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LINES
BY OUR CORPORAL.
Ha, boys! what's that we hear
Out of the South so clear?
Cannon and thunder-cheer,
True hearts and loyal!—
Aye, 'tis Dupont at work,
Shelling the snakes that lurk
Down by Port Royal!
Out of the South so clear?
Cannon and thunder-cheer,
True hearts and loyal!—
Aye, 'tis Dupont at work,
Shelling the snakes that lurk
Down by Port Royal!
80
What's this from old Kentuck?
There, down upon his luck,
Puts many a flying scamp
What could you offer
To stop him as he scuds?
Not all the baby duds
Hived in your thieving camp,
Black Zollicoffer!
There, down upon his luck,
Puts many a flying scamp
What could you offer
To stop him as he scuds?
Not all the baby duds
Hived in your thieving camp,
Black Zollicoffer!
Straight through Tennessee
The flag is flapping free—
Aye, nothing shorter!
But first, with shot and shell,
The road was cleared right well—
Ye made each muzzle tell,
Brave Foote and Porter!
The flag is flapping free—
Aye, nothing shorter!
But first, with shot and shell,
The road was cleared right well—
Ye made each muzzle tell,
Brave Foote and Porter!
Shear the old Stripes and Stars
Short, for the Bloody Bars?
No—not an atom!
How, 'neath yon cannon-smoke,
Volley and charge and stroke,
Roar around Roanoke!—
Burnside is at 'em!
Short, for the Bloody Bars?
No—not an atom!
How, 'neath yon cannon-smoke,
Volley and charge and stroke,
Roar around Roanoke!—
Burnside is at 'em!
O, brave lads of the West,
Joy to each valiant breast!
Three days of steady fight—
Three shades of stormy night—
Donelson tumbles.
Surrender, out of hand!
“Unchivalrous demand!”
(So Buckner grumbles.)
Joy to each valiant breast!
Three days of steady fight—
Three shades of stormy night—
Donelson tumbles.
Surrender, out of hand!
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(So Buckner grumbles.)
March in, stout Grant and Smith,
(Ah, souls of pluck and pith!)
Haul down, for the Old Flag,
That black and bloody rag—
Twelve thousand in a bag!
True hearts are overjoyed—
But half as many scamper,
(Ah, there's the only damper!)
Through the very worst of weathers,
After old Fuss-and-Feathers
And foul Barabbas-Floyd.
(Ah, souls of pluck and pith!)
Haul down, for the Old Flag,
That black and bloody rag—
Twelve thousand in a bag!
True hearts are overjoyed—
But half as many scamper,
(Ah, there's the only damper!)
Through the very worst of weathers,
After old Fuss-and-Feathers
And foul Barabbas-Floyd.
Was't funk that made them flee?
Nay—they're as bold as we—
'Twas their bad cause, d'ye see,
Whereof they well were knowing,
(For all their brag and blowing,
Their cursing and their crowing,)
That is what cowed 'em!
Keep the Old Flag a-going—
Crowd 'em, boys, crowd 'em!
Nay—they're as bold as we—
'Twas their bad cause, d'ye see,
Whereof they well were knowing,
(For all their brag and blowing,
Their cursing and their crowing,)
That is what cowed 'em!
Keep the Old Flag a-going—
Crowd 'em, boys, crowd 'em!
No more palaver!
Speeches ain't glory—
Sink whig and tory!
Rifle clean, bayonet keen,
Saddle tight, sabre bright,
These tell the story!
Speeches ain't glory—
Sink whig and tory!
Rifle clean, bayonet keen,
Saddle tight, sabre bright,
These tell the story!
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