in this country there is no lack. Newspaper files and popular song-books
have been ransacked, as well as more pretentious volumes, and whatever
possessed a modicum of what is termed "poetic merit" has been gathered
with pious care. The standard in most cases has, naturally enough, been
that of "polite literature," that of which the writers were persons
of education, and who endeavored to express with more or less force a
dominant sentiment in logical as well as grammatical form, and to embody
their meaning in intelligent words. If popular songs, which did not
fulfil these conditions, have been included, it has usually been with
an apology for their uncouthness, or a contemptuous reference to their
banality, and an intimation that they were forced into the pages of the
collection, or upon the attention of the critic, because they could not
be ignored in any representative collection of the poetry of the war.
Nevertheless, it may be doubted if these uncouth rhymes, without sense
or consecutive meaning, like Dixie's Land and John Brown's Body, or the
cheap sentimentality of Just before the Battle, Mother, and When this
Cruel War is over, do not have something of the indefinable fascination
on the printed page which they had to the ears of the men who sung them,
and do not take a stronger hold upon the mind than the much more elegant
and refined verses by which they are surrounded. Something of this may
be due to the memory of those who heard them, and in whose minds they
were the voice of the war, as the flags, the arms, and the uniforms
were its visible insignia, but this does not entirely account for their
fascination and permanence. There was something about them which endowed
them with vital life, which gave them a hold upon every tongue and upon
every heart, a quality distinct from obvious meaning, to say nothing
of literary excellence, and which can only be described as the singing
element. It was to accomplish this purpose, to relieve the heart through
the lungs, without reference to the mind, to emphasize and lighten the
buoyant or weary march, and give voice to the pervading impulse, which
kept these songs alive and made them a practical part of the war, as the
sailor's "shanties" were a part of the life of the sea, and the negro
choruses of the life of the plantation. This fascination may fade when
the civil war becomes a matter of distant history, and John
Brown's Body be no more than a set of unmeaning jingles to future
generations, as Lillibullero, which "sung King James out of three
kingdoms," is to our own; but with their death will come a loss of
a vital element of the war, as representing its living and human
sentiment, and history will miss its function if it exclude them. How
vital they were at the time may be seen from the fact that the attempts
to supersede the unmeaning rhymes by words of substance and definite
poetry had no effect, so far as their popular use was concerned, even
when this was done with such magnificent success as in Mrs. Julia Ward
Howe's Battle Hymn of the Republic, or General Albert Pike's powerful
lines to Dixie. The people and the soldiers clung to the old choruses,
and passed by with cold respect or indifference the deliberate and
purely literary appeals to their feelings. There is, perhaps, a reason
for this, which may be accounted for under the canons of literary
criticism. A song is something different from a poem, and includes a
dominant appeal to the ear, which may be even obstructed by elaborate
meaning, and the simple and taking air is the essential thing. It is not
always the case that a popular or national song is meaningless, as is
shown in the Marseillaise and Der Wacht am Rhein; and, in our own war,
Mr. James R. Randall's My Maryland was as popular in the Southern army
as a song as it is vigorous and spirited as a piece of pure literature.
But as a whole, songs which have been sung by large bodies of men, under
stress of high excitement, have depended more upon their sound than
their meaning for their vogue, and this would doubtless apply to the
chants of the Crusaders as to the choruses of the Northern and Southern
soldiers during the civil war. God save the King does not compare with
Ye Mariners of England in any element of poetry, yet the one is always
sung and the latter never; and Marching through Georgia depends upon
its air rather than its commonplace words for its hold upon the martial
heart. There was some good poetry written during the late civil war,
although not much; and in the collections, as I have said, it is
doubtful if the respectable verses, in which the incidents and feelings
of the war were expressed with deliberate art, have the vitality,
as they have not now the effect, of the rude rhymes and commonplace
sentimentality of those songs which took hold of the hearts of the
people, and were the living voices of the war. Too often they had
the contortions of patriotism without its inspiration, and were
forcible-feeble in appeal, or, when they attempted to interpret the
spirit of battle, rang false to the real feeling and knowledge of the
soldier. To this there were brilliant exceptions, like Mr. Gibbons's We
are coming, Father Abraham, Mr. Henry Howard Brownell's naval poems,
and Read's Sheridan's Ride, but as a whole it must be confessed that the
polite poetry of the civil war is rather dreary reading.
There was an immense amount of song-writing as well as of song-singing
during the war, and under the stress of excitement and the gathering
together of immense bodies of young and exuberant spirits the enthusiasm
inevitably found a vent through the lungs. The illiterate poets were
as busy as those of higher education; and those who did not seek their
public through the pages of the fashionable magazine, or even the poet's
corner of the country newspaper, but through the badly printed sheet
of the penny street ballad, or through the mouth of the negro minstrel,
contributed almost as largely to the poetry of the war as their
brothers. Dime song-books containing a curious admixture of the common
and the polite, the appropriate and the incongruous, were innumerable,
and the poetry which is below literary criticism was equal in bulk
to that which is within its scope. Actual soldiers and sailors also
sometimes wrote of their battles and experiences, or expressed their
feelings in more or less finished verse, and these found their way into
print either in the ballad sheet or the newspaper. Most of those which
were good in themselves, from their native force and vigor or from their
power as songs, have been preserved, but there is an immense amount
of this uncollected and unedited verse which has a very great value as
illustrating the sentiments and condition of the people, the waves of
popular feeling during various phases of the war, the impressions of
notable incidents and the estimates of prominent personages, and which
tell, oftentimes more than the leading articles in the newspapers, how
the common people were affected by the tremendous struggle. They have
the interest, if no other, of the relics of arms and uniforms, and the
tokens of the familiar life of a bygone age, and will one day be as
valuable to the historian as the ballads of the civil war in England,
which have been collected with so much care. In modern times and in
civilized societies, the newspaper has taken the place of the street
ballad as the record of historical events and the expression of
political feeling, and Ireland is almost the only country where it now
lingers in any quantity and force; but during such times of popular
excitement, and the occurrence of great events involving the most
intimate interests of the people, as during the civil war, the popular
ballads resumed something of their former value as the expressions of
popular feeling. It would be a mistake to omit from consideration even
those which were provided as a matter of professional business by the
minstrels of the popular stage, who reflected the pervading sentiments
of the time, and colored their rude comedy and cheap pathos with the
thoughts and feelings aroused by the war.
Thousands of these street songs were issued, to have their temporary
vogue and disappear. The principal publisher of the penny sheets was
H. de Marsan, 34 Chatham Street, New York, and he appears to have had
almost a monopoly of the trade. They were printed on coarse paper, with
an emblematic border in colors representing the American flag, and with
a soldier and sailor under arms. Some of the more successful songs were
copyrighted and published with their music, but this appears to have
made little difference to the enterprising Chatham Street publisher,
for he included almost everything that was singable, old Revolutionary
ballads, English naval songs, and some of the more finished American
poems of the war, as well as Ethiopian melodies, and ballads obviously
of original contribution. It would be interesting to know whether he
kept a staff of poets, like Jemmy Catnach of Seven Dials, or whether, as
is most probable, he simply took what he could find, and conferred the
honors of print, without remuneration, upon voluntary contributors. The
most numerous contributors who bear the stamp of originality naturally
came from the Irish element in New York, who were familiar with the
street ballad at home, and reproduced its form and sentiment for a
similar audience. There are dozens of ballads relating to the exploits
of the Sixty-Ninth Regiment, an Irish organization in the New York
State Guard, of which Michael Corcoran, an ex-member of the Irish
constabulary, was colonel, and Thomas Francis Meagher, the Irish
revolutionist, and afterward a brigadier-general of volunteers, a
captain. The regiment took part in the battle of Bull Run, during which
Colonel Corcoran was taken prisoner and carried South. The bards
were instantly inspired to sing the praises of the regiment and its
commander, and ballads were written exactly reproducing the style and
language of the Irish "Come, all yez," as thus:--
Come, all ye Gallant Heroes, along with me combine;
I 'll sing to you a ditty about the Glorious Sixty-Ninth.
They are a band of Brothers, from Ireland they came;
They had a bold Commander, Michael Corcoran was his
name.
In one or two of them there is an improvement on this very primitive
verse, gleams of humor and ebullitions of vigorous spirit. A song
entitled The Jolly Sixty-Ninth has a rollicking rhythm and rude humor,
of which the following is a specimen:--
It happened one fine day,
Down by the rajin say,
Quite convenient to the boilin' Gulf of Mexico,
That some chaps hauled down our flag,
And it through the dust did drag,
Swearin' it should never float on Fort Sumpter, O.
The author of a song entitled Freedom's Guide had a force and vigor
which, with a little more polish and form, would have entitled him to
a place in polite literature, and the real singable quality, which was,
perhaps, of more importance:--
FREEDOM'S GUIDE.
Our country now is great and free,
And this forever it shall be.
We know the way--we know the way.
Though Southern foes may gather here,
We will protect what we hold dear.
We know the way.
Chorus. We know the way--we know the way.
Through Baltimore, hooray.
For our guide is Freedom's banner.
Hooray, hooray.
The way is through Baltimore.
The South shall see that we are true,
And that we know a thing or two.
We know the way--we know the way.
As Yankee boys we are at hand,
Our countless throngs shall fill the land.
We know the way.
From east to west, from south to north,
We 'll send our mighty legions forth.
We know the way--we know the way.
The freedom that our fathers won
Shall be defended by each son.
We know the way.
Then shout, then shout o'er hill and plain,
We will our country's rights maintain.
We know the way--we know the way.
We will always guard it with our might,
And keep steadfast in the right.
We know the way.
Old Jeff has now begun to lag,
He knows that we 'll stand by the flag.
We know the way--we know the way.
With Scott to guide us in the right,
We 'll show them how the Sixty-Ninth can fight.
We know the way.
An organization almost equally popular with the New York ballad singers,
in the early days of the war, was the "Fire Zouaves," recruited among
the firemen of the metropolis, and which was expected to perform
wonderful feats of daring and energy, from the character of its
material. Its leader, Colonel Elmer E. Ellsworth, was killed by the
landlord of a hotel in Alexandria, Va., while hauling down the rebel
flag from the roof, and his death created a deep sensation from its
dramatic character, and from the fact that it was among the earliest in
the war. The elegies upon his death were numerous, as well as those in
praise of the regiment itself. One of the latter, by Archibald Scott,
whose name, contrary to the usual custom, was prefixed to the ballad,
had a good deal of rude vigor, of which the following is a specimen:--
Shall ugly plugs of Baltimore,
Who come out with stones and staves,
Get leave our patriots' blood to pour,
And drive our soldiers from their shore?
No, no! by Hell, in flames shall roar
Their city first by York Zouaves!
Another phase of life in the cities, from that of the enthusiasm of the
young men in marching to the war and the fervent appeals for enlistment,
was that of the feelings of the women whose sons and husbands left their
workshops to join the army. The grief was as bitter and the patriotism
as sincere among the inmates of the crowded tenement houses and the
narrow and barren homes of the families of the workingmen of New York as
among their sisters in the farmhouses in the country, whose surroundings
better lent themselves to the illumination of poetry, and it cost as
much to put down the tin pail of the city laborer as for the farmer to
Lay down the axe, fling by the spade,
and even more in pinching poverty and lack of resource. But the griefs
and sacrifices of these women of the city tenement and noisome alley
have found no place in the genteel poetry of the war, and have only been
expressed in the rude verse of the street ballad. Says one of them:--
It was in the month of April,
As I walked out one day,
I met a woman weeping
As I walked down Broadway.
She was weeping for her Johnny,
Her dear and only son,
Who joined the Northern army
To fight in Washington.
O Johnny! I gave you a schoolin',
I gave you a trade likewise,
And when you joined the Volunteers,
You know't was my advice."
The New York ballad writers were not entirely confined to the English
language, the large foreign population furnishing recruits of all
nations. There is not, so far as I have seen, any original German song
devoted to the Union cause, but The Red, White, and Blue, and other
patriotic songs, were published in German text; and of Germanized English
songs, most if not all the product of variety theatre performers, there
were a great many, including the extremely popular I'm going to fight
mit Siegel.
Ven I comes from de Deutsche Countree,
I vorks somedimes at baking.
Den I keeps a lager bier saloon,
And den I goes shoemaking.
But now I vas a sojer man
To save the Yankee eagle,
To Schlauch dem dam Southern folks,
I'm going to fight mit Siegel.
But this was no more representative of German sentiments than the
"Whack-row-de-dow" Pats of the stage were of the Irish; and the German
soldiers, when they sang in the vernacular, enlivened their foreign
patriotism with the songs of the Fatherland. There was at least one
French poet who appealed to his countrymen in their own language to
rally to the cause of the Union. His production was as follows:--
VENGEONS LA PATRIE.
Hymne Patriotique, Pah Gustave Dime, Ouvrier-Estam
Peur: Air, "Gloire Aux Martyrs Victoriaux."
Appel Aux Armes.
Debout fils de l'Union
Pour venges l'infamie
Faite à la nation,
Pour venger la Patrie,
La Constitution!
A bas Rébellion!
Debout, debout Américains,
Debout les armes à main.
l'outrage.
De Baltimore à Charleston,
De Richmont à Montgomery,
Le grand drapeau de Washington
Partout il fut souillie, flétri,
Du Fort Sumpter vengeons l'outrage
Et en la sol de Virginie
Sachions montrer notre courage
En digne fils de la Patrie.
l'assassinat.
Le Sud in horrible furie
Du Poignard de la Trahison
Perçant le cour de la Patrie,
Proclame à la Secession.
Mais le President héroïque
Et l'Autorité, le Sénat,
Sauront sauver la République
Et cet infâme Assassinat.
le triomphe.
Gloire à ton nom, libre Amérique,
Gloire à tes vaillant défenseurs
Ils sauveront la République,
Terrasseront tes oppresseurs.
Ils volent tous à la victoire,
Pour l'Union des Etats Unis.
Ils reviendront couverts de gloire
Et les traîtres Seront Punis.
The "ouvrier-estampeur" was sufficiently energetic, but his song never
became the Franco-American Marseillaise.
As the war dragged its slow length along, demanding greater and greater
sacrifices, and with its days of repulse and defeat for the Union
armies, the feeling of universal enthusiasm gave way to discouragement,
and there were not wanting in New York, among its heterogeneous
population, elements of bitterness which culminated in the deadly and
shameful outbreak of the draft riots. This feeling manifested itself in
the street ballads, not so conspicuously as the previous enthusiasm, but
enough to have attracted the attention of those who were watching the
signs of popular feeling. "Copperheadism" had its bards as well as
loyalty, although they were much fewer in number, and they cannot be
omitted in an account of the folksongs of the civil war. A rude jingle
entitled Johnny, fill up the Bowl, gave the popular expression to this
feeling:--
Abram Lincoln, what yer 'bout?
Hurrah, hurrah.
Stop this war, for it's played out,
Hurrah, hurrah.
Abram Lincoln, what yer 'bout?
Stop this war, for it's played out.
We 'll all drink stone-blind,
Johnny fill up the bowl.
The pages of the dime song-books at this time contained a number of
songs in opposition to the draft, expressing hatred to the negro, and
a demand for the stoppage of the war, of which the following is an
example:--
THE BEAUTIES OF CONSCRIPTION.
And this the "people's sovereignty,
Before a despot humbled,
Lies in the dust 'neath power unjust,
With crown and sceptre crumbled.
Their brows distained--like felons chained
To negroes called "their betters,"
Their whinings drowned in "Old John Brown,"
Poor sovereigns wearing fetters.
Hurrah for the Conscription,
American Conscription!
Well have they cashed old Lincoln's drafts,
Hurrah for the Conscription!
Some think the hideous spectacle
Should move the heart to sadness,
That fetters ought--oh silly thought!--
Sting freemen's hearts to madness.
When has the stock of Plymouth rock
Been melted to compunction?
As for Provos, the wide world knows
That chaining is their function.
Hurrah for the Conscription,
American Conscription,
And for the stock of Plymouth rock,
Whence sprung this new Conscription!
What matter if you 're _sandwiched_ in
A host of sable fellows,
Well flavored men, your kith and kin,
As Abe and Sumner tell us?
Is not the war--this _murder_--for
The negro, _nolens volens?_
For every three now killed of ye
There's just a negro stolen.
And then ye have Conscription,
American Conscription,
Your blood must flow for this, you know.
Hurrah for the Conscription!
The songs written by the soldiers and sailors themselves, descriptive of
their engagements, or incidents of camp and march, or expressing their
feelings, were not many, either in folk-ballads or finished poetry.
Major J. W. De Forrest's powerful verses, In Louisiana, are almost the
only specimen of the latter, and there are but few of the ruder
ballads. It may have been because the soldiers and sailors were too much
occupied, and that the life in camp and on shipboard was not favorable
to poetical reverie, although there were many hours on picket or watch
which might have been thus employed; but the fact remains that there was
more carving of bone rings than of verses, and more singing than writing
in the army and navy. There was not an absolute dearth, however, and the
soldiers and sailors sometimes told their own stories or expressed their
own feelings in verse. One of the best of these was written during
the early days of the war by H. Millard, a member of Company A,
Seventy-first Regiment, concerning the march from Annapolis to the
Junction, and has the genuine flavor of soldiership as well as a fine
spirit of _camaraderie_.
It is entitled Only Nine Miles to the Junction:--
The Rhode Island boys were posted along
On the road from Annapolis station,
As the Seventy-first Regiment, one thousand strong,
Went on in defense of the nation.
We'd been marching all day in the sun's scorching ray,
With two biscuits each as a ration,
When we asked Gov. Sprague to show us the way,
And "How many miles to the Junction?"
How many miles--how many miles,
And how many miles to the Junction;
When we asked Gov. Sprague to show us the way,
And "How many miles to the Junction?"
The Rhode Island boys cheered us on out of sight,
After giving the following injunction:
"Just keep up your courage, you 'll come out all right,
For it's only nine miles to the Junction."
They gave us hot coffee, a grasp of the hand,
Which cheered and refreshed our exhaustion;
We reached in six hours the long-promised land,
For't was only nine miles to the Junction.
There were not many attempts to describe the battles in which the
soldiers took part, and they were left to the poets, who did not see
them, and had to depend, not very successfully, upon their imagination.
There was, however, a ballad of the Seven Days' Fight before Richmond,
evidently written by a soldier, and of some force and vigor. It begins:
--
Away down in old Yirginny many months ago,
McClellan made a movement and made it very slow.
The Rebel Generals found it out and pitched into our rear;
They caught the very devil, for they found old Kearney
there.
In the old Yirginny low-lands, low-lands,
The old Yirginny low-lands, low.
The bard details the fights as though they were a succession of Union
victories, and concludes with a defense of General McClellan:--
Now all you politicians, a word I have for you,
Just let our little Mac alone, for he is tried and true;
For you have found out lately that he is our only hope,
For twice he saved the Capitol, likewise McDowell and
Pope.
The enthusiasm aroused by General McClellan among the rank and file
of the Army of the Potomac had no counterpart in regard to any other
commander, was proof against failure and defeat, and lingered, to a
certain extent, even to the close of the war. His removal caused a great
deal of indignation, and called out a good many protests and appeals for
his restoration. A song, Give us back our old Commander, was a good deal
sung at the time:--
Give us back our old Commander,
Little Mac, the people's pride;
Let the army and the nation
In their choice be satisfied.
With McClellan as our leader,
Let us strike the blow anew;
Give us back our old Commander,
He will see the battle through.
Give us back our old Commander,
Let him manage, let him plan;
With McClellan as our leader,
We can wish no better man.
The very rollicking and nonsensical chorus of Bummers, come and meet Us,
belongs to this period, and was almost as popular as John Brown's Body,
fulfilling amply and simply the conditions for relieving the lungs. Like
the sailors' "shanties" and the plantation choruses, it was capable of
indefinite extension and improvisation. The following is a specimen of
its construction:--
McClellan is our leader, we've had our last retreat,
McClellan is our leader, we've had our last retreat,
McClellan is our leader, we 've had our last retreat,
We 'll now go marching on.
Say, brothers, will you meet us,
Say, brothers, will you meet us,
Say, brothers, will you meet us,
As we go marching on?
*****
The girls we left behind us, boys, our sweethearts in the
North,
The girls we left behind us, boys, our sweethearts in the
North,
The girls we left behind us, boys, our sweethearts in the
North,
Smile on us as we march.
Oh sweethearts, don't forget us,
Oh sweethearts, don't forget us,
Oh sweethearts, don't forget us,
We 'll soon come marching home.
A seaman on board the Vandalia, one of the ships engaged in the
capture of Port Royal, wrote a description of the engagement, which has
considerable of the light of battle in it. It is entitled:--
THE PORT ROYAL DANCE.
Behold our glorious banner floats gayly in the air,
But four hours hence base traitors swore we could not plant
it there;
But brave Dupont he led us on to fight the vaunting foe,
And soon the rebel standard was in the dust laid low.
Whack row de dow,
How are you, old Port Royal?
Whack row de dow,
How are you, Secesh?
When we were seen advancing they laughed with foolish pride,
And said that soon our Northern fleet they'd sink beneath
the tide;
And with their guns trained carefully they waited our advance,
And the gallant Wabash soon struck up the music of the
dance.
The Susquehanna next in line delivered her broadside,
With deadly aim each shot was sent and well each gun was
plied;
And still our gallant ships advanced, and each one, as she
passed,
Poured in her deadly messengers, and the foe fell thick and
fast.
Each ship advanced in order, each captain wore a smile,
Until the famed Vandalia brought up the rear in style,
And as our guns were shortest we balanced to the right,
And brought us to the enemy the closest in the fight.
Then round the room (Port Royal bay) we took a Highland
Fling,
And showed them in Fort Walker what loud music we could
sing.
And then we poured in our broadsides that brought their
courage low,
And o'er the rebel batteries soon our Union flag did flow.
Three cheers for gallant Haggerty, he led us safely through;
And three for our loved Whiting, he is the real true blue.
Success to every officer who fought with us that day;
Together may we pass unscathed through many a gallant
fray.
A health to every gallant tar who did his duty well,
Peace to the ashes of the dead who nobly fighting fell.
'T was in a glorious cause they died, the Union to maintain.
We who are left, when called upon, will try it o'er again.
Some of the disagreeable features of a soldier's duty and camp life were
dealt with by the soldiers in the spirit of humorous exaggeration, which
was as much an evidence of high spirits as the enthusiastic choruses.
A camp poet thus relieves his feelings in regard to the exercise of
"double quick:"--
Since I became a volunteer things have went rather queer;
Some say I'm a three months' man, and others a three years'
volunteer.
With plenty of likes and dislikes to all I have to stick;
There's plenty of pork, salt horse, and plenty of Double
Quick.
Oh, I'm miserable, I'm miserable,
To all I 'll have to stick.
The old salt horse is passable,
But d-n the Double-Quick.
If a friend should call to see you the men have a pretty game.
They call him paymaster, obstacle, or some such kind of a
name.
They chase him around the camp; it's enough to make him
sick
To try and teach him discipline by giving him Double-Quick.
You may feel rather hungry, almost in a starving state,
And you wish to get your dinner first, all ready with your
plate;
There's always others just the same, waiting for the lick;
To be the twentieth one, you must travel Double-:Quick.
Once upon every Sunday to church you must always go,
Your bayonet by your side in case you should meet the foe;
And when the service was ended it was called the moral trick
To drive you back to your camp at a pleasant Double-Quick.
Each day there are just twelve roll-calls to keep you in the
camp;
If off three rods the bugle sounds, back you will have to tramp,
And, if you chance to miss, why, you are a poor, gone chick,--
Fourteen bricks in your knapsack, and four hours Double
Quick.
Now, all you chaps who would enlist, don't leap before you
look,
And, if you wish to fight for the Union, go on your own hook,
For, if a soldier you become, it will be your last kick,
To the devil you will surely be drove headlong Double-Quick.