the schoolhouse, a
little girl came forth and presented him with a bouquet, which he
acknowledged with gracious courtesy. Then the group of assembled pupils
began to sing, as they waved their flags and garlands in the air. That
song made a tumult in every soldier's heart. Many strong men wept as
they looked on the scene and thought of their own loved ones far away in
their Northern homes, and were inspired with newborn courage and
patriotism by the sight and the song. This is the chorus which rang
forth that day from the country schoolhouse, and which soon afterward
echoed through the battle in many a soldier's ear and heart, miles away,
on the bloody field of Gettysburg:--
"The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!
Down with the traitor, up with the star,
While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!"
The first company that passed responded to their captain with a will as
he shouted, "Boys, give them three cheers and a tiger!" and the example
was imitated by the regiments that followed; so that amid the singing of
the children and the cheers of the soldiers, and the beating of the
drums, the occasion was made memorable to all concerned.
Richard Wentworth Browne relates that a day or two after Lee's surrender
in April, 1865, he visited Richmond, in company with some other Union
officers. After a day of sight-seeing, the party adjourned to Mr.
Browne's rooms for dinner. After dinner one of the officers who played
well opened the piano, saying, "Boys, we have our old quartette here,
let's have a song." As the house opposite was occupied by paroled
Confederate officers, no patriotic songs were sung. Soon the lady of the
house handed Mr. Browne this note: "Compliments of General ---- and
staff. Will the gentlemen kindly allow us to come over and hear them
sing?" Consent was readily given and they came. As the General entered
the room, the Union officers recognized instantly the face and figure of
an officer who had stood very high in the Confederacy. After
introductions, and the usual interchange of civilities, the quartette
sang for them glees and college songs, until at last the General said,
"Excuse me, gentlemen, you sing delightfully, but what we want to hear
is your army songs." Then they gave them the army songs with
unction: _The Battle Hymn of the Republic_; _John Brown's Body_; _We're
coming, Father Abraham_; _Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys are Marching_;
and so on through the whole catalogue to the _Star-Spangled Banner_,--to
which the Confederate feet beat time as if they had never stepped to any
but the music of the Union,--and closed their concert with Root's
inspiring _Battle Cry of Freedom_.
[Illustration: _FORT SUMTER_]
When the applause had subsided, a tall, fine-looking young fellow in a
major's uniform exclaimed, "Gentlemen, if we'd had your songs we'd have
licked you out of your boots! Who couldn't have marched or fought with
such songs? while we had nothing, absolutely nothing, except a bastard
Marseillaise, _The Bonny Blue Flag_, and _Dixie_, which were nothing but
jigs. _Maryland, my Maryland_ was a splendid song, but the tune, old
_Lauriger Horatius_, was about as inspiring as the Dead March in _Saul_,
while every one of these Yankee songs is full of marching and fighting
spirit."
Then turning to the General he said, "I shall never forget the first
time I heard that chorus, 'Rally round the Flag.' It was a nasty night
during the Seven Days' fight, and if I remember rightly, it was raining.
I was on picket, when just before 'taps' some fellow on the other side
struck up _The Battle Cry of Freedom_ and others joined in the chorus
until it seemed to me that the whole Yankee army was singing. A
comrade who was with me sang out, 'Good heavens, Cap, what are those
fellows made of, anyway? Here we've licked them six days running, and
now, on the eve of the seventh, they're singing "Rally round the Flag?"'
I am not naturally superstitious, but I tell you that song sounded to me
like the knell of doom; my heart went down into my boots; and though
I've tried to do my duty, it has been an uphill fight with me ever since
that night."
Perhaps the most romantic and inspiring occasion on which _The Battle
Cry of Freedom_ was ever sung was at the raising of the flag over Fort
Sumter on the 14th of April, 1865, that being the fourth anniversary of
the day when Major Anderson had evacuated the fort after his brave
defense. A large number of citizens went from New York in excursion
steamers, to assist in the celebration. Colonel Stewart L. Woodford,
recently the United States minister to Spain, was master of ceremonies.
The oration was delivered by the eloquent Henry Ward Beecher, but the
supreme moment of interest came when Major-General Anderson, who had
added General to the Major in the past four years, after a touching and
tender address, received from Sergeant Hart a bag containing the
precious old flag which had waved in the breeze through those days of
fierce bombardment, the din of which had been heard around the world.
The flag had been saved for such a time as this, and now, by order of
Abraham Lincoln, it was brought back to wave again over Fort Sumter. It
was attached to the halyards, and General Anderson hoisted it to the
head of the flagstaff amid loud huzzas. One can imagine the inspiration
of the occasion, as William B. Bradbury led the singing of _The Battle
Cry of Freedom_. How the tears ran down the cheeks, and hearts
overflowed with thanksgiving as they shouted the chorus underneath the
folds of the very flag that had received the first baptism of fire at
the beginning of the Rebellion:--
"The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!
Down with the traitor, up with the star,
While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _HENRY CLAY WORK_]
_SONG OF A THOUSAND YEARS._
Lift up your eyes, desponding freemen!
Fling to the winds your needless fears!
He who unfurl'd your beauteous banner,
Says it shall wave a thousand years!
"A thousand years!" my own Columbia,
'Tis the glad day so long foretold!
'Tis the glad morn whose early twilight,
Washington saw in times of old.
What if the clouds, one little moment,
Hide the blue sky where morn appears--
When the bright sun, that tints them crimson,
Rises to shine a thousand years?
Tell the great world these blessed tidings!
Yes, and be sure the bondman hears;
Tell the oppressed of every nation,
Jubilee lasts a thousand years!
Envious foes, beyond the ocean!
Little we heed your threat'ning sneers;
Little will they--our children's children--
When you are gone a thousand years.
Rebels at home! go hide your faces--
Weep for your crimes with bitter tears;
You could not bind the blessed daylight,
Though you should strive a thousand years.
Back to your dens, ye secret traitors!
Down to your own degraded spheres!
Ere the first blaze of dazzling sunshine,
Shortens your lives a thousand years.
Haste thee along, thou glorious noonday!
Oh, for the eyes of ancient seers!
Oh, for the faith of him who reckons
Each of his days a thousand years!
--_Henry Clay Work._
Henry Clay Work was born in Middletown, Connecticut, October 1, 1832.
The family came originally from Scotland, and the name is thought to
have come from a castle, "Auld Wark, upon the Tweed," famed in the
border wars in the times made immortal by Sir Walter Scott. He inherited
his love of liberty and hatred of slavery from his father, who suffered
much for conscience' sake. While quite young, his family moved to
Illinois, near Quincy, and he passed his boyhood in the most abject
poverty, his father having been taken from home and imprisoned because
of his strong anti-slavery views and active work in the struggles of
those enthusiastic and devoted reformers. In 1845, Henry's father was
pardoned on condition that he would leave the State of Illinois. The
family then returned to Connecticut. After a few months' attendance at
school in Middletown, our future song writer was apprenticed to Elisha
Geer, of Hartford, to learn the printer's trade. He learned to write
over the printer's case in much the same way as did Benjamin Franklin.
He never had any music lessons except a short term of instruction in a
church singing school. The poetic temperament, and his musical gifts as
well, were his inheritance. He began writing very early, and many of his
unambitious little poems found their way into the newspapers during his
apprenticeship.
Work's first song was written in Hartford and entitled, _We're coming,
Sister Mary_. He sold this song to George Christie, of Christie's
minstrels, and it made a decided hit. In 1855 he removed to Chicago,
where he continued his trade as a printer. The following year he married
Miss Sarah Parker, of Hubbardston, Massachusetts, and settled at Hyde
Park. In 1860 he wrote _Lost on the "Lady Elgin,"_ a song commemorating
the terrible disaster to a Lake Michigan steamer, which became widely
known.
_Kingdom Coming_ was Work's first war song, and was written in 1861. Now
that it has been so successful, it seems strange that he should have had
trouble to find a publisher for it; yet such was the case. But its
success was immediate as soon as published. It is perhaps the most
popular of all the darkey songs which deal directly with the question
of the freedom of the slaves. It set the whole world laughing, but there
was about it a vein of political wisdom as well as of poetic justice
that commended it to strong men. The music is full of life and is as
popular as the words. It became the song of the newsboys of the home
towns and cities as well as of the soldiers in the camp and on the
march. It portrays the practical situation on the Southern plantation as
perhaps no other poem brought out by the war:--
"Say, darkies, hab you seen de massa,
Wid de muffstash on his face,
Go long de road some time dis mornin',
Like he gwine to leab de place?
He seen a smoke way up de ribber,
Whar de Linkum gunboats lay;
He took his hat, an' lef' bery sudden,
An' I spec he's run away!
De massa run? ha, ha!
De darkey stay? ho, ho!
It mus' be now de kingdom comin',
And de year ob jubilo!
"He's six feet one way, two foot tudder,
An' he weigh tree hundred poun',
His coat's so big he couldn't pay de tailor,
An' it won't go half way roun'.
He drill so much dey call him cap'an,
An' he get so drefful tann'd,
[Illustration: _THE WHITE HOUSE_]
I spec he try an' fool dem Yankees
For to t'ink he's contraband.
"De darkies feel so lonesome
Libing in de log house on de lawn,
Dey moved dar tings to massa's parlor,
For to keep it while he gone.
Dar's wine and cider in de kitchen,
An' de darkies dey'll hab some;
I spose dey'll all be cornfiscated,
When de Linkum sojers come.
"De oberseer he make us trubbel,
An' he dribe us round a spell;
We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar,
Wid de key trown in de well.
De whip is lost, de handcuff's broken,
But de massa'll hab his pay;
He's ole enough, big enough, ought to known better,
Den to went an' run away."
Another most popular slave song which had a tremendous sale was entitled
_Wake Nicodemus_, the first verse of which is,--
"Nicodemus, the slave, was of African birth,
And was bought for a bagful of gold;
He was reckon'd as part of the salt of the earth,
But he died years ago, very old.
'Twas his last sad request--so we laid him away
In the trunk of an old hollow tree.
'Wake me up!' was his charge, 'at the first break of day--
Wake me up for the great jubilee!'
The Good Time Coming is almost here!
It was long, long, long on the way!
Now run and tell Elijah to hurry up Pomp,
And meet us at the gumtree down in the swamp,
To wake Nicodemus to-day."
While _Marching through Georgia_ is, without doubt, Mr. Work's most
renowned war song, his _Song of a Thousand Years_ has about it a rise
and swell, and a sublimity both in expression and melody, that surpasses
anything else that he has written. The chorus is peculiarly fine both in
words and music.
Work's songs brought him a considerable fortune. After the close of the
war he made an extended tour through Europe, and while on the sea wrote
a song which became very famous, entitled _The Ship that Never
Returned_. During the later years of his life he wrote _Come Home,
Father_, and _King Bibbler's Army_--both famous temperance songs.
After his return from Europe, Work invested his fortune in a
fruit-growing enterprise in Vineland, New Jersey. He was also a somewhat
remarkable inventor, and a patented knitting machine, a walking doll,
and a rotary engine are among his numerous achievements. These years
were saddened by financial and domestic misfortunes. His wife became
insane, and died in an asylum in 1883. He survived her only a year,
dying suddenly of heart disease on June 8, 1884, at Hartford,
Connecticut. His ashes rest in Spring Grove Cemetery in that city, and
on Decoration Day the Grand Army of the Republic never fail to strew
flowers on the grave of the singer whose words and melodies led many an
army to deeds of heroism. May a grateful people keep his memory green,
and cause his grave to blossom for "A Thousand Years!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _JOHN WALLACE HUTCHINSON_]
_TENTING ON THE OLD CAMP GROUND._
We're tenting to-night on the old camp ground;
Give us a song to cheer
Our weary hearts, a song of home,
And friends we love so dear.
Many are the hearts that are weary to-night,
Wishing for the war to cease,
Many are the hearts, looking for the right,
To see the dawn of peace.
Tenting to-night, tenting to-night,
Tenting on the old camp ground.
We've been tenting to-night on the old camp ground,
Thinking of days gone by,
Of the loved ones at home, that gave us the hand,
And the tear that said "Good-bye!"
We are tired of war on the old camp ground,
Many are dead and gone,
Of the brave and true who've left their homes
Others been wounded long.
We've been fighting to-day on the old camp ground,
Many are lying near;
Some are dead, and some are dying,
Many are in tears.
--_Walter Kittredge._
Walter Kittredge was born in Merrimac, New Hampshire, October 8, 1832.
His father was a farmer, and though New Hampshire farms are proverbial
for their stony hillsides, they were fertile for the production of large
families in those days, and Walter was the tenth of eleven children. His
education was received at the village school. Like most other writers of
war songs, Kittredge had an ear for music from the very first. All of
his knowledge of music, however, he picked up for himself, as he never
had an opportunity of attending music schools, or being under a teacher.
He writes: "My father bought one of the first seraphines [a species of
melodeon] made in Concord, New Hampshire, and well do I remember when
the man came to put it up. To hear him play a simple melody was a rich
treat, and this event was an important epoch in my child life."
[Illustration: _MOCCASIN BEND
(From Lookout Mountain)_]
_Tenting on the Old Camp Ground_, more than any other of our American
war songs, had in it the heart experience of the man who wrote it. In
1863 Kittredge was drafted into the army. That night he went to bed the
prey of many conflicting emotions. He was loyal to the heart's core, but
was full of grief at the thought of leaving his home, and his rather
poetic and timid nature revolted against war. In the middle of the night
he awoke from a troubled sleep with the burden of dread still on his
mind. In the solemnity and stillness of the night the sad and
pathetic fancies of the battle field filled his thought. He reflected on
how many of the dear boys had already gone over to the unseen shore,
killed in battle, or dead from disease in the camps. He thought of the
unknown graves, of the sorrowful homes; of the weary waiting for the end
of the cruel strife, of the trials and hardships of the tented field
where the brave soldier boys waited for the coming battle, which might
be their last. Suddenly these reflections began to take form in his
mind. He arose and began to write. The first verse reveals his purpose
not only to give cheer to others, but to comfort his own heart:--
"We're tenting to-night on the old camp ground;
Give us a song to cheer
Our weary hearts, a song of home!
And friends we loved so dear."
That verse was like a prayer to God for comfort and the prayer was heard
and answered.
Being a musician, a tune for the song easily came to Kittredge's mind,
and after copying both words and music he went at once to Lynn,
Massachusetts, to visit his friend, Asa Hutchinson, one of the famous
Hutchinson family, who then lived at Bird's Nest Cottage, at High Rock.
After they had looked it over together, they called in John Hutchinson,
who still lives, the "last of the Hutchinsons," to sing the solo. Asa
Hutchinson sang the bass, and the children joined in the chorus.
Kittredge at once made a contract with Asa Hutchinson to properly
arrange and publish the song for one-half the profits.
The Hutchinson family were just then giving a series of torchlight
concerts on the crest of old High Rock, with the tickets at the
exceedingly popular price of five cents. The people from all the towns
about turned out _en masse_. They had half a dozen or more ticket
sellers and takers stationed at the various approaches to the rock.
During the day they would wind balls of old cloth and soak them in oil.
These, placed in pans on the top of posts at intervals, would burn quite
steadily for an hour or more, and boys stood ready to replace them when
they burned out. The audience gathered in thousands every night during
this remarkable series of concerts, and on the very night of the day
Kittredge had brought his new hymn, _Tenting on the Old Camp Ground_ was
sung for the first time from the crest of High Rock.
Like so many other afterward famous songs, it was hard to find a
publisher at first, but the immense popularity which sprang up from the
singing of the hymn about Boston soon led a Boston publisher to hire
some one to write another song with a similar title, and a few weeks
later the veteran music publisher, Ditson, brought out the original. Its
sale reached many hundreds of thousands of copies during the war, and
since then it has retained its popularity perhaps as completely as any
of our war lyrics. It has been specially popular at reunions of
soldiers, and every Grand Army assembly calls for it. Many a time I have
seen the old veteran wiping away the tears as he listened to the singing
of the second verse:--
"We've been tenting to-night on the old camp ground,
Thinking of days gone by,
Of the loved ones at home, that gave us the hand,
And the tear that said 'Good-bye.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _JULIA WARD HOWE_]
_THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC._
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 fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watchfires 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 marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 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.
--_Julia Ward Howe._
This is, perhaps, the most elevated and lofty strain of American
patriotism. Julia Ward Howe is a worthy author of such a hymn. She was
the daughter of Samuel Ward, a solid New York banker of his time. Her
mother, Julia Rush Ward, was herself a poet of good ability. Mrs. Howe
received a very fine education, and, in addition to ordinary college
culture, speaks fluently Italian, French, and Greek. In her girlhood she
was a devout student of Kant, Hegel, Spinoza, Comte, and Fichte. Her
literary work had given her considerable prominence before her marriage
to Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, of Boston, just then famous for his
self-sacrificing services in association with Lord Byron in behalf of
the liberty of the Greeks, and henceforth to become forever immortal for
his life-long devotion to the cause of the blind. America never produced
a more daring and benevolent man than Doctor Howe.
The _Battle Hymn of the Republic_ had its birth-throes amid the storms
of war. In December, 1861, Mrs. Howe, in company with her husband,
Governor and Mrs. John A. Andrew, Rev. Dr. James Freeman Clarke, and
other friends, made a journey to Washington. They arrived in the night.
As their train sped on through the darkness, they saw in vivid contrast
the camp fires of the pickets set to guard the line of the railroad. The
troops lay encamped around the Capital City, their lines extending to a
considerable distance. At the hotel where the Boston party were
entertained, officers and their orderlies were conspicuous, and army
ambulances were constantly arriving and departing. The gallop of
horsemen, the tramp of foot soldiers, the noise of drum, fife, and bugle
were heard continually. The two great powers were holding each other in
check, and the very air seemed tense with expectancy. The one absorbing
thought in Washington was the army, and the time of the visitors was
generally employed in visits to the camps and hospitals.
One day during this visit a party which included Doctor and Mrs. Howe
and Doctor Clarke attended a review of the Union troops at a distance of
several miles from the city. The maneuvers were interrupted by a sudden
attack of the enemy, and instead of the spectacle promised them, they
saw some reinforcements of cavalry gallop hastily to the aid of a small
force of Federal troops which had been surprised and surrounded. They
returned to the city as soon as possible, but their progress was much
impeded by marching troops who nearly filled the highway. As they had to
drive very slowly, in order to beguile the time they began to sing army
songs, among which the John Brown song soon came to mind. This caught
the ear of the soldiers and they joined in the inspiring chorus, and
made it ring and ring again. Mrs. Howe was greatly impressed by the long
lines of soldiers and the devotion and enthusiasm which they evinced, as
they sung while they marched, _John Brown's Body_. James Freeman Clarke,
seeing Mrs. Howe's deep emotion which was mirrored in her intense face,
said:
"You ought to write some new words to go with that tune."
"I will," she earnestly replied.
[Illustration: _FANEUIL HALL_]
She went back to Washington, went to bed, and finally fell asleep. She
awoke in the night to find her now famous hymn beginning to form itself
in her brain. As she lay still in the dark room, line after line
and verse after verse shaped themselves. When she had thought out the
last of these, she felt that she dared not go to sleep again lest they
should be effaced by a morning nap. She sprang out of bed and groped
about in the dim December twilight to find a bit of paper and the stump
of a pencil with which she had been writing the evening before. Having
found these articles, and having long been accustomed to jot down stray
thoughts with scarcely any light in a room made dark for the repose of
her infant children, she very soon completed her writing, went back to
bed, and fell fast asleep.
What sublime and splendid words she had written! There is in them the
spirit of the old prophets. Nothing could be grander than the first
line:--
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
In the second verse one sees through her eyes the vivid picture she had
witnessed in her afternoon's visit to the army:--
"I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on."
In the third and fourth verses there is a triumphant note of daring
faith and prophecy that was wonderfully contagious, and millions of men
and women took heart again as they read or sang and caught its
optimistic note:--
"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 marching on."
On returning to Boston, Mrs. Howe carried her hymn to James T. Fields,
at that time the editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_, and it was first
published in that magazine. The title, _The Battle Hymn of the
Republic_, was the work of Mr. Fields.
Strange to say, when it first appeared the song aroused no special
attention. Though it was destined to have such world-wide appreciation,
it won its first victory in Libby Prison. Nearly a year after its
publication, a copy of a newspaper containing it was smuggled into the
prison, where many hundreds of Northern officers and soldiers were
confined, among them being the brilliant Chaplain, now Bishop, Charles
C. McCabe. The Chaplain could sing anything and make music out of it,
but he seized on this splendid battle hymn with enthusiastic delight.
It makes the blood in one's veins boil again with patriotic fervor to
hear him tell how the tears rained down strong men's cheeks as they sang
in the Southern prison, far away from home and friends, those wonderful
closing lines:--
"In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 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."
It was Chaplain McCabe who had the privilege and honor of calling public
attention to the song after his release. He came to Washington and in
his lecture (that has come to be almost as famous as the battle hymn) on
"The Bright Side of Life in Libby Prison," he described the singing of
the hymn by himself and his companions in that dismal place of
confinement. People now began to ask who had written the hymn, and the
author's name was easily established by a reference to the magazine.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _GEORGE FREDERICK ROOT_]
_JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE, MOTHER._
Just before the battle, mother,
I am thinking most of you,
While upon the field we're watching,
With the enemy in view--
Comrades brave are round me lying,
Fill'd with tho't of home and God;
For well they know that on the morrow,
Some will sleep beneath the sod.
Farewell, mother, you may never
Press me to your heart again;
But oh, you'll not forget me, mother,
If I'm number'd with the slain.
Oh I long to see you, mother,
And the loving ones at home,
But I'll never leave our banner
Till in honor I can come.
Tell the traitors all around you
That their cruel words, we know,
In ev'ry battle kill our soldiers
By the help they give the foe.
Hark! I hear the bugles sounding,
'Tis the signal for the fight,
Now may God protect us, mother,
As he ever does the right.
Hear the "Battle Cry of Freedom,"
How it swells upon the air,
Oh, yes, we'll rally round the standard,
Or we'll perish nobly there.
--_George F. Root._
George F. Root was born in Sheffield, Massachusetts, in 1820. He has
perhaps written more popular war songs than any other American. His
songs have carried his name to the ends of the earth. He was a musician
from childhood. He began as a boy by getting hold of every musical
instrument he could find and attempting to master it. When about
eighteen years of age, he left his father's farm in the beautiful
Housatonic Valley, and went to Boston to obtain instruction in music,
which he had already determined to make his life-work. He was very
fortunate in finding employment with a Boston teacher named A. B.
Johnson, who also took the young countryman into his own home and
manifested the warmest interest in his superior musical gifts. It was
not long before young Root became a partner in Mr. Johnson's school. He
was ambitious and industrious, and was soon acting as leader for a
number of church choirs. There are several churches in Boston to-day
which recall as one of the legends of their history that George F. Root
used to lead their music. His reputation as a teacher spread so rapidly
that he was sought after to give special instruction in other
institutions. Later he went to New York and became the principal of the
Abbott Institute.
Mr. Root was not satisfied to make anything less than the best out of
himself, and so went to Europe in 1850 and spent a year in special work
improving his musical talent. About this time he began writing songs, in
which he had success from the start. These won him such wide recognition
that Mason and Bradbury, the great musical publishers of that day,
secured his aid in the making of church music books. He now retired from
the field of teaching and devoted himself to composing music and the
holding of great musical conventions.
On the breaking out of the war, Dr. Root was in Chicago, and from that
Western center of patriotic fire and enthusiasm he sent forth scores of
songs that thrilled the heart of the country. While the _Battle Cry of
Freedom_ was perhaps his most famous song, there are a number of others
that keep, even to this day, close company with it in popularity. The
old veterans who still linger on the scene, as well as those who were
but boys and girls in those days, well remember the martial enthusiasm
that was evoked by his prison song, _Tramp, Tramp, Tramp!_ The mingled
pathos and hopefulness of it has been rarely, if ever, surpassed:--
"In the prison cell I sit,
Thinking, mother dear, of you,
And our bright and happy home so far away,
And the tears they fill my eyes,
Spite of all that I can do,
Tho' I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,
Cheer up, comrades, they will come,
And beneath the starry flag
We will breathe the air again,
Of the freeland in our own beloved home.
"In the battle front we stood,
When their fiercest charge they made,
And they swept us off a hundred men or more;
But before we reached their lines,
They were beaten back dismayed,
And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and o'er.
"So within the prison cell,
We are waiting for the day
That shall come to open wide the iron door,
And the hollow eye grows bright,
And the poor heart almost gay,
As we think of seeing home and friends once more."
To appreciate the pathos of that song one needs to hear a company of
Grand Army Veterans tell about singing it in Andersonville or Libby
Prisons.
[Illustration: _FORTRESS MONROE_]
_Just Before the Battle, Mother_ appealed to the tender side of those
who remained at home, and made it a very popular song not only for
public gatherings, but in drawing-rooms, and camps in the twilight of
the evening. The sequel to it, _Just After the Battle_, was equally as
popular and retains its popularity though a generation has passed away
since it was written. It, too, has the vein of optimism in it which runs
through all of Doctor Root's work. Perhaps that is one of the secrets of
his great power over the human heart. While he makes us weep with the
tenderness of the sentiment, there is always a rainbow on his cloud, a
rainbow with promises of a brighter to-morrow. _Just After the Battle_
has that rainbow in it, in the hope expressed by the singer that he
shall still see his mother again in the old home:--
"Still upon the field of battle
I am lying, mother dear,
With my wounded comrades waiting
For the morning to appear.
Many sleep to waken never,
In this world of strife and death,
And many more are faintly calling,
With their feeble dying breath.
Mother dear, your boy is wounded,
And the night is drear with pain,
But still I feel that I shall see you,
And the dear old home again.
"Oh, the first great charge was fearful,
And a thousand brave men fell,
Still, amid the dreadful carnage,
I was safe from shot and shell.
So, amid the fatal shower,
I had nearly pass'd the day,
When here the dreaded Minie struck me,
And I sunk amid the fray.
"Oh, the glorious cheer of triumph,
When the foeman turn'd and fled,
Leaving us the field of battle,
Strewn with dying and with dead.
Oh, the torture and the anguish,
That I could not follow on,
But here amid my fallen comrades,
I must wait till morning's dawn."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _CHARLES CARROLL SAWYER_]
_WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER_.
Dearest love, do you remember,
When we last did meet,
How you told me that you lov'd me,
Kneeling at my feet?
Oh! how proud you stood before me,
In your suit of blue,
When you vow'd to me and country
Ever to be true.
Weeping, sad and lonely,
Hopes and fears how vain!
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.
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
Who would soothe your pain?
Ah! the many cruel fancies,
Ever in my brain.
But our country call'd you, darling,
Angels cheer your way;
While our nation's sons are fighting,
We can only pray.
Nobly strike for God and liberty,
Let all nations see
How we love the starry banner,
Emblem of the free.
--_Charles Carroll Sawyer._
Charles Carroll Sawyer was born in Mystic, Connecticut, in 1833. His
father, Captain Joshua Sawyer, was an old-fashioned Yankee sea captain.
The family moved to New York when Charles was quite young, and he
obtained his education in that city. The poetic instinct was marked in
his youth, and at the age of twelve he wrote several sonnets which
attracted a good deal of attention among his acquaintances. At the
breaking out of the war he began to write war songs, and in a few months
was recognized everywhere as one of the most successful musical
composers of the day. His most popular songs were _Who will Care for
Mother Now?_ _Mother would Comfort Me_, and the one we have
selected--_When this Cruel War is Over_. Each of these three songs named
reached a sale of over a million copies before the close of the war, and
were sung in almost every mansion and farmhouse and cabin from the
Atlantic to the Pacific throughout all the northern part of the Union,
as well as in every camp where soldiers waited for battle.
His song, _Mother would Comfort Me_, was suggested, as indeed were most
of his songs, by a war incident. A soldier in one of the New York
regiments had been wounded and was taken prisoner at Gettysburg. He was
placed in a Southern hospital, and when the doctor told him that nothing
more could be done for him, his dying words were: "Mother would comfort
me if she were here." When Sawyer learned of the incident, he wrote the
song, the first verse of which runs as follows:--
"Wounded and sorrowful, far from my home,
Sick among strangers, uncared for, unknown;
Even the birds that used sweetly to sing
Are silent, and swiftly have taken the wing.
No one but mother can cheer me to-day,
No one for me could so fervently pray;
None to console me, no kind friend is near--
Mother would comfort me if she were here."
This song captured the country at once, and spread its author's fame
everywhere.
On another occasion a telegram came to a Brooklyn wife concerning her
husband who was killed on the battlefield. The last words of the
despatch read: "He was not afraid to die." Sawyer caught up that note in
the telegram, and wrote his splendid song beginning,--
"Like a true and faithful soldier
He obeyed our country's call;
Vowing to protect its banner
Or in battle proudly fall:
Noble, cheerful, brave and fearless,
When most needed, ever nigh,
Always living as a Christian,
'He was not afraid to die.'"
Another of his greatest creations found its inspiration in a similar
way. During one of the battles, among the many noble men that fell was a
young man who had been the only support of an aged and invalid mother
for years. Overhearing the doctor tell those who were near him that he
could not live, he placed his hands across his forehead, and with a
trembling voice said, while burning tears ran down his cheeks: "Who will
care for mother, now?" Sawyer took up these words which voiced the
generous heart of the dying youth, and made them the title and theme of
one of his noblest songs. The first verse is full of pathos,--
[Illustration: _U. S. BATTLE-SHIP "MAINE"_]
"Why am I so weak and weary,
See how faint my heated breath,
All around to me seems darkness,
Tell me, comrades, is this death?
Ah! how well I know your answer;
To my fate I meekly bow,
If you'll only tell me truly
Who will care for mother now?"
At that time, when every community throughout the North as well as the
South had more than one mother whose sole dependence for the future days
of weakness and old age was the strong arm of some soldier boy at the
front, this song struck a chord that was very tender, and it was sung
and whistled and played in street and theater and drawing-room
throughout the entire country.
Sawyer's songs were unique in that they were popular in both armies.
They never contained a word of malice, and appealed to the universal
human heart. At the close of the war a newspaper published at
Milledgeville, Georgia, said of Sawyer's songs, "His sentiments are
fraught with the greatest tenderness, and never one word has he written
about the South or the war that could wound the sore chords of a
Southern heart."
The most universally famous of all Sawyer's songs was _When this Cruel
War is Over_. As the long years of carnage dragged on, the fascination
for the glamour and glory of war disappeared, and its horrid cruelty
impressed people, North and South, more and more. Loving hearts in the
army and at home caught up this song as an appropriate expression of the
hunger for peace that was in their souls. A popular Southern song, _When
upon the Field of Glory_, the words of which were written by J. H.
Hewitt and the music by H. L. Schreiner, was an answer to this song of
Sawyer's. As it is one of the best of the songs of the Confederacy, it
is worth repetition here:--
"When upon the field of glory,
'Mid the battle cry,
And the smoke of cannon curling
Round the mountain high;
Then sweet mem'ries will come o'er me,
Painting home and thee,
Nerving me to deeds of daring,
Struggling to be free.
Weep no longer, dearest,
Tears are now in vain.
When this cruel war is over
We may meet again.
"Oft I think of joys departed,
Oft I think of thee;
When night's sisters throw around me,
Their star'd canopy.
Dreams so dear come o'er my pillow,
Bringing up the past,
Oh! how sweet the soldier's visions!
Oh! how short they last!
"When I stand a lonely picket,
Gazing on the moon,
As she walks her starry pathway,
In night's silent noon;
I will think that thou art looking
On her placid face,
Then our tho'ts will meet together,
In a heav'nly place.
"When the bullet, swiftly flying
Thro' the murky air,
Hits its mark, my sorrow'd bosom,
Leaving death's pang there;
Then my tho'ts on thee will turn, love,
While I prostrate lie.
My pale lips shall breathe, 'God bless thee--
For our cause I die!'
Weep then for me, dearest,
When I'm free from pain;
When this cruel war is over,
In heav'n we'll meet again."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _WILLIAM TECUMSEH SHERMAN_]
_MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA._
Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song,
Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along,
Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong,
While we were marching through Georgia.
Hurrah! hurrah! We bring the jubilee!
Hurrah! hurrah! The flag that makes you free!
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
While we were marching through Georgia.
How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful sound!
How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!
How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground,
While we were marching through Georgia.
Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears,
When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years,
Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers,
While we were marching through Georgia.
"Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!"
So the saucy rebels said, and 'twas a handsome boast,
Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon with the host,
While we were marching through Georgia.
So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train,
Sixty miles in latitude; three hundred to the main;
Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,
While we were marching through Georgia.
--_Henry Clay Work._
Among Mr. Work's famous war songs, none have captured so wide an
audience, or held their own so well since the war, as _Marching through
Georgia_. I think it is the foraging idea, so happily expressed, that,
more than anything else except the contagious music which starts the
most rheumatic foot to keeping time, has given this song its popular
sway. There was something so reckless and romantic in Sherman's cutting
loose from his base of supplies and depending on the country through
which he marched for food for his army, that the song which expressed
this seized the imagination of the people.
General Sherman in his _Memoirs_ says: "The skill and success of the men
in collecting forage was one of the features of this march. Each brigade
commander had authority to detail a company of foragers, usually about
fifty men with one or two commissioned officers, selected for their
boldness and enterprise. This party would be despatched before daylight
with a knowledge of the intended day's march and camp, would proceed on
foot five or six miles from the route traveled by their brigade, and
then visit every plantation and farm within range. They would usually
procure a wagon, or family carriage, load it with bacon, cornmeal,
turkeys, chickens, ducks, and everything that could be used as food or
forage, and would then regain the main road, usually in advance of their
train. When this came up, they would deliver to the brigade commissary
the supplies thus gathered by the way. Often would I pass these foraging
parties at the roadside, waiting for their wagons to come up, and was
amused at their strange collections--mules, horses, even cattle, packed
with old saddles and loaded with hams, bacon, bags of cornmeal, and
poultry of every character and description. Although this foraging was
attended with great danger and hard work, there seemed to be a charm
about it that attracted the soldiers, and it was a privilege to be
detailed on such a party. Daily they returned mounted on all sorts of
beasts, which were at once taken from them and appropriated to the
general use; but the next day they would start out again on foot, only
to repeat the experience of the day before."
Bishop Ames, of the Methodist Episcopal Church, used to greatly enjoy
relating how he was invited to share the carriage of a German Baron on
the occasion of the great military review in Washington at the close of
the war. They had a favorable position for viewing the procession. Hour
after hour the soldiers marched by. There rumbled the field artillery;
there crowded by, with dripping sides and champing mouths, the cavalry,
and after them tramped the unwearying infantry. At one time there passed
a brigade clothed in brand-new uniforms, specially brought out for the
occasion. Every uniform was clean and beautiful, every bayonet and sword
polished and gleaming. The drill was perfect. The men were at the
highest point of condition. Every motion and look bespoke the
well-drilled soldier. As they marched by the Baron turned around
excitedly to Bishop Ames and said, "Pishop, those men can whip the
world."
[Illustration: _SHERMAN BURNS ATLANTA AND MARCHES TOWARD THE SEA_]
Immediately following them, purposely to bring out the strong contrast,
was a brigade of old veterans, just as they came from their long
campaign in the South. They were some of the men who had marched with
Sherman to the sea--the men who had picked up the ducks and the cornmeal
by the wayside. They were soiled and ragged. One man had one leg of his
trousers patched out by strange cloth; another had no coat; another had
a teakettle swung on his gun over his shoulder; another had part of a
ham on his bayonet. So they represented the march through Georgia.
They rolled along with an easy, swinging gait, chatting, laughing,
occasionally imitating some animal, giving a bark, or a howl, or a
screech, yet every man a soldier and keeping step to the music and in
line. As these men with their tattered uniforms and torn and stained
flags went by, the Baron sprang up, and with tears rolling down his
cheeks, threw his arms around Bishop Ames and cried: "Mein Gott! Pishop,
these men could _whip the devil_!"
General Sherman himself was never enthusiastic over the song that has
immortalized his famous march. I have been unable to find in his
_Memoirs_ a single reference to it; but he quotes there in full a fine
song by Adjutant S. H. M. Byers which he evidently would have been very
glad to have had replace the simpler lines of Mr. Work. But Work had the
key to the people's heart, and his song will live as long as the
American flag. Mr. Byers' song, however, is a splendid piece of work and
well worth repeating here. General Sherman says that on the afternoon of
February 17, 1865, on overhauling his pockets, according to custom, to
read more carefully the various notes and memoranda received during the
day, he found a paper which had been given him by a Union prisoner who
had escaped from Columbia. "It proved," writes the General, "to be the
song of _Sherman's March to the Sea_, which had been composed by
Adjutant S. H. M. Byers, of the Fifth Iowa Infantry, when a prisoner
in the asylum at Columbia, which had been beautifully written off by a
fellow-prisoner, and handed to me in person. This appeared to me so good
that I at once sent for Byers, attached him to my staff, provided him
with horse and equipment, and took him as far as Fayetteville, North
Carolina, whence he was sent to Washington as bearer of despatches."
The writing of this song was a good thing for Byers, as it secured him
the lifelong friendship of General Sherman, and through his kindly
support he was afterward made consul at Zurich, Switzerland. Adjutant
Byers said that there was among the prisoners at Columbia an excellent
glee club who used to sing it well, with an audience, often, of rebel
ladies. It is truly a fine poem:--
"Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain
That frowned on the river below,
As we stood by our guns in the morning,
And eagerly watched for the foe;
When a rider came out of the darkness
That hung over mountain and tree,
And shouted, 'Boys, up and be ready!
For Sherman will march to the sea!'
Then sang we the song of our chieftain,
That echoed over river and lea;
And the stars in our banner shone brighter
When Sherman marched down to the sea!
"Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman
Went up from each valley and glen,
And the bugles reëchoed the music
That came from the lips of the men;
For we knew that the stars in our banner
More bright in their splendor would be,
And that blessings from Northland would greet us,
When Sherman marched down to the sea!
"Then forward, boys! forward to battle!
We marched on our wearisome way,
We stormed the wild hills of Resaca--
God bless those who fell on that day!
Then Kenesaw frowned in its glory,
Frowned down on the flag of the free;
But the East and the West bore our standard,
And Sherman marched on to the sea!
"Still onward we pressed, till our banners
Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls,
And the blood of the patriot dampened
The soil where the traitor-flag falls;
But we paused not to weep for the fallen,
Who slept by each river and tree,
Yet we twined a wreath of the laurel
As Sherman marched down to the sea!
"Oh, proud was our army that morning,
That stood where the pine darkly towers,
When Sherman said, 'Boys, you are weary,
But to-day fair Savannah is ours!'
Then sang we the song of our chieftain,
That echoed over river and lea;
And the stars in our banner shone brighter
When Sherman camped down by the sea!"
[Illustration: _Plymouth Rock_]
[Illustration: _ROBERT EDWARD LEE_]
_MY MARYLAND._
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 an exiled son's appeal,
Maryland!
My mother State, to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
For life or death, for woe or weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! 'Tis 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!
Dear mother, burst the tyrant's chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain,
"_Sic semper!_" 'tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
Maryland!
Arise in majesty again,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
Maryland, my Maryland!
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 wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, 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'll come!
She'll come!
Maryland, my Maryland!
--_James Ryder Randall._
_My Maryland_, one of the most popular songs of the Confederacy, was
written by James Ryder Randall, in 1861. Randall was at that time
professor of English literature at Poydras College, upon the Fausse
Rivière, of Louisiana. He was very young, and had but recently come from
college in Maryland. He was full of poetry and romance, and when one day
in April, 1861, he read in the New Orleans _Delta_ the news of the
attack on the Massachusetts Sixth as they passed through Baltimore, it
fired his blood. "This account excited me greatly," Mr. Randall writes.
"I had long been absent from my native city, and the startling event
there inflamed my mind. That night I could not sleep, for my nerves were
all unstrung, and I could not dismiss what I had read in the paper from
my mind. About midnight I arose, lit a candle, and went to my desk. Some
powerful spirit appeared to possess me, and almost involuntarily I
proceeded to write the song of _My Maryland_. I remember that the idea
appeared to take shape first as music in the brain--some wild air that I
cannot now recall. The whole poem of nine stanzas, as originally
written, was dashed off rapidly when once begun."
[Illustration: _THE INVASION OF MARYLAND_
(_View from Maryland Heights_)]
As Doctor Matthews well says, there is often a feeling afloat in the
minds of men, undefined and vague for want of one to give it form, and
held in solution, as it were, until a chance word dropped in the ear of
a poet suddenly crystallizes this feeling into song, in which all may
see clearly and sharply reflected what in their own thought was
shapeless and hazy. It was young Randall's fortune to be the instrument
through which the South spoke, and, by a natural reaction, his burning
lines helped "fire the Southern heart."