And, while we are mounting, prays low to the Lord;
Now each cavalier who loves honor and right,
Let him follow the feather of Stuart to-night.
CHORUS--Come, tighten your girths and slacken your rein;
Come, buckle your blanket and holster again;
Try the click of your trigger and balance your blade,
For he must ride _sure_ who goes riding a raid.
Now gallop, now gallop, to swim or to ford;
Old Stonewall, still watching, prays low to the Lord.
Good-by, dear old rebel; the river's not wide,
And Maryland's lights in the windows do shine.
CHORUS.
Then gallop, then gallop, by ravine and rocks,
Who would bar up the way takes his toll in hard knocks;
For with these points of steel up the lines of old Penn,
We have made some fine strokes and will make 'em again.
CHORUS.
[Illustration: "Then gallop, by ravine and rocks."]
THE TOAST OF MORGAN'S MEN.
By CAPT. THORPE, Kentucky.
Unclaimed by the land that bore us,
Lost in the land we find
The brave have gone before us,
Cowards are left behind!
Then stand to your glasses, steady,
Here's a health to those we prize,
Here's a toast to the dead already,
And here's to the next who dies.
TRUE HEART SOUTHRONS.
_Air--"Blue Bonnets over the Border."_
For trumpet and drum, leave the soft voice of maiden;
For the tramp of armed men, leave the maze of the dance;
One kiss on the lips, with words of love laden--
One look in dimm'd eyes--then the rifle and lance.
CHORUS.--March, march, true heart Southrons,
Fall into ranks and march in good order,--
Escambia shall many a day tell of the fierce affray,
When we drove the base Northmen far over our border
Do ye weep, ye fair flowers, our hearth-stones that brighten?
For every tear shed shall fall ten foemen's lives;
Far in the cold North their hosts we will frighten,
As we strike for our "Homes, our sweethearts, and wives."
CHORUS.
THE SOLDIER'S AMEN.
As a couple of good soldiers were walking one day,
Said one to the other: "Let's kneel down and pray!
I'll pray for the war, and good of all men:
And whatever I pray for, do you say 'Amen!'"
"We'll pray for the generals and all of their crew,
Likewise for the captains and lieutenants too;
May good luck and good fortune them always attend!
And return safely home;" said the soldier, "Amen!"
"We'll pray for the privates, the noblest of all;
They do all the work and get no glory at all;
May good luck and good fortune them always attend,
And return crowned with laurels!" said the soldier, "Amen!"
"We'll pray for the pretty boys who want themselves wives,
And have not the courage to strike for themselves;
May bad luck and bad fortune them always attend!
And go down to Old Harry!" said the soldier, "Amen!"
"We'll pray for the pretty girls, who make us good wives,
And always look at a soldier with tears in their eyes;
May good luck and good fortune them always attend!
And brave gallants for sweethearts!" said the soldier, "Amen!"
"We'll pray for the conscript, with frown on his brow,
To fight for his country he won't take the vow;
May bad luck and bad fortune him always attend;
And die with dishonor!" said the soldier, "Amen!"
HERE'S YOUR MULE.
A farmer came to camp, one day, with milk and eggs to sell,
Upon a mule who oft would stray to where no one could tell,
The farmer, tired of his tramp, for hours was made a fool
By ev'ryone he met in camp, with, "Mister, here's your mule."
CHORUS.--Come on, come on, come on, old man, and don't be made a fool,
I'll tell the truth as best I can,
John Morgan's got your mule.
His eggs and chickens all were gone before the break of day,
The mule was heard of all along--that's what the soldiers say;
And still he hunted all day long--alas! the witless fool--
While ev'ry man would sing the song, "Mister, here's your mule."
CHORUS.
The soldiers now, in laughing mood, on mischief were intent,
They toted muly on their backs, around from tent to tent;
Through this hole and that they pushed his head, and made a rule
To shout with humorous voices all, "Mister, here's your mule."
CHORUS.
Alas! one day the mule was missed, ah! who could tell his fate?
The farmer, like a man bereft, searched early and searched late;
And as he passed from camp to camp, with stricken face, the fool
Cried out to ev'ryone he met, "Oh, Mister, where's my mule?"
CHORUS.
SABINE PASS.
Dedicated to the Davis Guards--(The Living and the Dead).
By MRS. M. J. YOUNG.
Sabine Pass! in letters of gold,
Seem written upon the sky to-day,
Sabine Pass! with rhythmic feet,
Comes passionately stepping down my lay.
Sabine Pass! and the white sail ships,
With their cruel cannons' grinning teeth,
Tearing in shreds the sullen smoke,
That seem'd weaving for us a winding sheet.
Sabine Pass! with its Irish hearts,
As true as the blessings the Shamrock brings,
Hearts as full of royal blood
As that which nerves the arms of kings.
Few, ah! few were the Davis band,
"We cannot conquer, but we can die!"
Said the dauntless Dowling, as up he sprang,
And nailed the starry cross on high.
Twenty-seven ships in pomp and pride,
Came sailing through the Pass that day;
Go ask of any Texan child,
How many ships survived the fray.
The God of battle, who loves the brave,
Who gave to Gideon of old the fight,
Sent victory down that "Guard" to save,
And crowned them with immortal light.
Dark storms have since o'erswept our land,
And tyrants do our souls harass,
But glory shines on Dowling's band,
The forty-two heroes of the Pass.
Come, fill your glass with Texas wine,
Wine that is generous, red and free,
And drink with me to the knightliest man,
Who conquered the foe on land and sea.
But tears, rough, manly tears, for the dead,
Like dews of night bedim the glass,
With throbbing hearts and lifted hands,
We name him--"Dowling! of the Pass."
HOUSTON, TEXAS.
SHORT RATIONS; OR, THE CORN-FED ARMY.
Fair ladies and maids of all ages,
Little girls and cadets howe'er youthful,
Home-guards, quartermasters and sages,
Who write for the newspapers so truthful!
Clerks, surgeons, and supes--legislators,
Staff officers, (fops of the Nation,)
And even you, dear speculators,
Come list to my song of starvation!
CHORUS.--For we soldiers have seen something rougher
Than a storm, a retreat, or a fight,
And the body may toil on, and suffer
With a smile, so the heart is all right!
Our bugles had roused up the camp,
The heavens looked dismal and dirty,
And the earth looked unpleasant and damp,
As a beau on the wrong side of thirty;
We were taking these troubles with quiet,
When we heard from the mouths of some rash ones,
That the army was all put on diet,
And the Board had diminish'd our rations!
CHORUS.
Reduce our rations at all?
It was difficult, yet it was done--
We had one meal a day--it was small--
Are we now, Oh, ye gods! to have none?
Oh, ye gentlemen issuing rations,
Give at least half her own to the State,
Put a curb on your maddening passions,
And, commissaries--commiserate!
CHORUS.
Tell me not of the Lacedaemonian,
Of his black broth and savage demeanor,
We keep up a fare less Plutonian,
Yet I'd swear our corn coffee is meaner!
Tell me nothing of ancients and strangers,
For, on seeing our Southern-bred Catos,
I have laugh'd at old Marion's Rangers,
Who feasted on roasted potatoes!
CHORUS.
Erewhile we had chicken and roasters,
For the fowls and pigs were ferocious,
We would send them to shoot Pater Nosters,
And the deed was not stamped as atrocious;
But since we have been shot for the same,
We parch corn--it is healthier, but tougher--
The chickens and pigs have got tame,
But the horses and mules have to suffer.
CHORUS.
But the "corn-fed" is proof to all evils,
Has a joke for all hardships and troubles,
In honor and glory he revels,
Other fancies he looks on as bubbles!
He is bound to be free, and he knows it,
Then what cares he for toil and privation!
He is brave, and in battle he shows it,
And will conquer in spite of starvation!
CHORUS.
THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL.
_Air--"Rosin the Bow."_
Hark! the tocsin is sounding, my comrades;
Bind your knapsacks--away let us go,
Where the flag of the freeman is waving--
March to vanquish the ruffian foe!
CHORUS.--Ho for Liberty! Freedom or death, boys,
That's the watchword, away let us go
To the sound of the drum and the bugle,
March to vanquish the ruffian foe![17]
Farewell to the scenes of my childhood,
To my mother, who's praying for me;
She would weep if the son of her bosom
From the face of a foeman should flee.
Farewell to the home and the hearthstone,
Where my sisters are weeping for me;
Oh; the foot of the spoilers shall never,
Stain the home of the brave and the free.
Adieu, thou beloved of my bosom!
For thy soldier-love shed not a tear;
But beseech the great Lord of the battle,
To protect him and all he holds dear.
Adieu, honored father! who taught me,
For the rights of a freeman to stand--
To resist, when his rod, the aggressor,
Shakes in wrath o'er my dear native land.
Oh, my country, thou home of my loved ones!
You, the tyrant would seek to enslave--
Sweep you off from the face of creation,
Wake, freemen, our country to save!
Hear the threats of that ruthless banditti,
Who for "booty" and "beauty" would fight;
Shall they sweep our loved South from creation?
No! her sons will arise in their might!
"Sweep the South from the face of the earth!" boys?
We can sweep, too, O land of our birth!
For our homes and our altars and dear ones,
We the ruffians can sweep from the earth.
Adieu to the church, where the Christian
For the soldier and Sabbath will pray;
But the Bible and chaplain go with us,
And Jehovah, our God, is our stay!
When the old British lion oppressed us,
He with Washington went to the field;
Unto Him we will look in the battle,
And will strike 'til the enemy yield!
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH HILL.
By M. B. SMITH, of Co. C., Second Regiment Texas Volunteers.
_Air--"Wandering Sailor."_
Come, all ye valiant soldiers, and a story I will tell,
It is of a noted battle you all remember well;
It was an awful strife, and will cause your blood to chill,
It was the famous battle that was fought on Shiloh Hill!
It was the sixth of April, just at the break of day,
The drums and fifes were playing for us to march away;
The feeling of that hour I do remember still,
For the wounded and the dying that lay on Shiloh Hill.
About the hour of sunrise the battle it began,
And before the day had vanished we fought them hand to hand;
The horrors of the field did my heart with anguish fill,
For the wounded and the dying that lay on Shiloh Hill.
There were men of every nation laid on those rocky plains,
Fathers, sons and brothers were numbered with the slain,
That has caused so many homes with deep mourning to be filled,
All from the bloody battle that was fought on Shiloh Hill.
The wounded men were crying for help from everywhere,
While others, who were dying, were offering God their prayer:
"Protect my wife and children, if it is Thy holy will!"
Such were the prayers I heard that night on Shiloh Hill.
And early the next morning, we were called to arms again,
Unmindful of the wounded and unmindful of the slain,
The struggle was renewed, and ten thousand men were killed;
This was the second conflict of the famous Shiloh Hill.
The battle it raged on, though dead and dying men,
Lay thick all o'er the ground, on the hill and in the glen,
And from their deadly wounds their blood ran like a rill;
Such were the mournful sights that I saw on Shiloh Hill.
Before the day was ended the battle ceased to roar,
And thousands of brave soldiers had fall'n to rise no more;
They left their vacant ranks for some other ones to fill,
And now their mouldering bodies all lie on Shiloh Hill.
And now my song is ended about those bloody plains,
I hope the sight by mortal man may ne'er be seen again;
But I pray to God, the Saviour, "if consistent with Thy will,"
To save the souls of all who fell on bloody Shiloh Hill.
STONEWALL'S REQUIEM.
Permission of the OLIVER DITSON CO.
Music by M. DEEVES.
The muffled drum is beating,
There's a sad and solemn tread,
Our banner's draped in mourning,
As it shrouds the "illustrious dead,"
Proud forms are bent with sorrow,
And all Southern hearts are sore,
The hero now is sleeping--
Noble Stonewall is no more.
'Mid the rattling of the muskets,
And the cannons' thund'rous roar,
He stained the field of glory,
With his brave life's precious gore;
And though our flag waved proudly,
We were victors ere sunset--
The gallant deeds of Chancellorsville,
Will mingle with regret.
They've borne him to an honored grave,
The laurel crowns his brow,
By hallowed James' silent wave
He's sweetly sleeping now;
Virginia to the South is dear,
She holds a sacred trust,
Our fallen braves from far and near,
Are covered with her dust.
She shrines the spot where now is laid,
The bravest of them all,
The Martyr of our country's cause,
Our idolized Stonewall;
But though his spirit's wafted
To the happy realms above;
His name shall live forever linked,
With reverence and love.
LITTLE GIFFIN.
By DR. FRANCIS O. TICKNOR.
"A ballad of such unique and really transcendent merit, that in our
judgment it ought to rank with the rarest gems of modern martial
poetry."--P. H. HAYNE.
Out of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire,
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!)
Specter such as we seldom see,
Little Giffin of Tennessee!
"Take him and welcome!" the surgeon said:
"Much your doctor can help the dead!"
And so we took him and brought him where,
The balm was sweet on the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed--
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!
Weary War with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death,
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint in the steel-blue eye,
Spoke of the spirit that wouldn't die.
And didn't! nay more! in death's despite,
The crippled skeleton learned to write!
"Dear mother," at first, of course, and then,
"Dear Captain" inquiring about the "men,"
Captain's answer--"Of eighty and five,
Giffin and I are left alive!"
"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"
Little Giffin was up and away.
A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye;
"I'll write, if spared." There was news of a fight,
But none of Giffin! he did not write!
I sometimes fancy that were I a king
Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I'd give the best on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,
For little Giffin of Tennessee!
[Illustration: General J. E. B. Stuart.]
STUART.
By MRS. HENRY J. VOSE.
Music by A. E. BLACKMAR.
[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass.]
Oh! mother of States and of men,
Bend low thy queenly head,
On his shield is borne to thy arms again,
Thy youngest, fairest dead;
Drop tears like rain for that strong heart stilled,
For that dauntless spirit fled!
Sleep well, O stainless knight,
'Neath the folds of the starry cross,
For the day now breaks o'er the long, long night
Of our anguish, peril and loss;
But alas! for the eyes that smiled on death,
And the life that held life dross.
They say thine ancestral line,
Swayed the scepter, and wore the crown;
But none girded a nobler sword than thine,
Nor more stainless life laid down;
And we ask no gleam from their grand old past,
To brighten thy young renown.
On the field thy life was giv'n,
Where our best blood has been poured;
At the feet of our country's God, in heaven,
Thou hast laid another sword,
When Jackson's head was so lately bowed,
The tried soldier of the Lord.
Oh, swords of the South! like flame,
Leap forth for this life-blood shed,
Strike the foe till he flies from the field in shame,
Sheathe not till the hilt is red!
And redeem the land that enshrines in her heart,
The graves of her glorious dead!
ONLY A SOLDIER.
By MAJOR LAMAR FONTAINE.
"Only a soldier!" I heard them say,
With a heavy heart I turned away,
And heaved a sigh.
Then watched the tramp of the horses' feet,
As the hearse moved slowly down the street,
And hot tears dimmed my eye.
"Only a soldier!" confined in there--
A father's joy and a mother's care,
Torn from his home.
Now a maiden sighs for his return,
On his sister's cheek the teardrops burn,
For her soldier-brother's gone.
"Only a soldier!" I thought anew,
As fancy came, and I quickly drew
"The parting hour,"
That hour he left at his country's call,
To place himself as a living wall,
Where sterner men might cower.
In dreams he'd seen friends kneeling down
To raise his head from the battle-ground,
And thus he'd say:
"Tell my father that fighting I fell,
'Mid hammering shot and screaming shell,
When the South had won the day."
Alas! he never had dreamed of death,
But as borne on whistling bullets' breath,
'Mid muskets flashing;
And where the war-dogs howling loud,
Breathe with sulphur-smoke a battle cloud--
The shells with thunders crashing!
But a fevered cot is his battle-ground,
And slowly, calmly in death he's bound
To the "Far-off-Land."
No gentle sister's spirit is there,
E'en in stranger's form with tender care,
To bathe his dry burning hand.
The dark sod hides the form of the dead,
Dew-drops kiss no more that pale forehead,
Nor gleam on his hair.
Life's hope is gone! Life's sorrowing o'er,
His spirit is on the "echoless shore,"
Dwelling with angels up there.
Thus unwept, unmourned, he sank to rest,
E'en by human sympathy unblest,
To an unknown grave!
God, who notes e'en the sparrow's fall,
Shall, in the dread resurrection, call
To Heaven the soldier brave!
WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME.
The boys are coming home again,
This war will soon be o'er,
The Southern land again will stand,
As happy as of yore;
Yes, hand in hand, and arm in arm,
Together we will roam,
Oh! won't we have a happy time,
When all the boys come home.
CHORUS.--We'll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom's lofty dome;
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
We'll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom's lofty dome;
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
We'll have no more false hopes and fears,
No more heartrending sighs--
The messengers of peace will dry
The weary mourner's eyes,
We'll laugh and sing, we'll dance and play,
Oh! wait until they come,
And joy will crown the happy day,
When all the boys come home.
CHORUS.
How proud our nation then will stand!
United evermore,
We'll bid defiance to the foe,
That dare approach our shore,
We'll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom's lofty dome,
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
CHORUS.
THE DRUMMER BOY OF SHILOH.
On Shiloh's dark and bloody ground the dead and wounded lay,
Amongst them was a drummer boy that beat the drum that day;
A wounded soldier raised him up--his drum was by his side--
He clasped his hands, and raised his eyes, and prayed before he died.
"Look down upon the battlefield, O Thou our heavenly Friend,
Have mercy on our sinful souls"--the soldiers cried, "Amen!"
For gathered 'round, a little group, each brave man knelt and cried--
They listened to the drummer boy who prayed before he died.
"Oh, Mother," said the dying boy, "Look down from Heaven on me!
Receive me to thy fond embrace! Oh, take me home to thee!
I've loved my country as my God, to serve them both I've tried,"
He smiled, shook hands, death seized the boy who prayed before he died.
Each soldier wept then like a child--stout hearts were they and brave--
The Flag his winding-sheet! God's Book the key unto his grave;
They wrote upon a simple board these words, "This is a guide,
To those who mourn the drummer boy who prayed before he died."
[Illustration: Alabama Volunteer Corps.]
OLD STONEWALL.
By C. D. DASHER.
Music by F. YOUNKER.
[The music of this Song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass.]
Oh, don't you remember old Stonewall, my boys,
Old Stonewall on charger so gray,
Whose memory is dear to the sons of the South,
The heroes that once wore the gray.
He was true to the cause of the men that he led,
Heroic in death as in life,
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife--
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife.
The harvest waves over the battlefield, boys,
And where bullets once pattered like rain,
The peach blooms are drifting like snow in the air,
And the hillocks are springing in grain,
Oh! green in our hearts may the memories be,
Of those heroes, in blue or in grey,
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array--
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array.
THE SOUTH;
OR, I LOVE THEE THE MORE.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass., owners of the copyright.]
My heart in its sadness turns fondly to thee,
Dear land where our lov'd ones fought hard to be free;
I loved thee when struggling, and bleeding and sore,
But now thou art conquered, I love thee the more!
Gallant South! when the noble, the gifted, the brave,
Dashed onward to battle, like wave after wave,
Determin'd to die for the land they adore,
Though vain were their efforts, I love thee the more.
Bright South! though the winter is closing around,
And dead leaves of autumn now carpet the ground,
Thy beauties of woodland, of river and shore,
Still charm the beholder, I love thee the more.
Dear South! though thy beautiful forests and hills,
Thy emerald valleys and silvery rills,
Are subject to strangers--not free as of yore--
Thus changed, and in sorrow, I love thee the more.
Sweet South! lovely land of beautiful flowers,
Though cool now the zephyrs, and faded thy bowers,
Oh, soon shall the springtime thy beauties restore,
And bloom o'er our lost ones--I love thee the more.
Darling South! when I think every forest and grove,
And valley have pillow'd the heads that we love,
Have echoed their war cry and drank of their gore,
I feel thou art sacred, and love thee the more.
THE POOR SOLDIER!
A Popular Camp-fire Song of the 62d Alabama Regiment (The Boy Regiment.)
Little do rich people know,
What we poor soldiers undergo--
Called upon to take up arms,
To guard our country from all harm.
Break of day--the morning gun,
Wakes the rebels--the fife and drum,
Breaks a soldier's sweet repose--
He tumbles out--puts on his clothes.
First sergeant rushes in and out:
"Hurrah! hurrah, boys! do turn out;"
Front and rear he forms his line--
His 'coutrements and sword must shine.
"Eyes right!--steady!" is the word;
Our captain then presents his sword--
The sergeant jerks out his roll--
Names are called--the absent told.
Our surgeon is a man of skill,
Gives the sick each day bread pills;
If his pills do not act well--
He swears and damns our souls to hell.
Would you know who wrote this song,
I will tell--it won't take long;
It was composed by A. T. Height,
While walking post one rainy night.
THE BONNIE WHITE FLAG;
OR, THE PRISONER'S INVOCATION TO PEACE.
Col. W. S. HAWKINS.
In _Camp Chase Ventilator_, 1864.
_Air--"Bonnie Blue Flag."_
Though we're a band of prisoners,
Let each be firm and true,
For noble souls and hearts of oak,
The foe can ne'er subdue.
We then will turn us homeward,
To those we love so dear;
For peace and happiness, my boys,
Oh, give a hearty cheer!
CHORUS.--Hurrah! Hurrah! for peace
And home, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie White Flag,
That ends this cruel war!
The sword into the scabbard,
The musket on the wall,
The cannon from its blazing throat,
No more shall hurl the ball;
From wives and babes and sweethearts,
No longer will we roam,
For ev'ry gallant soldier boy,
Shall seek his cherished home.
CHORUS.
Our battle banners furled away,
No more shall greet the eye,
Nor beat of angry drums be heard,
Nor bugle's hostile cry.
The blade no more be raised aloft,
In conflict fierce and wild.
The bomb shall roll across the sward,
The plaything of a child.
CHORUS.
No pale-faced captive then shall stand,
Behind his rusted bars,
Nor from the prison window bleak,
Look sadly to the stars;
But out amid the woodland's green,
On bounding steed he'll be,
And proudly from his heart shall rise,
The anthem of the free.
CHORUS.
The plow into the furrow then,
The fields shall wave with grain,
And smiling children to their schools,
All gladly go again.
The church invites its grateful throng,
And man's rude striving cease,
While all across our noble land,
Shall glow the light of Peace.
CHORUS.
BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG.