Is heard the funereal tread,
And darkly above it, the war-cloud lowers,
And a requiem swells thro' its orange bowers,
For the brave and noble dead;
Then trail'd be the banners in dust,
And muffled the martial drum,
His sword in its scabbard shall rust;
With their coming no more will he come--
The earth has received to her bosom its trust--
Ashes to ashes--and dust unto dust.
In the sunniest realm of that beautiful land,
Where spring-time her festival's keeping,
Where the blossoms of summer in splendor expand,
By the camp-fire light there's a sorrow bow'd band--
Their leader forever is sleeping:
Then plumed be their banners in black,
And softly the bugle be blown.
No more shall he be welcomed back
By hearts that were twined to his own,
'Till the voice from the King on his throne
To the earth goeth forth, to give up his trust--
Ashes to ashes, and dust unto dust.
A sun has been lost from that bright constellation,
Whose splendor illumines the sky;
It sank as we gazed in lov'd admiration;
Its leaves were the glory and pride of the nation,
'Twas Liberty's symbol on high,
And darkness now hangs on the face of the day;
The illustrious hero's at rest;
But the fruit of his genius is left us to say
How sublime was the Chief that is taken away;
How much of all hearts he possessed.
On New Mexico's mountains, his banners waved
In the face of the haughtiest foe--
All dangers he scorned, and all odds had he brav'd,
And victory seem'd on his banners engrav'd
When his genius directed the blow:
_Val Verde!_ a name that in song and story
Shall brighten our history's pages,
'Till crumbled in dust, is the record of glory,
'Till valor's forgotten, and nation's grow hoary,
Undimmed by the shadows of ages.
Massachusetts' black banner wav'd on Galveston's Strand,
The roll of her drums echoed nightly,
(Sad sound to the freemen who dwelt on the land),
It was heard by his ear, it was caught by his band,
A stain on our 'scutcheon unsightly:
Night closed and morn came, what a change had been wrought!
What proud banner floateth there now!
Ah! the victory's won--Green the battle has fought!
And the cross of the South, morning's golden beam caught;
Fresh laurels encircle his brow.
At Bisland he stood, like a rock in the ocean
That stems the strong waves on the shore,
Calm and unmoved, in the midst of commotion,
Our army he saved by his dauntless devotion--
What chieftain has ever done more?
Brashear, and Fordoche, Pleasant Hill and Mansfield,
All breathe of his glory and fame--
There his genius burst forth like the lightning conceal'd,
And destiny seem'd to his glance reveal'd--
Fate crowning in triumph his name.
O we weep for the veteran hearts that are gone--
Scurry, Randall, Riley, Buchel,
Shepherd, Chalmers, Ragsdale, Raines, McNeal and Mouton,
Their glorious names and deeds shall live on--
Peace to the heroes that fell.
And O, for the soldiers that bled with them there,
Their country's strong bulwark and trust,
United to do, and the courage to dare.
In life they had borne all privation and care,
In dust, undivided's their dust.
And Liberty's tree, from the blood of the brave,
In strength and in grandeur shall rise;
Its branches extend to each ocean's blue wave,
And sacred its fruit o'er each patriot's grave:
How dearly that fruit shall we prize!
Is the hero, O say, in that mystical world,
Surrounded on Time's silent shore
By the veteran dead, with their banners now furl'd--
War's trumpet unblown, and his lances unhurl'd--
Are they still with the chief they adore?
Tom Green is no more! lov'd and honor'd he lies,
Near his home by the murmuring river--
In the soil he sav'd, 'neath his own Southern skies,
Where praises from lips yet unborn shall arise,
And bless him forever and ever.
There let him sleep on, undisturb'd in repose,
And cease for the hero to sigh--
Life's morning was honor--in greatness it rose,
'Twas a sunset of splendor, that life at its close,
He died as a soldier should die.
O'er his hallow'd remains let no monument shine,
To tell of the chieftain beneath it,
His requiem hymn'd by the sorrow-toned pine,
And wildly around it the jessamine twine,
And flowers, bright flowers enwreathe it;
Then silently night-skies their soft dews will shed
On the spring-flowers that garland his grave--
One generous sigh for the bosom that bled,
One generous tear for the fate of the dead,
The noble, the true and the brave.
His laurels were pure, and his honor unstained,
He lov'd not war's crimson-dyed pall,
His nature was peace while the olive remained--
Refus'd then the long-baited lion unchain'd--
Tom Green was then greater than all.
Affection and love was the pulse of his breast,
Ever quick at humanity's call--
The widow and orphan his charities bless'd,
The friend of the homeless, the poor and distress'd,
Tom Green was the idol of all.
GALVESTON, TEXAS, May 28, 1864.
HOOD'S OLD BRIGADE.
"_On the March._"
By MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE.
'Twas midnight when we built our fires--
We march'd at half-past three!
We know not when our march shall end,
Nor care--we follow Lee!
The starlight gleams on many a crest,
And many a well-tried blade--
This handful marching on the left--
_This_ line is _our_ Brigade!
Our line is short because its veins
So lavishly have bled;
The missing! Search the countless plains
Whose battles it has led;
There are those Georgians on our right,
Their ranks are thinning, too--
How in one company, they say,
They now can count but two!
There's not much talking down the lines,
Nor shouting down the gloam;
For when the night is 'round us, then
We're thinking most of home!
I saw yon soldier startle, when
We passed an open glade,
Where the low starlight, leaf and bough
A fairy picture made;
Nor has he uttered word since then--
_My_ heart can whisper why--
'Twas like the spot in Texas where
He bade his love good-by!
And when, beyond us, carelessly,
Some soldier sang adieu!
My comrade here across his eyes
His coarse sleeve roughly drew;
So, scarcely sound, save trampling feet,
Is echoed through the gloom--
Because when stars are brightest, then
We're thinking most of home!
Hush! what an echo startles up
Around this rocky hill!
Was't shell, half-buried, struck my foot?
Or, stay--'tis a human skull!
This ridge I surely seem to know
By light of yon rising moon;
Ha! we battled here three mortal hours
One Sunday afternoon.
Last spring! See where our Captain stands,
His head drooped on his breast--
At his feet that heap of bones and earth--
You know _now_ why his rest
Is broke off, and why his sword was
So bitter in the fray!
'Tis the grave of his only brother, who
Was killed that awful day!
Hush! for in front I heard a shot,
And then a well-known cry--
"It is the foe!" See where the flames
Mount upward to the sky!
It is the foe! Halt! Rest we here!
We wait the coming sun,
And ere these stars may shine again
A field is _lost or won_!
Is _won_! It is the "Old Brigade,"
This line of stalwart men!
The "long roll!" how it thrills my heart
To hear that sound again!
God shield us, boys! here breaks the day,
The stars begin to fade!
"Now steady here! fall in! fall in!
Forward! the 'Old Brigade!'"
[Illustration: Georgia Button.]
THE BATTLE SONG OF THE SOUTH.
Words by P. E. COLLINS.
Music by WM. HERZ.
Land of our birth, thee, thee I sing,
Proud heritage is thine,
Wide to the breeze thy banner fling,
Thy freedom ne'er resign.
Land of the South, the foe defies
Thy valor! lo, he comes,
To prove thy strength, awake, arise!
To arms! protect thy homes.
Bright Southern land, the time has come,
Thy bright historic day,
Sons of the South, the time has come,
Drive back the tyrants' sway!
Strike, Southrons, strike! the foe shall flee,
Nor e'er again invade;
The sons of free men shall be free,
They cannot slaves be made.
Land of the South, by right maintained,
The day of trial past,
The prize of victory will be gained;
Thou'lt triumph at the last,
And future bards your deeds shall tell
Of valor and renown;
What tyranny and hate befell,
By Southern might cast down.
MY HEART'S IN MISSISSIPPI.
My heart's in Mississippi,
'Tis de place whar I was born;
'Tis dar I planted sugar cane,
'Tis dar I hoed de corn,
Dey have taken me to Texas,
A thousand miles below;
Yet my heart's in Mississippi
Wherever I go.
CHORUS.--Yet my heart's in Mississippi,
'Tis de place whar I was born;
'Tis dar I planted sugar cane,
'Tis dar I hoed de corn.
Mobile may boast of beauties,
Dat lemonade de street;
But dey neber hab a sixpence,
To ax you to a treat;
De Mississippi yellow gals,
Dey always treat dar beaux,
Den my heart's in Mississippi
Wherever I go.
CHORUS.
Way down in Mississippi,
De fields am always green;
And orange trees in blossom,
De whole year may be seen,
Dar darkies live like princes,
And dar do heel and toe;
Den my heart's in Mississippi,
Wherever I go.
CHORUS.
Den fill to Mississippi,
And let de toast go 'round,
Rosin up de fiddle-sticks,
And let de banjo sound;
O fotch along de whiskey,
And let de fluid flow:
For my heart's in Mississippi, boys,
Wherever I go.
CHORUS.
THE FUNERAL OF ALBERT SYDNEY JOHNSTON.
He fell and they cried, bring us home our dead!
We'll bury him here where the prairies spread,
And the gulf waves beat on our Southern shores;
He will hear them not when he comes once more--
Our Albert Sydney Johnston!
When he went, how the flushed hope beat high
On the brows of The Rangers standing nigh!
And the champing steeds of the Texas plain--
For his voice was that to their bridle rein
That the air's to the Persian monsoon.
But they bore him now to the crash of wheels;
No sound of their sorrow the hero feels,
Tho' many are come that are sad and fair,
With flowers and stars for his bloody bier,
And weeping they lay them down.
And the Crescent shone with a wreathing grace
Around that Star on the covered face;
No sound but of sobs and a parting look,
And the forest sighed and the aspen shook
As the train went rumbling on.
And down to the feet of the moaning sea,
Where the waves made the only melody,
No band or bell was played or tolled--
But the Hero cared not--hate fell cold
On the heart of him who slept.
Where the church was closed by the mandate given,
And he lay on the wharf under night and heaven,
Fair friend and slave with uncovered head,
Gazed alike on the face of the sleeping dead,
And alike in silence wept.
So the vigil held, 'till the chastened cloud,
For the shame of men, hid its face and bowed;
And thousands came when the moon was high,
And they bore their burden sadly by,
To its rest on the prairie plain.
As the prairie flowers that now grow o'er him,
Where the white-maned steeds that walked before him
Proud and stepped and slow--and the mourners said,
Let a stately place for his couch be made--
Houston must have its fane.
There they lay him out in a proud old hall,
With the floor's edge kissing the sacred pall;
And thousands came to the hallowed room,
'Till the day went down to the night of gloom,
For his land did honor him.
And when to the bannered march's swell,
They bore him out with a lingering knell,
Sad tears flowed out from a thousand eyes,
And a thousand voices were choked with sighs,
And the sun in the West was dim.
THE COTTON-BURNER'S SONG.[9]
Lo! when Mississippi rolls
Oceanward its stream,
Upward mounting, folds on folds
Flaming fire-tongues gleam;
'Tis the planter's grand oblation
On the altar of the nation;
'Tis a willing sacrifice--
Let the golden incense rise--
Pile the cotton to the skies!
CHORUS.--Lo! the sacrificial flame
Gilds the starry dome of night!
Nations! read the mute acclaim--
'Tis for liberty we fight!
Homes! Religion! Right!
Never such a golden light
Lit the vaulted sky;
Never sacrifice as bright
Rose to God on high;
Thousands oxen, what were they
To the offering we pay?
And the brilliant holocaust--
When the revolution's past--
In the nation's songs will last!
CHORUS.
Though the night be dark above,
Broken though the shield--
Those who love us, those we love,
Bid us never yield;
Never! though our bravest bleed,
And the vultures on them feed;
Never! though the serpent's race--
Hissing hate and vile disgrace--
By the million should menace!
CHORUS.
Pile the cotton to the skies;
Lo! the Northmen gaze;
England! see our sacrifice--
See the cotton blaze!
God of nations! now to Thee,
Southrons bend th' imploring knee;
'Tis our country's hour of need--
Hear the mothers intercede--
Hear the little children plead!
CHORUS.
[Illustration: Massa.]
THE CONTRABAND.
A song of Mississippi negroes in the Vicksburg Campaign.
Darkies has you seed my massa
Wid de mustache on his face?
He came along dis morning
As dough he'd leave de place.
He saw de smoke way up de river,
Where de Lincum gunboats lay:
He took his hat and he left mighty sudden,
I speck he's runned away.
CHORUS.--Massa run, aha!
Darkey stay, aho!
It must be now dat de kingdom's comin',
In the year of Jubilo.
He's six feet one way, four feet t'other,
And weighs three hundred pounds;
His coat's so big he can't pay de tailor--
Den it don't go half around.
[Illustration: "Massa run, aha."]
He drills so much dey call him cap'n;
And he am so very tan,
Speck he'll try to fool dem Yankees
And say he's contraban'.
CHORUS.
Dis darkey gets so very lonesome,
In de cabin on de lawn;
He moves his things to massa's parlor,
To keep 'em, while he's gone.
There's wine and cider in de cellar,
And de darkies dey'll have some;
I speck it will be confiscated,
When de Lincum soldiers come.
CHORUS.
De overseer will give us trouble,
And run us round a spell;
We'll lock him up in smoke-house cellar,
Wid de key thrown in de well.
De whip is lost, and de handcuffs broken,
And massa'll lose his pay;
He's big enough and old enough,
Dan to gone and runned away.
CHORUS.
SONG OF HOOKER'S PICKET.
_Southern Illustrated News_, Feb. 21st, 1863.
I'm 'nation tired of being hired
To fight for a shillin' a day;
Richmond to gain I'll hev to strain,
And travel some other way.
Darn Ole Abe and Ole Jeff Dave!
Darn the day I 'listed!
When I came down to this 'ere town,
Jerushy! how I missed it.
All day I've stud in rebel mud
A watchin' North Calinians.
I might a bin safe up to Lynn,
A eatin' clams and inions.
All night I sit in straw that's wet,
Ketchen fleas and other critters;
The boys down East are at a feast
With gals, doughnuts and fritters.
I hain't no pay for many a day;--
Nigh unto a year I guess,
Since a new Greenback hev crosst my track--
That's so with all my mess.
To pull my trigger for a big buck nigger
That lives on hog and hominy,
While on hard tack my jaws I crack,
Ain't war "accordin' to Jomini."
It's monsus fine for the Bobolition line,
With mouths full o' pumpkin pie,
To preach in meetin' agin' retreatin'--
Why don't they come theirselves and try?
They'd find the Confed's hev mighty hard heads,
And are pow'ful smart at shootin';
Their love for the old flag would very soon drag--
Lord! how you'd see them scootin'.
That fool Burnside deserves a cowhide,
Coz he's got neither pluck nor sense;
He shook like souse at the Phillip's house,
While we was murder'd at Marye's fence.
But it is all one to me who our Gen'ral may be,
If I've got to die for the nigger,
While Greeley steps on feathers, and Beecher's patent leathers,
Sets Plymouth Church in a snigger.
War is mighty fine to them that's drinking wine
At the big hotels in York;
But as for _lousy_ me, that's lost his liberty,
_Peace_ is the right sort o' talk.
I calk'late to stay, until next May,
A shiv'rin' in all this slush;
But when I git paid, I'm a leetle kinder 'fraid
I'll back out hum with a rush.
I'll pitch this gun into old Bull Run,
Like I did when I follered McDowell;
Secesh may go his ways, and I'll spend my days
With my gal, my gin and my trowel.
Oh! I'm sick as a dog, or a mangy hog,
Of this 'tarnal nasty fightin',
That's all gone wrong, and lasts too long
For a man that's thinkin' o' kitin'.
I'll tell you, Mississip, you're an ugly looking rip,
And if you'll keep your side o' the water,
You may save your powder, and I'll take to chowder,
And come no more where I hadn't oughter.
NO SURRENDER.
Ever constant, ever true,
Let the word be, no surrender,
Boldly dare and greatly do!
They shall bring us safely through,
No surrender, no surrender!
And though fortune's smiles be few,
Hope is always springing new,
Still inspiring me and you
With a magic, no surrender.
Nail the colors to the mast
Shouting gladly, no surrender;
Troubles near, are all but past,
Serve them as you did the last,
No surrender, no surrender!
Though the skies be overcast,
And upon the sleety blast
Disappointment gathers fast,
Beat them off with no surrender.
Constant and courageous still,
Mind the word is, no surrender!
Battle tho' it be up hill,
Stagger not at seeming ill,
No surrender, no surrender!
Hope, and thus your hope fulfill,
There's a way where there's a will,
And the way all cares to kill,
Is to give them no surrender.
A SOUTHERN WOMAN'S SONG.
Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Little needle, swiftly fly,
Brightly glittering as you go;
Every time that you pass by
Warms my heart with pity's glow.
Dreams of comfort that will cheer,
Through winter's cold, the volunteer,
Dreams of courage you will bring,
Smile on me like flowers in Spring.
Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Swiftly, little needle, fly,
Through this flannel, soft and warm;
Though with cold the soldiers sigh,
This will sure keep out the storm.
Set the buttons close and tight
Out to shut the winter's damp;
There'll be none to fix them right
In the soldier's tented camp.
Stitch, stitch, stitch;
Ah! needle, do not linger;
Close the thread, make firm the knot;
There'll be no dainty finger
To arrange a seam forgot.
Though small and tiny you may be,
Do all that you are able;
A _mouse_ a lion once set free,--
As says the pretty fable.
Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Swiftly, little needle, glide,
Thine's a pleasant labor;
To clothe the soldier be thy pride,
While he wields the sabre.
Ours are tireless hearts and hands;
To Southern wives and mothers,
All who join our warlike bands
Are our friends and brothers.
Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Little needle, swiftly fly,
From the morning until eve,
As the moments pass thee by,
These substantial comforts weave.
Busy thoughts are at our hearts--
Thoughts of hopeful cheer,
As we toil till day departs
For the noble volunteer.
Quick, quick, quick,
Swifter, little needle, go;
From our homes most pleasant fires
Let a loving greeting flow
To our brothers and our sires;
We have tears for those who fall,--
Smiles for those who laugh at fear,--
Hope and sympathy for all,--
Every noble volunteer.
GENERAL LEE AT THE BATTLE OF THE WILDERNESS.
By TENELLA.
There he stood, the grand old hero, great Virginia's god-like son,
Second unto none in glory--equal of her Washington;
Gazing on his line of battle, as it wavered to and fro
'Neath the front and flank advances of the almost conquering foe;
Calm as was that clear May morning, ere the furious death-roar broke
From the iron-throated war lions crouching 'neath the cloudy smoke;
Cool, as tho' the battle raging was but mimicry of fight,
Each brigade an ivory castle, and each regiment a knight;
Chafing in reserve beside him, two brigades of Texans lay,
All impatient for their portion in the fortune of the day.
Shot and shell are 'mong them falling, yet unmov'd they silent stand,
Longing, eager for the battle, but awaiting his command:
Suddenly he rode before them, as the forward line gave way,
Rais'd his hat with courtly gesture, "Follow me and save the day!"
But, as tho' by terror stricken, still and silent stood that troop,
Who were wont to rush to battle with a fierce avenging whoop.
It was but a single moment, then a murmur thro' them ran,
Heard above the cannon's roaring, as it passed from man to man,
"You go back and we'll go forward!" now the waiting leader hears,
Mixed with deep impatient sobbing, as of strong men moved to tears,
Once again he gives the order, "I'll lead you on the foe!"
Then, thro' all the line of battle rang a loud determined "No!"
Quick as thought a gallant Major, with a firm and vice-like grasp,
Seized the General's bridle, shouting, "Forward, boys! I'll hold him
fast!"
Then again the hat was lifted, "Sir, I am the older man:
Loose my bridle, I will lead them!" in a measured tone and calm.
Trembling with suppressed emotion, with intense excitement hot,
In a quivering voice, the Texan, "No, by God, sir, you shall not!"
By them swept the charging squadron, with a loud exultant cheer,
"We'll retake the salient, General, if you'll watch us from the rear!"
And they kept their word right nobly, sweeping every foe away,
With that grand grey head uncovered, watching how they saved the day--
But the god-like calm was shaken, which no battle shock could move,
By this true, spontaneous token of his soldiers' child-like love!
MY NOBLE WARRIOR, COME!
By MRS. COL. C. G. F----Y.
_Air--"The Rock Beside the Sea."_
O, tell me not that earth is fair, that spring is in its bloom,
While young hearts, hourly, everywhere meet such untimely doom;
That sweet on wind, of morn or eve, the violet's breath may be,
Let me but know thy banner waves, and leads to victory!
Let me but know, etc.
The thundering battle's distant roar, the host's victorious cry,
Unto my trembling heart is more than all earth's melody;
Come back, my noble warrior, come! there's but one prayer for me,
'Till I can greet thy banner home, proud banner of the free!
Till I can greet, etc.
SONG OF THE PRIVATEER
By ALEX. A. CUMMINS.
Fearlessly the seas we roam,
Tossed by each briny wave;
Its boundless surface is our home,
Its bosom deep our graves.
No foreign mandate fills with awe
Our gallant hearted band;
We know no home, we know no law,
But that of Dixie's land.
The bright star is our compass true,
Our chart the ocean wide;
Our only hope the noble few
That's standing side by side;
We do not fear the stormy gale
That sweeps old ocean's strand;
We scorn our enemy's clumsy sail,
And all for Dixie's land.
We love to hoist to the topmost peak,
_Our Southern Stars and Stripes_;
And woe to him who dares to seek
To trample on their rights!
It is the aegis of the free,
And by it we will stand,
And watch it waving o'er the sea,
And over Dixie's land.
We love to roam the deep, deep sea,
And hear the cannon's boom,
And give the war-cry, wild and free,
Amid the battle's gloom,
We do not fight alone for gain,
So far from native strand;
But our country's freedom and its fame,
And the fair of Dixie's land.
HOOD'S TEXAS BRIGADE.
Down by the valley, 'mid thunder and lightning,
Down by the valley, 'mid shadows of night,
Down by the deep crimson'd valley of Richmond,
Twenty-five hundred mov'd on to the fight;
Onward, still onward, to the portals of glory,
To the sepulchral chambers, yet never dismayed;
Down by the deep crimson'd valley of Richmond,
March'd the bold warriors of Hood's Texas Brigade!
See ye the fires and flashes still leaping?
See ye the tempest and jettings of storm?
See ye the banners of proud Texan heroes,
In front of her column, move steadily on?
Hear ye the music that gladdens each comrade,
Riding on wings through torrents of sounds?
Hear ye the booming adown the red valley?
Riley unbuckles his swarthy old hounds![10]
Valiant Fifth Texas! I saw your brave column
Rush through the channels of living and dead;
Sturdy Fourth Texas! Why weep, your old warhorse?
He died as he wish'd, in the gear, at your head:
West Point! ye will tell, on the pages of glory,
How the blood of the South ebb'd away near your shade,
And how sons of Texas fought in the red valley,
And fell in the columns of Hood's Texas Brigade.
Fathers and mothers, ye weep for your jewels;
Sisters, ye weep for your brothers in vain;
Maidens, ye weep for your sunny-eyed lovers--
Weep, for you'll never behold them again!
But know ye that vict'ry, the shrine of the noble,
Encircles the house of death newly made!
And know ye that Freedom, the shrine of the mighty,
Shines forth on the banners of Hood's Texas Brigade!
Daughters of Southland, come bring ye bright flowers,
Weave ye a chaplet for the brow of the brave;
Bring ye the emblems of freedom and victory;
Bring ye the emblems of death and the grave;
Bring ye some motto befitting a hero;
Bring ye exotics that never will fade;
Come to the deep crimson'd valley of Richmond,
And crown our young Chief of the Texas Brigade!
SWEETHEARTS AND THE WAR.
Oh, dear! its shameful, I declare,
To make the men all go
And leave so many sweethearts here
Without a single beau.
We like to see them brave, 'tis true,
And would not urge them stay;
But what are we, poor girls, to do
When they are all away?