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