Turn the key on your jewels to-day,
And the wreath of your tendril-like tresses,
Braid back in a serious way:
No more delicate gloves, no more laces;
No more trifling in boudoir or bower;
But come with your souls in your faces,
To meet the stern wants of the hour.
Look around! By the torch-light unsteady,
The dead and the dying seem one;
What? trembling and paling already,
Before your mission's begun?
These wounds are more precious than ghastly;
Time presses her lips to each scar,
While she chants of that glory which vastly
Transcends all the horrors of war.
[Illustration:
"... How mellow
The light showers down on that brow."]
Pause here by this bedside. How mellow
The light showers down on that brow;
Such a brave, brawny visage! Poor fellow!
Some homestead is missing him now;
Some wife shaded her eyes in the clearing;
Some mother sits moaning, distressed;
While the lov'd one lies faint but unfearing,
With the enemy's ball in his breast.
Here's another; a lad--a mere stripling--
Picked up on the fields almost dead,
With the blood through the sunny hair rippling,
From a horrible gash in the head!
They say he was first in the action,
Gay-hearted, quick-handed and witty;
He fought till he dropped with exhaustion,
In front of our fair Southern city.
Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city,
With a spirit transcending his years;
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,
And wet his pale lips with your tears:
Touch him gently; most sacred that duty
Of dressing that poor shatter'd hand;
God spare him to rise in his beauty,
And battle once more for his land!
Who groan'd? What a passionate murmur:
"In Thy mercy, oh God! let me die!
Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,"
That musket ball's entered his thigh:
Turn the light on those poor furrow'd features,
Gray-haired and unknown, bless thee, brother!
Oh Heaven! that one of Thy creatures
Should e'er work such woe on another.
Wipe the sweat from his brow with your 'kerchief
Let the tatter'd old collar go wide!
See! he stretches out blindly to see if
The surgeon still stands by his side:
"My son's over yonder--he's wounded--
O this ball has entered my thigh!"
And again he burst out all a tremble,
"In Thy mercy, O God, let me die!"
Pass on: It is useless to linger
While other are claiming your care;
There is need for your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympathy there:
There are sick ones athirst for caressing;
There are dying ones raving of home
There are wounds to be bound with a blessing
And shrouds to make ready for some.
They have gathered about you the harvest
Of death in its ghastliest view;
The nearest as well as the farthest
Is here with the traitor and true;
And crown'd with your beautiful patience,
Made sunny with love at the heart;
You must balsam the wounds of a nation,
Nor falter nor shrink from your part.
Up and down through the wards where the fever
Stalks noisome and gaunt and impure,
You must go with your steadfast endeavor
To comfort, to counsel, to cure!
I grant you the task is superhuman,
But strength will be given to you
To do for those lov'd ones, what woman
Alone in her pity can do.
And the lips of the mothers will bless you,
As angels sweet visaged and pale;
And the little ones run to caress you,
And the wives and the sisters cry Hail!
But e'en if you drop down unheeded,
What matter? God's ways are the best!
You have pour'd out your life where 'twas needed,
And He will take care of the rest.
TO THE DAVIS GUARD.
By LIEUT. W. P. CUNNINGHAM.
Soldiers! raise your banner proudly,
Let it pierce our Texan sky--
Hurrah! it was shouted loudly--
"We will do it or we'll die!"
Thus spoke the heroic Dowling!
To his Irish gallant band:
"Let us send the foes a howling,
From our lovely Texas land!"
Nobly answer'd those brave men all,
To his soul-stirring appeal;
"Aye, we'll drive them away or fall;
We'll fight them with lead and steel."
The Irishmen desert never
The people that treat them well;
Their friends they love forever;
Their foes may "go to ----!"
"Steady, steady, keep cool, my boys,
Now they are near--ready--fire!"
Thus their noble chieftain cries,
And they fire and never tire.
Hear the heavy, thundering sound,
The men of war they cry;
The dull earth itself resounds
As the foemen fight and die.
But hurrah! the white flag's flying--
See, they spare the fallen foe!
They attend the wounded--dying--
The brave will have it so.
O, Davis Guards! ye men of war,
You've made a glorious name!
Thus always guard our Texas Star,
And preserve, for aye, your fame.
And when around the social glass
In years to come, you meet,
O ne'er forget the Sabine Pass!
But its mem'ries fondly greet.
WAR SONG.
By J. H. WOODCOCK.
_Tune_--"_Bonnie Blue Flag._"
Huzza! huzza! let's raise the battle cry,
And whip the Yankees from our land,
Or with them fall and die;
Rush on our Southern columns,
And make the brigands feel
That all the booty they will get,
Will be our Southern steel.
CHORUS.--Huzza! huzza! let's raise our banner high,
And nobly drive the Yankees out,
Or with them fall and die.
We are fighting for our mothers, our sisters and our wives;
For these, and our country's rights,
We'll sacrifice our lives.
Then trusting still to Heaven,
We'll charge th' invading host,
Till liberty and independence
Shall be the Nation's boast.
CHORUS.
Then on with our columns--slay the vandal foe--
Beat them from our sunny soil,
And lay their colors low.
To the great God of Nations
Our sacred cause confide,
For we are fighting for our liberty
And He is on our side.
CHORUS.
THE SOUTH FOR ME.
The South for me! The sunny clime,
Where earth is clothed in beauty's hue,
And Nature vies in scenes sublime,
With all the old world ever knew;
I love thy soil where'er I roam,
Sweet land! and when afar from thee,
My fond heart throbs with thoughts of home,
And echoes back "The South for me."
CHORUS.--The South for me, the South for me,
The golden clime, the heart's desires,
The only land where men are free,
And worthy of their free-born sires.
The South for me! the patriot's heart
Beats ever to that slogan cry;
And heroes, armed and ready, start
For their loved land to do or die;
But leave the Southron's valor free,
Let Southern heroes meet the foe,
And when rings out "the South for me,"
Their strong right arms will deal the blow.
CHORUS.
The South for me! its bright-eyed maids,
Its clime, its stars, its silvery skies,
Its streamlets, with their lovely naiads,
Its vales, where varying beauties rise,
Its cotton fields, where dusky slaves,
Are happy in protection kind,
The stranger's home, though Yankee knaves
May never there a welcome find.
CHORUS.
CAROLINA.
By MRS. C. A. B.
Music by A. E. B.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass., owners of the copyright.]
'Mid her ruins proudly stands,
Our Carolina!
Fetters are upon her hands,
Dear Carolina!
Yet she feels no sense of shame,
For upon the scroll of Fame,
She hath writ a deathless name,
Brave Carolina!
She was first our wrongs to feel,
Our Carolina!
First to draw the glittering steel,
Dear Carolina!
Ready first to strike the blow,
At th' oppressor and the foe,
And to lay their standard low,
Brave Carolina!
Nobly now she bears her wrongs,
Our Carolina!
In her might she still hath songs,
Dear Carolina!
In the dust her sons lie low,
Yet though stricken by the foe,
Pride is mingled with her woe--
Brave Carolina!
On her brow there is no stain,
Our Carolina!
She hath poured out blood like rain,
Dear Carolina!
Vain her sufferings and her pains,
On her limbs are clanking chains,
But her glory yet remains,
Brave Carolina!
Bitterly we mourn her fate,
Our Carolina!
Cherished old Palmetto State;
Dear Carolina!
Yet while man's brave soul is free,
Honored proudly she shall be,
Mother of true chivalry!
Brave Carolina!
VICKSBURG SONG.[3]
By CAPT. J. W. A. WRIGHT.
_Air--"A Life on the Ocean Wave."_
A life on the Vicksburg bluff,
A home in the trenches deep,
Where we dodge "Yank" shells enough--
And our old "pea-bread" won't keep.
On "Old Logan's" beef I pine,
For there's fat on his bones no more;
Oh! give me some pork in brine,
And "truck" from a sutler's store.
CHORUS.--A life on the Vicksburg bluff,
A home in the trenches deep,
Where we dodge "Yank" shells enough--
And our old "pea-bread" won't keep,
Pea-bread, pea-bread, pea-bread;
Our old pea-bread won't keep.
[Illustration: "So we'll bury 'Old Logan' to-night."]
Old Grant is starving us out,
Our grub is fast wasting away,
Pemb don't know what he's about,
And he hasn't for many a day.
So we'll bury "Old Logan" to-night,
From tough beef we'll be set free;
We'll put him far out of sight--
No more of his meat for me.
CHORUS.
Texas "steers" are no longer in view,
Mule steaks are now "done up brown,"
While "pea-bread," mule roast, and mule stew,
Are our fare in old Vicksburg town.
And the song of our hearts shall be,
While the "Yanks" and their gunboats rave,
A life in "bomb-proofs" for me,
And a tear o'er "Old Logan's" grave.
CHORUS.
[Illustration]
DO THEY MISS ME IN THE TRENCHES?
A VICKSBURG SONG.
_Air--"Do They Miss Me At Home?"_
Do they miss me in the trenches, do they miss me,
When the shells fly so thickly around?
Do they know that I've run down the hillside
To hunt for my hole in the ground?
The shell exploded so near me,
It seemed best for me to run;
And altho' some laugh'd as I crawfished,
I could not discover the fun.
I often get up in the trenches,
When some Yank is near out of sight,
And fire a round or two at him,
To make the boys think I will fight;
But when the Feds commence shelling,
I run to my hole down the hill--
I'll swear my legs never would stay there,
Altho' all may stay there that will.
I'll save myself thro' the dread struggle,
And when the great battle is o'er,
I'll claim my full rations of laurels,
As always I've done heretofore.
I'll swear that I fought them as bravely
As the best of my comrades who fell--
And swear to all others around me,
That I never had fears of a shell.
BOYS! KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY.
Can'st tell who lose the battle, oft in the council-field?
Not they who struggle bravely, not they who never yield.
CHORUS.--Not they who are determined to conquer or to die,
And hearken to this caution: Boys, keep your powder dry!
The foe awaits you yonder! he may await you here,
Have brave hearts, stand with courage; be strangers all to fear!
And when the charge is given, be ready at the cry:
Look well each to his priming--Boys, keep your powder dry!
CHORUS.
Does a lov'd one home await you, who wept to see you go,
When with a kiss imprinted, you left with sacred vow--
You'd come again when warfare and arms are all laid by,
To take her to your bosom?--Boys, keep your powder dry!
CHORUS.
Does a father home await you? a sister whom you love?
A mother who has reared you, and pray'd to Him above--
"Protect my boy, preserve him, and when the battle's done,
Send to his weeping mother, bereft, her darling son!"
CHORUS.
The name of Freedom calls you, the names of martyr'd sires,
And Liberty's imploring, from all her hallow'd fires!
Can you withstand their calling? You cannot pass them by--
You cannot! now charge fiercely!--Boys, keep your powder dry.
CHORUS.
BAYOU CITY GUARDS' SONG.
IN THE CHICKAHOMINY SWAMP.
Fighting for our rights now, feasting when they're won,
By that Cross and Stars, boys, fluttering in the sun--
The girls at home will hear, boys, of our banquet of hard corn,
And they'll think and pray for us, boys, at night and dewy morn,
Then hand around the corn, boys, and pass the full canteen;
Corn and water, and a fight, boys, are enough for us, I ween.
Sleeping in the swamps now, without shelter or a bed;
The heaven's green sky above us, green turf beneath our head;
But at home when we arrive, boys, tender arms shall us enfold;
Our pillows shall be the hearts, boys, that now our image hold.
Shells are flying over us, the bullets 'round us fly;
But we'll lie upon the grass, boys, and munch our corn away!
We're driven to their gunboats the base, invading foe;
In quick time, such as Texans can, we'll make the Federals go.
Our mothers are praying for us, our darling sisters too;
Our sweethearts--ah! God bless them! what can't we dare or do?
With our country's rights and darling ones emblazon'd on our shields,
We'll fight with God's protection, till each base invader yields.
In thinking of our cause, boys, and all we love at home,
These hard grains to heavenly manna have miraculously turn'd;
And from this battered old canteen I've drained a nectar sweet;
'Tis the heart that makes the banquet, and not what we have to eat.
Soon will we hail brave "Stonewall!" in Maryland set free!
And our "Old Line" Chief[4] with his Texas boys shall shout for his
victory.
With the Cross and Stars then wreathed in flowers, we'll turn our steps
again,
To the hearts and homes that sigh for us, on our proud prairie plain;
Then with gentle hands to tend us, and the chalice for canteen,
With our rights all won, we'll rest us, boys, in peace and joy serene.
THE COUNTERSIGN.
Alas! the rolling hours pass slow--
The night is very dark and still--
And in the marshes, far below,
Is heard the lonely whippoorwill:
I scarce can see a foot ahead--
My ears are strained to catch each sound--
I feel the leaves beneath me spread--
And the springs bubbling thro' the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rays mark my sentry's track;
In formless things I seem to trace
The foeman's form, with bended back--
I think I see him crouching low!
I stop and list--I stop and peer--
Until the neighb'ring hillocks grow
To groups of soldiers, far and near.
With ready piece I wait, and watch,
Until my eyes--familiar grown--
Detect each harmless earthern notch,
And turn "Guerrillas" into stone;
And then amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall magnolia trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think of other times than these.
"Halt! who goes there?" my challenge cry--
It rings along the watchful line--
"Relief!" I hear a voice reply--
"Advance and give the countersign!"
With bayonet at the charge, I wait--
The corporal gives the mystic word--
With "arms aport" I change my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well!
But in my tent, that night, awake,
I ask, "If in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make,
When the angelic sentries call?"
And pray that Heaven so ordain,
Where'er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain
I still may have the "Countersign!"
THE DARLINGS AT HOME.
By COL. C. G. FORSHEY.
The sentinel treads his martial round,
Afar from his humble home--
The soldier he tramps till his thoughts are found
On missions of love and tenderness bound,
Away among his darlings to roam.
What tender emotions now over him rush!
And the tears down his bearded cheeks steal,
As he sees his darlings from their sportings rush,
And bound to meet him with a joyful gush,
"Papa's come!" from their happy lips peal.
Bright Mary! as fleet as a bounding gazelle,
Is into his arms with a spring;
And Cabie, with voice clear as a bell,
"There's papa, dear papa!" his joyous notes swell
Yet choking with tears as they ring.
And next, little Nubbie comes toddling along,
Bright curls streaming out to the wind--
With hands reaching up, and infantile tongue--
He's lifted the welcoming group among--
As tears the stern sentinel blind.
And then, with the darling bright babe, mamma comes,
To welcome him home to their cot--
What sobs and caresses,
That happy group blesses;
Is the sentinel dreaming or not?
The stern sergeant of guard, calls out from his tent,
"Number Four has deserted his post!"
The sentinel nearest saw whither he went,
And found him, o'er musket, in reverie bent,
At home--with his little ones--lost!
* * * * *
The sentinel treads his lonely round--
As dawn in the East is breaking
A cannon's deep thundering shakes the ground!
Another! an army springs up at the sound--
To thousands Death's _reveille_ waking!
What a thrilling pang traverses his soul!
And a tear down his cheek is stealing,
For a thought of home, with the drum's deep roll,
Spite a soldier's manliness, over him stole,
As the trumpet of battle was pealing.
A moment he saw his darlings and wife;
To Heaven he breath'd a short prayer!
To his country then consecrated his life,
Rush'd in where the clamor of battle was rife--
When a tempest of ball filled the air.
* * * * *
A wounded soldier, who fell by the Run,
Lies panting for breath and for water--
His hand still grasping his trusty gun--
Expires 'mid the glad notes of "victory won!"
On Manassas' red field of slaughter.
* * * * *
In a far away cabin, a wailing is heard,
When the lists of the fallen have come;
A mother, long sicken'd by hope deferr'd,
A widow with orphans is made at a word,
And she weeps o'er the "darlings at home."
AT FORT PILLOW.
You shudder as you think upon th' carnage of the grim report,
The desolation when we won the inner trenches of the fort;
But there are deeds ye may not know, that scourge the pulses into strife;
Dark memories of deathless woe pointing the bayonet and knife.
The house is ashes where I dwelt, beyond the mighty inland sea,
The tombstones shattered where I knelt by that old church at Pointe
Coupee;
The Yankee fiends that came with fire, camped on the consecrated sod,
And trampled in the dust and mire the holy Eucharist of God!
The spot where darling mother sleeps, beneath the glimpse of yon sad
moon,
Is crushed with splintered marble heaps, to stall the horse of some
dragoon;
God! when I ponder that black day it makes my frantic spirit wince;
I marched--with Longstreet--far away, but have beheld the ravage since.
The tears are hot upon my face, when thinking what black fate befell
The only sister of our race--a thing too horrible to tell!
They say that ere her senses fled, she rescue of her brothers cried;
Then freely bowed her stricken head, too poor to live thus--so she died.
Two of those brothers heard no plea; with their proud hearts forever
still--
John shrouded by the Tennessee, and Arthur there at Malvern Hill;
But I have heard it everywhere, vibrating like a passing knell;
'Tis as perpetual as the air, and solemn as a funeral bell.
By scorched lagoon and murky swamp, my wrath was never in the lurch;
I've killed the picket in his camp, and many a pilot on his perch;
With steady rifle, sharpen'd brand, a week ago upon my steed,
With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds writhe and
bleed.
You should have seen our leader go upon the battle's burning marge,
Sweeping like falcon on the foe, heading the Gray line's iron charge!
All outcasts from our ruined marts, we heard th' undying serpent hiss,
And in the desert of our hearts the fatal spell of Nemesis.
[Illustration: "My right arm bared for fiercer play."]
The Southern yell rang loud and high the moment that we thundered in,
Smiting the demons hip and thigh, cleaving them to the very chin;
My right arm bared for fiercer play, the left one held the rein in slack;
In all the fury of the fray I sought the white man, not the black.
The dabbled clots of brain and gore across the swirling sabres ran;
To me each brutal visage bore the front of one accurs'd man!
Throbbing along the frenzied vein, my blood seem'd kindled into song--
The death-dirge of the sacred slain, the slogan of immortal wrong.
It glared athwart the dripping glaves, it blazed in each avenging eye--
The thought of desecrated graves and some lone sister's desperate cry.
[Illustration: Virginia Sword-Belt Clasp.]
DUTY AND DEFIANCE.
By COLONEL HAMILTON WASHINGTON.
Raise the thrilling cry, to arms!
Texas needs us all, Texans!
Home and love and pleasure's charms,
Yield to duty's call, Texans!
Now the stream of battle lowers--
Who before the tempest cowers?
Who could hide in woman's bowers?
Show him to the field, Texans!
Twice our sires for freedom fought--
Twice with blood the treasure bought--
By the lessons they have taught
We'll die, but never yield, Texans!
Long we've heard the storm afar;
Now 'tis coming near, Texans!
Onward rolls the din of war,
Let us meet it here, Texans!
All we have and love's in danger,
Forward, then, each Texan Ranger!
Let us meet the daring stranger,
That brings us war at home, Texans!--
Never shall our happy land
Be ravaged by a robber band--
We will meet them hand to hand,
And fight each step they come, Texans.
THE CONFEDERATE OATH.[5]
_Air--"My Maryland."_
By the Cross upon our banner--glory of our Southern sky--
Swear we now, a band of brothers, free to live, or free to die!
Northrons! by the rights denied, listen to our solemn vow--
Here we swear, as freemen, never to your galling yoke to bow!
By our brave ones lost in battle, best and noblest of our land,
Fighting with your Northern hirelings, face to face and hand to hand;
By a sacrifice so priceless, by the spirits of the slain--
Swear we now, our Southern heroes shall not thus have died in vain.
Wide and deep the breach between us--rent by hatred's poisoned darts,
And ye cannot now cement it with the blood of Southern hearts!
Streams of gore that gulf shall widen, running strong and deep and red,
Severing you from us forever, while there is a drop to shed.
Think you we will brook the insults of your fierce and ruffian chief,
Heaped upon our dark-eyed daughters stricken down and pale with grief!
Think you while astounded nations curse your malice, we will bear
Foulest wrong? with God to call on--arms to do--and hearts to dare!
When we prayed in peace to leave you, answering came a battle cry;
Then we swore that oath which freemen never swear who fear to die!
Northrons, come! and you shall find us heart to heart and hand to hand,
Shouting to the God of Battles, Freedom and our native land!
BAYOU CITY GUARDS' DIXIE.
By the Company's Own Poet.
From Houston city and Brazos bottom,
From selling goods and making cotton,
Away, away, away, away!
We go to meet our country's foes,
To win or die in freedom's cause;
Away, away, away, away!
CHORUS.--We're going to old Virginia, hooray, hooray!
To join the fight for Southern rights--
We'll live or die for Davis, hooray, hooray!
We'll live or die for Davis.
You've heard of Abe, the gay deceiver,
Who sent to Sumter to relieve her;
Away, away, away, away!
But Beauregard said "save your bacon!
Sumter's ours and must be taken!"
Away, away, away, away!
With a floating battery and a few hot shot,
He sent them back to General Scott--
Old Abe he swore and cuss'd like fun
When he found the rebels wouldn't run.
Scott with his army started South!
You've heard how our armies cleaned them out--
On Manassas' plains for miles around,
Their dead and wounded fill'd the ground.
Senator Wilson, the ugly sinner,
Went over to Centreville to eat a big dinner--
The M. C.'s and ministers of State,
Left their champagne behind and dinners on the plate.
They had to leave on an empty stomach,
And "git up and git" on t'other side of the Potomac--
But some of the invaders are with us still--
We'll send them back again if the Lord will.
Our country calls for volunteers,
And Texas boys reply with cheers--
The Henderson Guards and Leon Hunters,
Friends in peace--in war like panthers.
The Tom Green Rifles and Lone Star Guards,
In a cause that is just, nothing retards;
The Echo Company, and the brave Five Shooters,
Will deal out death to all freebooters.
The Northern vandals will learn to their sorrow,
Of the Porter Guards, and Rifles of Navarro--
The Mustang Greys, O, they never fight for bounty,
Nor do the other Greys--those from Navarro county.
The Liberty Invincibles and Hardeman Texans
Can wallop ten to one, whether Yanks or Mexicans;
From the Waverly Confederates and the Dixie Blues,
And the Bayou City Guards you may expect good news.
DE COTTON DOWN IN DIXIE.
These capital verses were found [written?] on board of the English barque
_Premier_, in January, 1863, bound from Liverpool to Havana, sixty miles
west of Madeira, by _Lone Star_, of Galveston, Texas.
I'm gwine back to de land of cotton,
Wid de "English Flag" in an "English bottom,"
Far away, far away, far away;
Kase dere I'm safe from Uncle Sam,
And he can't make me contraban',
In de land, in de land, in de land,
Away down South in Dixie.
CHORUS.--O, in Dixie land I'll take my stand,
And live and die in Dixie land;
Hoe away, hoe away, hoe away,
De cotton down in Dixie.
Nor confiscate me for his use,
To black and clean his sojers' shoes,
Far away, etc.,
To "dig his trenches" and save his health,
For a picayune a day and find myself,
Far away, far away, far away,
From de cotton land of Dixie.
CHORUS.