War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs.

Not till a voice shall say:
"It is the Judgment Day!
O Earth! give up thy dead"—
Ah! not till this is said,
Will it be ever known
Who here, around this stone,
In death's sweet slumber softly rest,
A wreath of roses on each breast.

We only know that they,
With honor, wore the gray—
Badge of eternal fame—
And in thy cause, O South!
Bore to the cannon's mouth
Thy crimson oriflamb,
And hailed its star-cross, waving free,
On many a field of victory!

Enough for us to know—
For us they faced the foe!
And though we carve "Unknown"
On this memorial stone,
We feel that Glory claims
For Fame no nobler names
Than theirs—these unknown sons of ours,
Whose dust to-day we deck with, flowers.

149

Unknown—save unto God—
Sleep on beneath the sod,
O heroes of the Gray!
Sleep till the Judgment Day;—
When God shall call His own,
There will be none unknown,
For from the ranks, distinct and clear,
You'll answer to the roll-call: "Here!"

DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON.

"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle."
"Tell Maj. Hawkes to advance the commissary train."
"Let us cross the river and rest in the shade."

The stars of night contain the glittering Day,
And rain his glory down with sweeter grace,
Upon the dark world's grand, enchanted face—
All loth to turn away.

And so the Day, about to yield his breath,
Utters the stars unto the listening Night,
To stand for burning fare-the-wells of light
Said on the verge of death,

O hero-life that lit us like the sun!
O hero words that glittered like the stars,
And stood and shone above the gloomy wars
When the hero life was done!

150

The phantoms of a battle came to dwell
In the fitful vision of his dying eyes—
Yet even in battle-dreams he sends supplies
To those he loved so well.

His army stands in battle-line arrayed;
His couriers fly—all's done—now God decide!
And not till then he saw the other side,
Or would accept the shade.

Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain!
Still shine the words that miniature his deeds;
O thrice beloved! where'er thy great heart bleeds,
Solace hast thou for pain!

DIXIE.

(The Original Words.)

I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten,
Look away, look away—look away, Dixie land.
In Dixie land where I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin',
Look away, look away—look away, Dixie land.
Den I wish I was in Dixie,
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie land I'll take my stand,
To lib and die in Dixie.
Away, away, away down south in Dixie!
Away, away, away down south in Dixie!

151

Ole missus marry "Will-de-weaber,"
William was a gay deceaber;
Look away, etc.
But when he put his arms around 'er,
He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder,
Look away, etc.
His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber,
But dat did not seem to greab 'er,
Look away, etc.
Ole missus acted de foolish part,
And died for a man dat broke her heart;
Look away, etc.
Den I wish I was in Dixie,
Hooray! Hooray! etc.

Now here's a health to the next ole missus,
And all the gals that want to kiss us,
Look away, etc.
But if you want to drive 'way sorrow,
Come and hear dis song to-morrow,
Look away, etc.
Den I wish I was in Dixie,
Hooray! Hooray! etc.

Dars buckwheat cakes and ingen batter,
Makes you fat or a little fatter;
Look away, etc.
Den hoe it down and scratch and grabble,
To Dixie's land I'm bound to trabble;
Look away, etc.
Den I wish I was in Dixie,
Hooray! Hooray! etc.

HAPPY LAND OF CANAAN.

I sing you a song, and it won't detain me long,
All about the times we are gaining,
I sing it in rhymes, and suit it to the times,
And call it the happy land of Canaan.

Chorus. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!
Look out there's a good time coming,
Never mind the weather, but get over double trouble,
I'm bound for the happy land of Canaan.

Old Abe Lincoln was elected President,
And from a rail-splitter he is gaining;
The Yankees they may brag, but we'll raise the flag,
And make the South a happy land of Canaan.
Chorus. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! etc.

Down at Harper's Ferry section they raised an insurrection—
Old Brown thought the niggers would sustain him;
Along came Governor Wise, and took him by surprise,
And sent him to the happy land of Canaan,
Chorus. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! etc.

Old Brown is dead, and the last words he said
Was, "don't keep me here long remaining"—
First we took up a slope, then dropped him on a rope,
And dropped him in the happy land of Canaan.
Chorus. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! etc.

153

Old Buchanan got his orders, and left the fourth of March,
And says some credit he was gaining;
Good folks, let him rest, the old man has done his best,"
He is bound for the happy land of Canaan.
Chorus. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! etc.

Governor Harris shakes his fist at the abolitionist,
And says he could give them a training;
He would whip them so freely, both Smith and Horace Greely,
If he could catch them in the happy land of Canaan.
Chorus. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! etc.

BONNIE BLUE FLAG.

Harry Mccarthy.

We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil,
Fighting for the property we gained by honest toil;
And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far:
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern Rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!

154

As long as the Union was faithful to her trust,
Like friends and like brothers we were kind, we were just;
But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar,
We hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!
Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

First gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand,
Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand;
Next, quickly, Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida,
All raised on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!
Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

Ye men of valor, gather 'round the Banner of the Right,
Texas, and fair Louisiana join us in the fight;
Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesman rare,
Now rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

And here's to brave Virginia! the Old Dominion State,
With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate;
Impelled by her example, now other States prepare
To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

155

Then here's to our Confederacy! strong we are and brave,
Like patriots old we'll fight our heritage to save;
And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer,
So cheer for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!

Then cheer, boys, cheer! raise the joyous shout,
For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out;
And let another roaring cheer for Tennessee be given—
The single star on the Bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be eleven!
Hurrah! Hurrah! etc.

NOTE.—Miss Rutherford, in her "American Authors," alluding to this
song says: "General Butler threatened to fine any man, woman or child,
twenty-five dollars who sang, whistled, or played it, and then he arrested
the publisher, A. E. Blackmar (New Orleans), destroyed the sheet music,
and fined him five hundred dollars."

FEW DAYS.

Our country now is great and free,
Few days, few days;
And thus shall it forever be,
We know the way.
Northern foes may gather here,
Few days, few days;
We will protect what we hold dear—
We know the way.

156

Chorus. We'll battle innovation,
Few days, few days,
And fight 'gainst usurpation
By a cunning foe;
For our guide is freedom's banner,
Few days, few days;
Our guide is freedom's banner.
We know the way.

The world shall see that we are true,
Few days, few days;
And that we know a thing or two,
We know the way.
As Southern boys we're hand in hand,
Few days, few days;
Our countless throng shall fill the land,
We know the way.
Chorus. We'll battle innovation, etc.

From mountain and from valley forth.
Few days, few days,
We'll go to meet the open North,
We know the way;
The freedom that our fathers won,
Few days, few days.
Shall be defended by each son,
We know the way.
Chorus. We'll battle innovation, etc.

Then shout, then shout o'er hill and plain,
Few days, few days;
We will our country's rights maintain,
We know the way;

157

We'll always guard it with our might,
Few days, few days;
And keep it steadfast in the right—
We know the way.
Chorus. We'll battle innovation, etc.

ROOT HOG OR DIE.

Old Abe Lincoln keeps kicking up a fuss—
I think he'd better stop it, for he'll only make it worse;
We'll have our independence—I'll tell you the reason why,
Jeff Davis will make them sing, "Root hog or die."

When Lincoln went to reinforce Sumter for the fight,
He told his men to pass through the harbor in the night;
He said to them: Be careful, I'll tell you the reason why,
The Southern boys are mighty bad on "Root hog or die."

Then Beauregard called a halt according to the style—
The Lincolnites faced about, and looked mighty wild;
They couldn't give the password, I'll tell you the reason why,
Beauregard's countersign was: "Root hog or die. '

158

They anchored out a battery upon the waters free—
It was the queerest looking thing that ever you did see,
It was the fall of Sumter, I'll tell you the reason why,
It was the Southern alphabet of "Root hog or die."

They telegraphed to Abraham they took her like a flirt;
They underscored another line—"there was nobody hurt."
We're bound to have the Capital, I'll tell you the reason why,
We want to teach old Abe to sing "Root hog or die."

When Abraham read the dispatch, the tear came in his eye,
He walled his eyes to Bobby, and Bobby began to cry,
They prayed for Jeff to spare them, I'll tell you the reason why,
They didn't want to "mark time" to "Root hog or die."

The Kentucky braves at Trenton are eager for the fight—
They want to help the Southern boys to set old Abram right;
They had to leave their native State, I'll tell you the reason why,
Old Kentucky wouldn't sing "Root hog or die."

WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER.

Dearest one! do you remember,
When we last did meet?
When you told me how you loved me,
Kneeling at my feet?
Oh, how proud you stood before me,
In your suit of gray;
When you vowed from me and country,
Ne'er to go astray?
Chorus. Weeping, sad and lonely,
Sighs and tears how vain;
When this cruel war is over,
Praying then to meet again.

When the summer breeze is sighing
Mournfully along,
Or when autumn leaves are falling,
Sadly breathes the song.
Oft in dreams I see you lying
On the battle-plain,
Lonely, wounded, even dying,
Calling, but in vain.
Chorus. Weeping, sad and lonely, etc.

If amid the din of battle
Nobly you should fall,
Far away from those who love you,
None to hear you call;
Who would whisper words of comfort?
Who would soothe your pain?
Ah, the many cruel fancies,
Ever in my brain!
Chorus. Weeping, sad and lonely, etc.

160

But our country called you, loved one;
Angels guide your way;
While our Southern boys are fighting,
We can only pray.
When you strike for God and freedom,
Let all nations see,
How you love our Southern banner—
Emblem of the free!
Chorus. Weeping, sad and lonely, etc.

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC
TO-NIGHT.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night,"
Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket;
'Tis nothing—a private or two, now and then,
Will not count much in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost! only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night,"
When the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming,
And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
And the light of the camp-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping,
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.

161

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundle-bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain;
His musket falls slack—his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with the memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother—"may Heaven defend her."

The moon seems to shine as brightly as then—
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips, and when low murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off the tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun close up to his breast,
As if to keep down the heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
And his footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes through, the broad belt of light,
Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustles the leaves?
Was it the moon-light so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle! "Ha! Mary, good-bye!"
And his life blood is ebbing and plashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night,"
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—
"The Picket's" off duty forever!

THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY,

(Air: "The boy with the auburn hair.")

Bob Roeback is my sweetheart's name,
He's off to the wars and gone;
He's fighting for his Nannie dear,
His sword is buckled on;
He's fighting for his own true love,
His foes he does defy;
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy.
Chorus. Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
He is my only joy,
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy.

When Bob comes home from war's alarms,
We start anew in life,
I'll give myself right up to him,
A dutiful, loving wife;
I'll try my best to please my dear,
For he is my only joy,
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy.
Chorus. Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! etc.

Oh! if in battle he were slain,
I am sure that I should die;
But I am sure he'll come again,
And cheer my weeping eye;
But should he fall in this our cause,
He still would be my joy,
For many a sweetheart mourns the loss
Of a Southern soldier boy.
Chorus. Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! etc—

163

I hope for the best, and so do all
Whose hopes are in the field;
I know that we shall win the day,
For Southrons never yield;
And when we think of those that are away,
We'll look above for joy;
And I'm mighty glad my Bobby is
A Southern soldier boy.
Chorus. Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! etc.

GOOBER PEAS.

Sitting by the roadside on a summer day,
Chatting with my messmates, passing time away,
Lying in the shadow underneath the trees,
Goodness! how delicious, eating goober peas!
Chorus. Peas! peas! peas! peas! eating goober peas!
Goodness! how delicious, eating goober peas!

When a horseman passes, the soldiers have a rule
To cry out at their loudest, "Mister, here's your mule,"
But another pleasure, enchantinger than these,
Is wearing out your grinders, eating goober peas!
Chorus. Peas! peas! peas! peas! eating goober peas!
Goodness! how delicious, eating goober peas!

Just before the battle the General hears a row,
He says, "The Yankees are coming, I hear their rifles now";

164

He turns around in wonder, and what do you think he sees?
The Georgia militia eating goober peas!
Chorus. Peas! peas! peas! peas! eating goober peas!
Goodness! how delicious, eating goober peas!

I think my song has lasted almost long enough,
The subject's interesting, but the rhymes are mighty rough.
I wish this war was over, when free from rags and fleas,
We'd kiss our wives and sweethearts, and gobble goober peas!
CHORUS—Peas! peas! peas! peas! eating goober peas!
Goodness! how delicious, eating goober peas!

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY.

Come, stack arms, men! pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night;
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
To swell the Brigade's rousing song,
Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."

We see him now!—the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye, askew—
The shrewd, dry smile—the speech as pat—
So calm, so blunt, so true;

165

The "blue light elder" knows o'er well—
Says he, "That's Banks—he's fond of shell—
Lord save his soul! we'll give him"—well,
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old blue light's going to pray;
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! 'tis his way!
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God—
"Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod;
Amen!"—that's "Stonewall's way."

He's in the saddle now! Fall in!
Steady—the whole Brigade!
Hill's at the ford cut off! He'll win
His way out, ball and blade;
What matter if our shoes are worn!
What matter if our feet are torn!
"Quick step—we're with him before dawn!"
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
There's Longstreet struggling in the list,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge—
Pope and his Yankees whipped before—
"Bayonet and grape!" hear Stonewall roar,
"Charge, Stuart!" Pay off Ashby's score
In "Stonewall Jackson's way."

166

Ah, maiden! wait, and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band;
Ah, widow! read with eyes that burn
That ring, upon thy hand;
Ah, wife! sew on, pray on, hope on,
Thy life shall not be all forlorn—
The foe had better ne'er been born,
Than get in "Stonewall's way."

CHEER, BOYS, CHEER.

Cheer, boys, cheer! we'll march away to battle!
Cheer, boys, cheer! for our sweethearts and our wives!
Cheer, boys, cheer! we'll nobly do our duty,
And give to the South our hearts, our arms, our lives.

Bring forth the flag—our country's noble standard,
Wave It on high 'till the wind shakes each fold out;
Proudly it floats, nobly waving in the vanguard;
Then cheer, boys, cheer! with a lusty, long, bold shout.
Chorus. Cheer, boys, cheer! we'll march away to battle! etc.

But as we march, with heads all lowly bending,
Let us implore a blessing from on high;
Our cause is just—the right from wrong defending,
And the God of Battles will listen to our cry.
Chorus. Cheer, boys, cheer! we'll march away to battle, etc.

167

Though to our homes we never may return,
Ne'er press again our loved ones in our arms,
O'er our lone graves their faithful hearts will mourn;
Then, cheer up, boys, cheer! such death has no alarms.
Chorus. Cheer, boys, cheer! we'll march away to battle! etc.

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 every one 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 every man would sing the song, "Mister, here's your mule."
Chorus. Come on, come on, come on, old man, etc.

168

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. Come on, come on, come on, old man, etc.

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 every one he met, "O mister, where's my mule?"

LORENA.

The years creep slowly by, Lorena,
The snow is on the grass again;
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena,
The frost gleams where the flowers have been;
But the heart throbs on as warmly now,
As when the summer days were nigh;
Oh! the sun can never dip so low,
Adown affection's cloudless sky.

169

A hundred months have passed, Lorena,
Since last I held that hand in mine,
And felt that pulse beat fast, Lorena,
Though mine beat faster by far than thine;
A hundred months—'twas flow'ry May,
When up the hilly slope we climbed,
To watch the dying of the day,
And hear the distant church-bells chimed.

We loved each other then, Lorena,
More than we ever dared to tell.
And what we might have been, Lorena,
Had but our loving prospered well—
But then, 'tis past—the years are gone,
I'll call not up their shadowy forms;
I'll say to them, "lost years, sleep on!
Sleep on! nor heed life's pelting storms,"

The story of that past, Lorena,
Alas! I care not to repeat,
The hopes that could not last, Lorena,
They lived, but only lived to cheat;
I would not cause e'en one regret,
To rankle in your bosom now;
For "if we try we may forget,"
Were words of thine long years ago.

Yes, these were words of thine, Lorena,
They burn within my memory yet;
They touched some tender chords, Lorena,
Which thrill and tremble with regret;

170

'Twas not thy woman's heart that spoke;
Thy heart was always true to me—
A duty, stern and pressing, broke
The tie which linked my soul to thee.

It matters little now, Lorena,
The past—is in the eternal past,
Our heads will soon lay low, Lorena,
Life's tide is ebbing out so fast;
There is a future! O thank God!
Of life this is so small a part!
'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,
But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart!

PAUL VANE.

(ANSWER TO "LORENA.")

The years are creeping slowly by, dear Paul,
The winters corne and go;
The wind sweeps past with mournful cry, dear Paul,
And pelt my face with snow;
But there's no snow upon the heart, dear Paul,
'Tis summer always there;
Those early loves throw sunshine over all,
And sweeten memories dear.

I thought it easy to forget, dear Paul,
Life glowed with youthful hope;
The glorious future gleamed yet, dear Paul,
And bade us clamber up;

171

They frowning said, "it must not, cannot be,
Break now the hopeless bands!"
And, Paul, you know how well that bitter day,
I bent to their commands.

I've kept you ever in my heart, dear Paul,
Through years of good and ill;
Our souls could not be torn apart, dear Paul,
They're bound together still!
I never knew how dear you were to me,
Till I was left alone;
I thought my poor, poor heart would break, the day
They told me you were gone.

Perhaps we'll never, never meet, dear Paul,
Upon this earth so fair,
But there, where happy angels greet, dear Paul,
You'll meet Lorena there;
Together up the ever-shining way,
We'll press with hoping heart;
Together through the bright, eternal day,
And never more to part.

THE CONFEDERATE NOTE.

These lines were found written upon the back of a Confederate note
shortly after the surrender. Their author is Major S. A. Jonas, Aberdeen,
Mississippi.

Representing nothing on God's earth now,
And naught in the waters below it,
As the pledge of a nation that's dead and gone,
Keep it, dear friend, and show it;
Show it to those who will lend an ear
To the tale this trifle can tell,
Of a liberty born of the patriot's dream,
Of a storm-cradled nation that fell.

Too poor to possess the precious ores,
And too much of a stranger to borrow,
We issued to-day our "promise to pay,"
And hoped to redeem on the morrow.
The days rolled by, and weeks became years,
But our coffers were empty still,
Coin was so rare that the treasury'd quake
If a dollar should drop in the till;

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 each soldier received it;
It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay,
And each Southern patriot believed it.

173

But our boys thought little of price or of pay,
Or of bills that were over-due;
We knew if it bought us our bread to-day,
'Twas the best our poor 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 REBEL'S REQUIEM.

The following verses were written by Col. M. V. Moore, ot
Auburn, Ala., on the morning when the battle of Chickamauga was
opening—the writer then being under the impression that he
would not survive the coming struggle, which he felt would be
a victory for the Confederates.

O give him a grave, when the victory's won,
In the dust of his own dear clime;
And lay him to rest with his comrades brave—
Dead, and dead in a cause sublime!
Heap the clay lightly o'er the upturned face,
Tearless smooth over the blood-stained sod,
And leave him to rest as the soldier dies,
Committing his cause and his all to God.

Shallow ye'll dig there the burial trench,
And narrow the pillowless bed,
But straighten the limbs, and his blanket bring
And drape it gently around the dead;

174

The shattered breast where once had dwelt
The virtues and pride and love,
Shall reck not the clods, but the spirit flown
Shall smile on the mound above.

Go speak of his name, as ye tell of the fight,
To the dear one who gave him her vow,
And tell her his life to his country he gave,
But his heart he sends to her now.
Perchance she may weep o'er a "rebel's" doom,
And the thought may humble her pride,
But a heart that was truer to his lady-love
And his native land never died!

O maiden! weep for the fallen love,
O mother! strengthen your prayer,
O father! tell of thy heart's dear loss,
And stifle the agony there.
O brothers! give to your country's cause
The all of your treasure and blood—
For Heaven shall keep the record true,
And vengeance shall be with God!

We curse not the foe for the deed now done—
He has stricken a martyr down!
And though we have borne the "rebel's" cross,
Justice will give us the crown;
And Heaven alone shall judge the "crime,"
While damning the tyranny deeper
That, under the guise of "Liberty's cause,"
Was forging a chain for the sleeper!

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He sleeps! and over his stoneless grave
The shafts of his enemies rattle,
But he heeds them not, no less than he did
Their guns on the morn of battle;
O well may he rest! for the future brings
A day that shall brighten his story,
When Fame shall trumpet aright his name,
And a world shall claim his glory!

I'M CONSCRIPTED, SMITH, CONSCRIPTED.

The following admirable parody of General Lytle's famous
poem, "I Am Dying, Egypt, Dying," was written by the late
Albert Roberts, (" John Happy ") of Nashville, Tennessee.

I'm conscripted, Smith, conscripted—
Ebb the subterfuges fast,
And the sub-enrolling marshals
Gather with the evening blast—
Let thine arms, O! Smith, support me,
Hush your gab and close your ear,
Conscript-grabbers close upon you,
Hunting for you—far and near.

Though my scarred, rheumatic "trotters"
Bear me limping short no more,
And my shattered constitution
Won't exempt me as before;

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Though the provost guard surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,
I must to the "front" to perish,
Die the great conscripted still.

Let not the seizer's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low—
'Twas no fancy drink that "slewed "him—
Whisky straight-out struck the blow.
Here, then, pillowed on thy bosom,
Ere he's hurried quite away,
Him, who, drunk with bust-head whisky,
Madly threw himself away.

Should the base, plebeian rabble
Dare assail me as I roam,
Seek my noble squaw, Octavia,
Weeping in her widowed home;
Seek her, say the guards have got me
Under their protecting wings,
Going to make me join the army,
Where the shell and minie sings.

I'm conscripted, Smith, conscripted—
Hark! you hear that Grabber's cry—
Run, old Smith, my boy, they'll catch you—
Take you to the front to die.
Fare thee well! I go to battle,
There to die, decay and swell.
Lockhart and Dick Taylor guard thee,
Sweet Octavia—Smith!—farewell!

THE PRISONER'S LAMENT.

The following song was written by Captain Clarkson, of
Missouri, and set to music by D. O. Booker, of Tennessee,
while both were prisoners of war on Johnson's Island.

My home is on a sea-girt isle,
Far, far away from thee;
Where thy dear form, thy blessed smile,
I never, never see.
I rest beneath a northern sky,
A sky to me so dreary—
I think of thee, dear one, and sigh
Alone upon Lake Erie—
Alone, alone, alone upon Lake Erie.

The winds that waft to others joy,
But mock me with their breath;
They waste a perfume to destroy,
They sing a song of death.
The waves that beat against the shore,
Keep angry watch at night;
They wash beneath the prison door,
And always in my sight.

No more I hear my loved one's voice,
No more her form I see;
No longer does my heart rejoice,
No longer am I free.
I lay me down to sleep,
With aching heart and weary,
With wind and wave my watch to keep,
I'm cast upon Lake Erie.

TO GO OR NOT TO GO.

The following racy parody on Hamlet's famous soliloquy
appeared during the war in the Confederate Union. The
merciless satire was dedicated to the "Exempts," and the writer
of it signed himself "Exempt." The verses constitute an
admirable companion-piece to the late lamented Albert Roberts
parody, given elsewhere in this collection.

To go or not to go, that is the question:
Whether it pays best to suffer pestering
By idle girls and garrulous old women,
Or to take up arms against a host of Yankees,
And by opposing get killed—to die, to sleep—
(Get out! ) and in this sleep to say we "sink
To rest by all our country's wishes blest"
And live forever (that's a consummation,
Just what I'm after). To march, to fight—
To fight! Perchance to die—aye, there's the rub!
For while I'm asleep who'd take care of Mary
And the babes—when Bill is in the low ground—
Who'd feed 'em, eh? There's the respect
I have for them that makes life sweet;
For who would bear the bag to mill,
Plow Dobbin, cut the wheat, dig "taters,"
Kill hogs, and do all sort of drudgery,
If I am fool enough to get a Yankee
Bullet in my brain! Who'd cry for me?
Would patriotism pay my debts, when dead?
But oh! the dread of something after death—
That undiscovered fellow who'd court Mary,
And do my hugging—that's agony,
And makes me want to stay at home,
'Specially as I ain't mad with nobody.

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Shells and bullets make cowards of us all;
And blamed my skin if snortin' steeds,
And pomp and circumstance of war
Are to be compared with feather-bed,
And Mary by my side.

THE SOUTHERN MARSEILLAISE.

Soldiers, rouse ye to the battle,
Arm, arm ye at your country's call;
Hark to the sound of war beyond ye,
Rouse ye! rouse ye! one and all.
Homes and liberties are threatened,
Foes would have ye all their own;
Rouse! assert your manhood, freemen!
Prove that ye can stand alone.
Chorus. To arms! to arms! ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe!
March on! march on!
All hearts resolved
On victory or death!
March on! march on!
All hearts resolved
On victory or death!

Hark! the sound of battle calls ye,
Arm yourself at Honor's call;
Go, defend your rights as freeman—
Go, protect your homes, your all!

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Show to all the nations round ye,
Show them that your rights ye know,
Show them that ye can defend them—
That your foes ye will lay low.
Chorus. To arms! to arms! etc.

Still, as brothers, war's red hatchet
Ye would bury low and deep;
Only right the wrongs ye heed of,
Strife and carnage then may sleep.
God protect our country ever,
From the woes of civil strife;
Keep, oh keep the dire destroyer
Far from all that's dear in life.
Chorus. To arms! to arms! etc.

TO A ONE-ARMED SOUTHERN SOLDIER.

HENRY JEROME STOCKARD,

Thou hero! that for four ensanguined years,
Did'st face the battle's shattering shot and shell;
And though ten thousand at thy right hand fell,
Not once dids't waver with ignoble fear—
Not once, at memory of thy home, and tears
Of loved ones, when grief-crushed in mute farewell,
They yielded thee unto that awful hell,

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Whose hot breath only now no longer sears—
And then when all had perished, scarred and maimed,
With thy one hand thy ruins did'st repair
And feed, the while, thy foeman from thy store—
To tell thy valor speech hath not been framed,
A more unfading chaplet thou should'st wear,
Then e'er the bravest Gaul or Spartan wore!

SONG OF THE TEXAS RANGERS.

TUNE: "THE YELLOW ROSE OF TEXAS."

The morning-star is paling,
The camp-fires flicker low,
Our steeds are madly neighing,
For the bugle bids us go;
So put the foot in stirrup,
And shake the bridle free,
For to-day the Texas Rangers
Must cross the Tennessee.
CHORUS, With Wharton for our leader,
Well chase the dastard foe,
Till our horses bathe their fetlocks
In the deep blue Ohio.

Our men are from the prairies,
That roll broad and proud and free,
From the high and craggy mountains,
To the murmuring Mexic sea;

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And their hearts are open as the plains,
Their thoughts as proudly brave
As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard,
Or the Gulf's resistless wave.
Chorus. Then quick! into the saddle,
And shake the bridle free,
To-day with gallant Wharton,
We cross the Tennessee.

'Tis joy to be a Ranger!
To fight for dear Southland;
'Tis joy to follow Wharton,
With his gallant trusty band!
'Tis joy to see our Harrison,
Plunge like a meteor bright
Into the thickest of the fray,
And deal his deadly might.
Chorus. Oh! who'd not be a Ranger,
And follow Wharton's cry!
To battle for his country—
And, if it needs be—die!

By the Colorado's waters,
On the Gulf's deep-murmuring shore,
On our soft green peaceful prairies,
Are the homes we may see no more;
But in those homes our gentle wives,
And mothers with silvery hairs,
Are loving us with tender hearts,
And shielding us with prayers.

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Chorus. So, trusting in our country's God,
We draw our stout, good brand,
For those we love at home,
Our altars and our land.

Up, up with the crimson battle-flag—
Let the blue pennon fly;
Our steeds are stamping proudly—
They hear the battle-cry!
The thundering bomb, the bugle's call,
Proclaim the foe is near;
We strike for God and native land,
And all we hold most dear.
Chorus. Then spring into the saddle,
And shake the bridle free—
For Wharton leads, through fire and blood,
For home and victory!

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

Marie La Coste, of Georgia.

Into a ward of the white-washed halls,
Where the dead and the dying lay;
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day—
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave!
Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face—
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave—
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

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Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould,
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now—
Somebody's darling is still and cold,

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low—
One bright curl from its fair mates take—
They were somebody's pride you know;
Somebody's hand hath rested there;
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! He has somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there—
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand!
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay—
Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling child-like lips apart.

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Tenderly bury the fair young dead—
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head:
"Somebody's darling slumbers here."

BENTONVILLE.
(Written on the field, at the close of the first day's fight.)

BY T. B. CATHERWOOD.

Another battle has been fought, another victory won,
We've fought this day from rising to setting of the sun,
And He, the Great Jehovah, has aided with His arm,
To shield our wives and sisters, our hearths and homes, from harm,
Then thanks be to His hallowed name who helped us in His might,
And glory to the men who fought so stoutly for the right.

This memorable nineteenth of March, before the break of day,
We Southern men, with hearts elate, took up the onward way,
For Rumor, with her thousand tongues, asserted that we would
To-day resist the forward march of Sherman's hireling brood,

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And who could doubt the issue of the fight for which we longed,
Our God had ever fought for right, and still redressed the wronged.

Full soon upon our anxious ears the martial music fell,
The rattle of the musketry, the shriek of shot and shell;
The cheers of charging columns, the groans of men in pain,
And soon we swept, with loud hurrah, o'er wounded foes and slain,
And as the sun rose high o'erhead, our fire grew hotter still,
Aye! 'twas a bloody fight to-day, we fought at Bentonville.

But victory at last was ours, we hold the crimsoned field,
Though many a blue-coat bit the dust, ere they were forced to yield,
And as the sun sank in the West, and night came on apace,
The foeman rallied once again, once more took heart of grace;
One fierce, last effort still he made in hope to drive us back,
But found our bayonets just as sharp, our fire not more slack.

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And thus hath been a battle fought, and thus a victory won,
We've fought this day from rising to setting of the sun,
And He, the Lord God Terrible, hath aided with His arm,
To shield our wives and sweethearts, our hearths and homes, from harm;
Then glory to the Lord of Hosts, who helped us in His might,
And glory to the men who fought so valiant for the right!

University of Virginia Library

Miscellaneous.

UNKNOWN.

Charles W. Hubner.