For sixty days and upward a storm of shell and shot,
Rained 'round as in a flaming shower, but still we faltered not!
"If the noble city perish," our grand young leader said,
"Let the only walls the foe shall scale be ramparts of the dead!"
For sixty days and upward the eye of heaven waxed dim,
And even throughout God's holy morn, o'er Christian's prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult, as if the fiends of air,
Strove to engulf the voice of faith in shriekings of despair.
There was wailing in the houses, there was trembling on the marts,
While the tempest raged and thundered 'midst the silent thrill of hearts;
But the Lord, our shield, was with us--and ere a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets, with scarce one throb of dread.
And the little children gambolled--their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment as the huge bombs whirled and blazed!
Then turning with silv'ry laughter to the sports which children love,
Thrice mailed in the sweet instinctive thought that the good God watched
above.[18]
Yet the hailing bolts fell faster from scores of flame-clad ships,
And above us, denser, darker, grew the conflict's wide eclipse,
'Till a solid cloud closed o'er like a type of doom and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quiv'ring tongues of forked and vengeful fire.
But the unseen hands of angels, these death shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy, ruled o'er the battle tide;
In the houses ceased the wailing, and through the war-scarred marts,
The people strode with the step of hope to the music in their hearts.
DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON.
Music by C. BLAMPHIN.
On a bright May morn in 'Sixty-three,
And eager for the action,
On a battlefield for Liberty,
Stood gallant Stonewall Jackson.
Both flesh and blood alike the same,
They strove to gain each other's fame,
And long may hist'ry pen the name,
Of gallant Stonewall Jackson.
CHORUS.--Who was his soldiers' pride,
And for his country died,
On a bright May day in 'Sixty-three,
And ready for the action,
On a battlefield for Liberty
Stood gallant Stonewall Jackson.
A man more kind was never born,
In battle no one bolder;
His loss all noble hearts will mourn,
This gallant faithful soldier;
For when the word was duty,
He was first to fight for victory;
Oh! may he live in history,
The gallant Stonewall Jackson.
CHORUS.
But alas! his time was come,
To see our promised land;
His comrade's fatal gun,
Shot through his arm and hand;
The Almighty's will was read,
Upon his noble brow;
"My race is run," he said.
Death has its victim now.
CHORUS.
THE SOUTHERN CAPTIVE.
By CAPT. SAM HOUSTON.
[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass.]
Softly comes the twilight stealing gently through my prison bars,
While from out the vault of heaven, faintly glimmering come the stars;
Well I know my mother's weeping for her long-lost wandering boy--
Does she know that still I'm living? even that would give her joy.
No, they tell her that I'm sleeping 'neath the turf on Shiloh's plain;
That she ne'er will see her wanderer--never on this earth again;
Oh, my poor heart sinks within me, as the months roll slowly by,
And it seems in this cold Northland a lone captive I must die!
Yes, far away from friends and kindred, without a hand to mark my grave--
And not upon a field of glory I'll sleep amid the Southern brave;
Mother! yes, your boy is dying! soon he'll pass through death's dark
wave,
And the wintry wind be sighing o'er a captive's lonely grave.
THE VOLUNTEER; OR, IT IS MY COUNTRY'S CALL.
By HARRY MCCARTHY.
I leave my home and thee, dear, with sorrow at my heart,
It is my country's call, dear, to aid her, I depart;
And on the blood-red battle plain, we'll conquer or we'll die;
'Tis for our honor and our name, we raise the battle-cry.
CHORUS.--Then weep not, dearest, weep not, if in the cause I fall;
Oh, weep not, dearest, weep not, it is my country's call.
And yet, my heart is sore, love, to see thee weeping thus;
But mark me, there's no fear, love, for in Heaven is our trust;
And if the heavy drooping tear swells in my mournful eye,
It is that Northmen of our land should cause the battle-cry.
CHORUS.
Our rights have been usurp'd, dear, by Northmen of land;
Fanatics rais'd the cry, dear, politicians fired the brand;
The Southrons spurn the galling yoke, the tyrants' threats defy;
They find we've sons like sturdy oaks to raise the battle-cry.
CHORUS.
I knew you'd let me go, pet, I saw it in that tear,
To join the gallant men, pet, who never yet knew fear;
With Beauregard and Davis, we'll gain our cause or die;
Win battles like Manassas, and raise the battle-cry.
CHORUS.
DEAR MOTHER, I'VE COME HOME TO DIE.
By E. BOWERS.
Music by HENRY TUCKER.
Dear mother, I remember well
The parting kiss you gave me,
When merry rang the village bell--
My heart was full of joy and glee:
I did not dream that one short year,
Would crush the hopes that soared so high!
Oh, mother dear, draw near to me;
Dear mother, I've come home to die.
CHORUS.--Call sister, brother, to my side,
And take your soldier's last good-by.
Oh, mother dear, draw near to me;
Dear mother, I've come home to die.
Hark! Mother, 'tis the village bell,
I can no longer with thee stay;
My country calls to arms! to arms!
The foe advance in fierce array!
The vision's past--I feel that now,
For country I can only sigh.
Oh, mother dear, draw near to me:
Dear mother, I've come home to die.
CHORUS.
Dear mother, sister, brother, all,
One parting kiss--to all good-by:
Weep not, but clasp your hand in mine,
And let me like a soldier die!
I've met the foe upon the field,
Where hosts contending scorned to fly;
I fought for right--God bless you all--
Dear mother, I've come home to die.
CHORUS.
POLK.
By H. L. FLASH.
A flash from the edge of a hostile trench,
A puff of smoke, a roar,
Whose echo shall roll from Kennesaw hills,
To the farthermost Christian shore,
Proclaim to the world that the warrior-priest
Will battle for right no more.
And that for a cause which is sanctified,
By the blood of martyrs unknown--
A cause for which they gave their lives,
And for which he gave his own--
He kneels, a meek ambassador,
At the foot of the Father's throne.
[Illustration: "A flash from the edge of a hostile trench."]
And up to the courts of another world,
That angels alone have trod,
He lives away from the din and strife
Of this blood-besprinkled sod--
Crowned with the amaranthine wreath,
That is worn by the blest of God.
THE REBEL'S DREAM.
By A. F. LEOVY.
Music by CH. REISNER.
Permission of A. E. BLACKMAR, New Orleans.
Softly in dreams of repose,
A vision so pure and so sweet,
Shines on a soldier's sad soul,
While his flag lies so low at his feet;
Softly an angel is seen,
Who saddens the spot with a sigh,
Swiftly the banner is raised,
And borne to bright realms in the sky.
Soft music from heavenly choirs,
Resounds from that paradise shore.
Oh! how sweet to the dreamer's light heart,
He sees his brave comrades once more.
His banner now floats o'er the blest,
And shimmers in heaven's pure air;
A voice from its folds is now heard,
Jackson prays for the flag that is there.
The soldier awakes from his dream.
Oh! that his sorrows were past,
Beyond the bright stars and the sky,
There's a home for the weary at last,
The gleam of some paradise joys,
Will greet him in heaven's pure air,
O the heroes who perished for right,
How sweet to rejoin them all there!
PRO MEMORA.
By INA M. PORTER, of Alabama.
_Air--"There is Rest for the Weary."_
Lo! the Southland queen emerging,
From her sad and wintry gloom,
Robes her torn and bleeding bosom,
In her richest Orient bloom.
CHORUS.--(_Repeat first line three times._)
For her weary sons are resting
By the Eden shore;
They have won the crown immortal,
And the cross of death is o'er!
When the oriflamme is burning,
On the starlit Eden shore.
Brightly still in gorgeous glory,
God's great jewel lights the sky;
Look! Upon the heart's white dial,
There's a shadow flitting by.
CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc.
Homes are dark and hearts are weary,
Souls are numb with hopeless pain;
For the footfall on the threshold
Never more to sound again!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever,
Aye, for evermore!
We must win the crown immortal,
Follow where they led before,
Where the oriflamme is burning,
On the starlit Eden shore.
Proudly, as our Southern forests,
Meet the winter's shafts so keen;
Time-defying memories cluster,
Round our hearts in living green.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
May our faltering voices mingle,
In the angel-chanted psalm;
May our earthly chaplets linger,
By the bright celestial palm.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
Crest to crest they bore our banner,
Side by side they fell asleep;
Hand in hand we scatter flowers,
Heart to heart we kneel and weep.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
When the May eternal dawneth
At the living God's behest,
We will quaff divine Nepenthe,
We shall share the soldier's rest.
CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc.
Where the shadows are uplifted,
'Neath the never-waning sun,
Shout we Gloria in Excelsis!
We have lost, but ye have won!
CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever,
Aye, for evermore!
Ye have won the crown immortal,
And the cross of death is o'er,
When the oriflamme is burning
On the starlit Eden shore!
WEARIN' OF THE GRAY.
By TAR HEEL.
[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass.]
Oh! Johnny, dear, and did you hear the news that's lately spread,
That never more the Southern cross must rear its stately head;
The "white and red's" forbid by law, so Northmen proudly say,
Nor you nor I can e'er again be "Wearin' of the Gray!"
And when we meet with strangers kind, who take us by the hand,
Inquiring warmly of the South, our own beloved land,
We're bound to tell the woeful truth, let cost whate'er it may,
That some are threatened e'en with death, for "Wearin' of the Gray!"
Then since the color we must wear is of the hateful blue,
The children of the sunny South must be to mem'ry true;
Ah! take the cockade from their hats and tread it 'neath the feet,
And still tho' bruis'd and mangled sad, 'twill speak a language sweet;
And buried in our heart of hearts the precious words lie hid,
Where oft they call the bitter tears to wet the drooping lid;
But let them flow, they do us good thro' all the mournful day,
While constant we do call to mind the "Wearin' of the Gray!"
And if at last our father's law be torn from Southland's heart,
Her sons will take their household gods and far away depart;
Rememb'ring still the whisper'd word, to weary wand'rers giv'n,
That justice pure, and perfect rest, are found alone in heav'n.
Then on some green and distant isle beneath the setting sun,
We'll patient wait the coming time when life and earth are done,
Nor even in the dying hour, while passing calm away,
Can we forget or e'er regret the "Wearin' of the Gray!"
[Illustration: South Carolina Button.]
THE FADED GRAY JACKET.
By MRS. C. A. BALL.
Music by CHARLIE WARD.
Permission of the W. S. SHAW CO., Philadelphia.
Fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride;
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore,
The jacket of gray our loved soldier boy wore.
Can we ever forget when he joined the brave band,
Who rose in defense of our dear Southern land;
And in his bright youth hurried on to the fray,
How proudly he donned it, the jacket of gray?
CHORUS.--Fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride;
For dear it must be to our hearts evermore,
The jacket of gray our loved soldier boy wore.
His fond mother blessed him and looked up above,
Commending to Heaven the child of her love;
What anguish was hers, mortal tongue may not say,
When he passed from her sight in the jacket of gray.
But her country had called him, she would not repine,
Though costly the sacrifice placed on its shrine;
Her heart's dearest hopes on its altar she lay,
When she sent out her boy, in his jacket of gray!
CHORUS.
Months passed, and war's thunders rolled over the land,
Unsheathed was the sword and lighted the brand;
We heard in the distance the noise of the fray,
And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray.
Ah! vain all--all vain were our prayers and our tears
The glad shout of victory rang in our ears;
But our treasured one on the cold battle-field lay,
While the life blood oozed out on the jacket of gray.
CHORUS.
His young comrades found him and tenderly bore
His cold, lifeless form to his home by the shore;
Oh! dark were our hearts on that terrible day,
When we saw our dead boy in the jacket of gray.
Ah! spotted, and tattered, and stained now with gore,
Was the garment which once he so gracefully wore;
We bitterly wept as we took it away,
And replaced with death's white robes, the jacket of gray.
CHORUS.
We laid him to rest in his cold, narrow bed,
And graved on the marble, we placed o'er his head,
As the proudest of tributes our sad hearts could pay,
"He never disgraced the dear jacket of gray."
Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride;
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore,
The jacket of gray our loved soldier boy wore.
CHORUS.
I'M A GOOD OLD REBEL.
By J. R. T.
[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass.]
O, I'm a good old rebel,
Now that's just what I am,
For this "Fair Land of Freedom"
I do not care a damn;
I'm glad I fit against it,
I only wish we'd won,
And I don't want no pardon
For anything I done.
I hates the Constitution,
This great Republic too,
I hates the Freedman's Buro,
In uniform of blue;
I hates the nasty eagle,
With all his bragg and fuss,
The lyin', thievin' Yankees,
I hates them wuss and wuss.
I hates the Yankee nation
And everything they do,
I hates the Declaration
Of Independence, too;
I hates the glorious Union--
'Tis dripping with our blood--
I hates their striped banner,
I fit it all I could.
[Illustration: "I'm a good old rebel."]
Three hundred thousand Yankees
Is stiff in Southern dust;
We got three hundred thousand
Before they conquered us;
They died of Southern fever,
And Southern steel and shot,
I wish they was three million,
Instead of what we got.
I followed old mas' Robert
For four year near about,
Got wounded in three places,
And starved at Pint Lookout;
I cotched the roomatism,
A campin' in the snow,
But I killed a chance o' Yankees,
I'd like to kill some mo'.
I can't take up my musket
And fight 'em now no more,
But I ain't a-going to love 'em,
Now that is sartin' sure;
And I don't want no pardon,
For what I was and am,
I won't be reconstructed,
And I don't care a damn.
TRUE TO THE GRAY.
By PEARL RIVERS.
I cannot listen to your words, the land is long and wide;
Go seek some happy Northern girl to be your loving bride;
My brothers they were soldiers--the youngest of the three
Was slain while fighting by the side of gallant Fitzhugh Lee!
They left his body on the field (your side the day had won),
A soldier spurned him with his foot--you might have been the one;
My lover was a soldier--he belonged to Gordon's band;
A sabre pierced his gallant heart--your's might have been the hand.
He reel'd and fell, but was not dead, a horseman spurr'd his steed
And trampled on the dying brain--you may have done the deed;
I hold no hatred in my heart, no cold, unrighteous pride,
For many a gallant soldier fought upon the other side.
But still I cannot kiss the hand that smote my country sore,
Nor love the foes that trampled down the colors that she bore;
Between my heart and yours there rolls a deep and crimson tide--
My brother's and my lover's blood forbid me be your bride.
The girls who lov'd the boys in gray--the girls to country true,
May ne'er in wedlock give their hands to those who wore the blue.
WE KNOW THAT WE WERE REBELS; OR, WHY CAN WE NOT BE BROTHERS?
By CLARENCE PRENTICE.
Why can we not be brothers? the battle now is o'er;
We've laid our bruised arms on the field to take them up no more;
We who have fought you hard and long, now overpower'd, stand
As poor, defenseless prisoners in our own native land.
CHORUS.--We know that we were rebels,
And we don't deny the name,
We speak of that which we have done
With grief, but not with shame!
But we have rights most sacred, by solemn compact bound,
Seal'd by the blood that freely gush'd from many a ghastly wound;
When Lee gave up his trusty sword, and his men laid down their arms,
It was that they should live at home, secure from war's dire harms.
CHORUS.
And surely, since we're now disarm'd, we are not to be dreaded;
Our old chiefs, who on many fields our trusty columns headed,
Are fast within an iron grasp, and manacled with chains,
Perchance, 'twixt dreary walls to stay as long as life remains!
CHORUS.
O shame upon the coward band who, in the conflict dire,
Went not to battle for their cause, 'mid the ranks of steel and fire,
Yet now, since all the fighting's done, are hourly heard to cry:
"Down with the traitors! hang them all! each rebel dog shall die!"
CHORUS.
We know that we were rebels, we don't deny the name,
We speak of that which we have done with grief, but not with shame!
And we never will acknowledge that the blood the South has spilt,
Was shed defending what we deemed a cause of wrong and guilt.
CHORUS.
WEARING OF THE GRAY.
Our cannons' mouths are dumb. No more our volleyed muskets peal,
Nor gleams, to mark where squadrons rush, the light from flashing steel;
No more our crossed and starry flags in gentle dalliance play
With battle breeze, as when we fought, a wearing of the gray.
Our cause is lost! No more we fight 'gainst overwhelming power;
All wearied are our limbs, and drenched with many a battle shower;
We fain would rest! For want of strength we yield them up the day,
And lower the flag so proudly borne while wearing of the gray.
Defeat is not dishonor! No! Of honor not bereft,
We should thank God that in our breasts this priceless boon is left;
And though we weep 'tis for those braves who stood in proud array
Beneath our flag, and nobly died while wearing of the gray.
When in the ranks of war we stood, and faced the deadly hail,
Our simple suits of gray composed our only coats of mail;
And of those awful hours that marked the bloody battle day,
In memory we'll still be seen a wearing of the gray.
O, should we reach that glorious place where waits the sparkling crown,
For every one who for the right his soldier life lay down,
God grant to us the privilege, upon that happy day,
Of clasping hands with those who fell a wearing of the gray.
THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE.
Words by MOINA.
Music by ARMAND.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass., owners of the copyright.]
Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright,
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o'er the brave, in the cause of right
It's stainless sheen, like a beacon light,
Led us to victory.
Out of its scabbard, when full long
It slumbered peacefully--
Roused from its rest by the battle song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, and avenging the wrong--
Gleamed the sword of Lee!
Forth from its scabbard, high in air,
Beneath Virginia's sky--
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear,
That where that sword led they would dare
To follow and to die.
Out of its scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause as grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!
Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed,
That sword might victor be!
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on, while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee!
Forth from its scabbard! All in vain!
Forth flashed the sword of Lee!
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully.
OFF WITH YOUR GRAY SUITS, BOYS!
By LIEUT. FALLIGANT, Savannah, Ga.
Off with gray suits, boys!
Off with your rebel gear!
It smacks too much of the cannon's peal,
The lightning flash of your deadly steel,
And fills our hearts with fear.
The color is like the smoke,
That curled o'er your battle line;
It calls to mind the yell that woke,
When the dastard columns before you broke,
And their dead wore your fatal sign!
Off with your starry wreaths,
Ye who have led our van!
For you 'twas the pledge of a glorious death,
As we followed you over the glorious heath,
When we whipped them man to man!
Down with the cross and stars!
Too long has it waved on high;
'Tis covered all over with battle scars,
But its gleam the hated banner mars--
'Tis time to lay it by.
Down with the vows we had made!
Down with each memory!
Down with the thoughts of our noble dead!
Down, down to the dust where their forms are laid,
And down with liberty!
THE CONFEDERATE NOTE.[19]
By S. A. JONAS.
Representing nothing on God's earth now,
And naught in the water below it,
As a pledge of a nation that's dead and gone,
Keep it, dear Captain, and show it.
Show it to those that will lend an ear
To the tale this paper can tell,
Of liberty born, of the patriot's dream,
Of a storm-cradled nation that fell.
Too poor to possess the precious ore,
And too much a stranger to borrow,
We issue to-day our "promise to pay,"
And hope to redeem on the morrow.
Days rolled by, and weeks became years,
But our coffers were empty still;
Coin was so rare that the treasurer quakes,
If a dollar should drop in the till.
[Illustration]
But the faith that was in us was strong indeed,
And our poverty well we discerned,
And these little checks represented the pay
That our suffering veterans earned.
We knew it had hardly a value in gold,
Yet as gold the soldiers received it;
It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay,
And each patriot soldier believed it.
But our boys thought little of price or pay,
Or of bills that were over-due;
We knew if it bought our bread to-day,
'Twas the best our country could do.
Keep it! it tells all our history over,
From the birth of the dream to its last;
Modest, and born of the angel Hope,
Like our hope of success it passed.
THE CONQUERED BANNER.
By the Rev. J. A. RYAN, Catholic Priest of Knoxville, Diocese of
Nashville, Tenn.
Music by A. E. BLACKMAR.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass., owners of the copyright.]
Furl that banner, for 'tis weary;
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it,--
Furl it, hide it, let it rest.
Take that banner down--'tis tattered,
Broken is its staff and shattered,
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it,
Hard to think there's none to hold it,
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.
Furl that banner, furl it sadly--
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave,
Swore that foeman's sword could never
Hearts like their's entwined dissever,
'Till that flag would float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave.
Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And the banner, it is trailing
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it,
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it,
Pardon those who trailed and tore it,
And oh! wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so.
Furl that banner! true 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust;
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages,
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that banner! softly, slowly,
Treat it gently--it is holy--
For it droops above the dead;
Touch it not, unfold it never;
Let it droop there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead.
FOLD IT UP CAREFULLY.
A Reply to "The Conquered Banner," by SIR HENRY HOUGHTON, BART., of
England.
Gallant nation, foiled by numbers,
Say not that your hopes are fled;
Keep that glorious flag which slumbers,
One day to avenge your dead.