 | The Romance of the Civil War |  |
108. The Johnny Reb's Epistle to
the Ladies
By W. E. M. (1862)
YE Southern maids and ladies fair,
Of whatsoe'r degree,
A moment stop—a moment spare
And listen unto me.
Of whatsoe'r degree,
A moment stop—a moment spare
And listen unto me.
414
The summer's gone, the frosts have come,
The winter draweth near,
And still they march to fife and drum—
Our armies I do you hear?
The winter draweth near,
And still they march to fife and drum—
Our armies I do you hear?
Give heed then to the yarn I spin,
Who says that—it is coarse?
At your fair feet I lay the sin,
The thread of my discourse.
Who says that—it is coarse?
At your fair feet I lay the sin,
The thread of my discourse.
To speak of shoes, it boots not here;
Our Q. M's, wise and good,
Give cotton calf-skins twice a year
With soles of cottonwood.
Our Q. M's, wise and good,
Give cotton calf-skins twice a year
With soles of cottonwood.
Shoeless we meet the well-shod foe,
And bootless him despise;
Sockless we watch, with bleeding toe,
And him sockdologise!
And bootless him despise;
Sockless we watch, with bleeding toe,
And him sockdologise!
415
Perchance our powder giveth out,
We fight them, then, with rocks;
With hungry craws we craw-fish not,
But, then, we miss the socks.
We fight them, then, with rocks;
With hungry craws we craw-fish not,
But, then, we miss the socks.
Few are the miseries that we lack,
And comforts seldom come;
What have I in my haversack?
And what have you at home?
And comforts seldom come;
What have I in my haversack?
And what have you at home?
Fair ladies, then, if nothing loth,
Bring forth your spinning wheels;
Knit not your brow—but knit to clothe
In bliss our blistered heels.
Bring forth your spinning wheels;
Knit not your brow—but knit to clothe
In bliss our blistered heels.
Do not you take amiss, dear miss,
The burden of my yarn;
Alas! I know there's many a lass
That doesn't care a darn.
The burden of my yarn;
Alas! I know there's many a lass
That doesn't care a darn.
But you can aid us if you will,
And heaven will surely bless,
And Foote will vote to foot a bill
For succouring our distress.
And heaven will surely bless,
And Foote will vote to foot a bill
For succouring our distress.
For all the socks the maids have made,
My thanks, for all the brave;
And honoured be your pious trade,
The soldier's sole to save.
My thanks, for all the brave;
And honoured be your pious trade,
The soldier's sole to save.
416
| The Romance of the Civil War | |