 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
FRANK O. TICKNOR.
Was born in Baldwin county, Georgia, in 1822. He practiced
medicine, and lived on a farm in the vicinity of Columbus, Ga.,
where he died in December, 1874. His collected poems were
published by the Lippincott's in 1879, with an eloquent introduction
and an interesting biographical sketch by Paul H. Hayne.
LITTLE GIFFEN.
Out of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire;
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle and HE sixteen!)
Specter! such as you seldom see,
Little Giffen, of Tennessee!
Out of the hospital walls as dire;
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle and HE sixteen!)
Specter! such as you seldom see,
Little Giffen, of Tennessee!
"Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said;
Little the doctor can help the dead!
So we took him; and brought him where
The balm was sweet in the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed—
Utter Lazarus, heels to head!
Little the doctor can help the dead!
So we took him; and brought him where
The balm was sweet in the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed—
Utter Lazarus, heels to head!
And we watched the war with bated breath—
Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch;
And still a glint of the steel-blue eye
Told of a spirit that wouldn't die,
Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch;
And still a glint of the steel-blue eye
Told of a spirit that wouldn't die,
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And didn't. Nay more! in death's despite
The crippled skeleton "learned to write;"
"Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then
"Dear Captain," inquiring about the men.
Captain's answer: "Of eighty-five
Giffen and I are left alive."
The crippled skeleton "learned to write;"
"Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then
"Dear Captain," inquiring about the men.
Captain's answer: "Of eighty-five
Giffen and I are left alive."
Words of gloom from the war one day;
Johnston pressed at the front, they say;
Little Giffen was up and away;
A tear—his first—as he bade good-bye,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.
"I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight,
But none of Giffen—he did not write.
Johnston pressed at the front, they say;
Little Giffen was up and away;
A tear—his first—as he bade good-bye,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.
"I'll write, if spared!" There was news of the fight,
But none of Giffen—he did not write.
I sometimes fancy that, were I king
Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I'd give the best on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,
For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee!
Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I'd give the best on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,
For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee!
THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY.
The knightliest of the knightly race
That, since the days of old,
Have kept the lamp of chivalry
Alight in hearts of gold;
The kindliest of the kindly band
That, rarely hating ease,
Yet rode with Spotswood 'round the land,
And Raleigh 'round the seas.
That, since the days of old,
Have kept the lamp of chivalry
Alight in hearts of gold;
The kindliest of the kindly band
That, rarely hating ease,
Yet rode with Spotswood 'round the land,
And Raleigh 'round the seas.
Who climbed the blue Virginian hills
Against embattled foes,
And planted there, in valleys fair,
The lily and the rose;
Whose fragrance lives in many lands,
Whose beauty stars the earth,
And lights the hearths of happy homes
With loveliness and worth.
Against embattled foes,
And planted there, in valleys fair,
The lily and the rose;
Whose fragrance lives in many lands,
Whose beauty stars the earth,
And lights the hearths of happy homes
With loveliness and worth.
We thought they slept!—the sons who kept
The names of noble sires,
And slumbered while the darkness crept
Around their vigil-fires;
But, aye, the "the Golden Horseshoe" knights
Their old Dominion keep,
Whose foes have found enchanted ground,
But not a knight asleep!
The names of noble sires,
And slumbered while the darkness crept
Around their vigil-fires;
But, aye, the "the Golden Horseshoe" knights
Their old Dominion keep,
Whose foes have found enchanted ground,
But not a knight asleep!
THE OLD RIFLEMAN.
Now bring me out my buckskin suit!
My pouch and powder, too!
We'll see if seventy-six can shoot
As sixteen used to do.
My pouch and powder, too!
We'll see if seventy-six can shoot
As sixteen used to do.
Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright!
Our trigger quick and true;
As far, if not as fine a sight,
As long ago we drew.
Our trigger quick and true;
As far, if not as fine a sight,
As long ago we drew.
And pick me out a trusty flint!
A real white and blue,
Perhaps 'twill win the other tint
Before the hunt is through.
A real white and blue,
Perhaps 'twill win the other tint
Before the hunt is through.
Give boys your brass percussion caps!
Old "shut-pan" suits as well;
There's something in the sparks—perhaps
There's something in the smell!
Old "shut-pan" suits as well;
There's something in the sparks—perhaps
There's something in the smell!
We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed,
The red-skin Indian, too!
We've never thought to draw a bead
On Yankee doodle-doo!
The red-skin Indian, too!
We've never thought to draw a bead
On Yankee doodle-doo!
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But, Bessie, bless your dear old heart!
Those days are mostly done;
And now we must revive the art
Of shooting on the run!
Those days are mostly done;
And now we must revive the art
Of shooting on the run!
If Doodle must be meddling, why,
There's only this to do—
Select the black spot in his eye,
And let the daylight through!
There's only this to do—
Select the black spot in his eye,
And let the daylight through!
And if he doesn't like the way
That Bess presents the view,
He'll maybe change his mind, and stay
Where the good Doodles do!
That Bess presents the view,
He'll maybe change his mind, and stay
Where the good Doodles do!
Where Lincoln lives—the man, you know,
Who kissed the Testament,
To keep the Constitution?—No!
To keep the Government!
Who kissed the Testament,
To keep the Constitution?—No!
To keep the Government!
We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks
By which a war is won;
Especially how Seventy-six
Took Tories on the run.
By which a war is won;
Especially how Seventy-six
Took Tories on the run.
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |