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The Project Gutenberg eBook of American War Ballads and Lyrics, by George Cary Eggleston. The Project Gutenberg EBook of American War Ballads and Lyrics, Vol. 2 (of 2), by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www. Macserve Ivpn Serial. gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: American War Ballads and Lyrics, Vol.
Kilauea; Mount Etna; Mount Yasur; Mount Nyiragongo and Nyamuragira; Piton de la Fournaise; Erta Ale.
THE COUNTERSIGN. [In his admirably edited collection of poems of the civil war, entitled “Bugle Echoes,” Mr. Browne introduces this poem with the following note: “There has been no little dispute as to the authorship of this poem. The Philadelphia Press, in 1861, said it was ‘written by a private in Company G, Stuart’s engineer regiment, at Camp Lesley, near Washington.’ But it may now be stated positively that it was written by a Confederate soldier, still living. The poem is usually printed in a very imperfect form, with the fourth, fifth, and sixth stanzas omitted. The third line of the fifth stanza affords internal evidence of Southern origin.”— Editor.].
JONATHAN TO JOHN. By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
[This poem is a part of the second series of “The Bigelow Papers,” a work wholly unmatched in the literature of humor, that has an earnest purpose and well matured thought for its sources of inspiration. The poem was called forth by what is known as “the Trent affair.” Captain Wilkes, commanding the United States man-of-war, San Jacinto, boarded the British mail steamer Trent on the 8th of November, 1861, and took from her the Confederate commissioners Mason and Slidell. Great Britain resented the act, and for a time there was serious apprehension of war between that country and the United States; but as the seizure of the commissioners on board a neutral vessel was deemed to be an act in violation of international law, the Government at Washington, after inquiry into the facts, surrendered the prisoners. The version of the poem here given is a correct one, taken from the collected edition of Mr. Lowell’s poems. An abridged and otherwise imperfect version is given in many collections.— Editor.].
Unto God all praise be ever rendered, Unto God all praise and glory be! See, Boy Brittan! See, boy, see!
The fort has just surrendered! My boy, my warrior boy!
And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy! Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer about— Hurrah! For the fiery fort is ours; And “Victory!” “Victory!” “Victory!” Is the shout. Shout—for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day are ours— The day is ours—thanks to the brave endeavor Of heroes, boy, like thee! The day is ours—the day is ours! Glory and deathless love to all who shared with thee, And bravely endured and dared with thee— The day is ours—the day is ours— Forever! Glory and Love for one and all; but—but—for thee— Home!
A happy “Welcome—welcome home” for thee! And kisses of love for thee— And a mother’s happy, happy tears, and a virgin’s bridal wreath of flowers— For thee!
Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee! Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew Of the inmost heart of the nation’s loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true; Moist—moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres And the nation’s starry tears! And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and start Of the universal music of the heart, And all deep sympathy. Laurels and tears for thee, boy, Laurels and tears for thee— Laurels of light and tears of love forevermore— For thee! And laurels of light, and tears of truth, And the mantle of immortality; And the flowers of love and immortal youth, And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth— And the everlasting victory! And the breath and bliss of Liberty; And the loving kiss of Liberty; And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes, And the over-calm of God’s canopy; And the infinite love-span of the skies That cover the valleys of Paradise— For all of the brave who rest with thee; And for one and all who died with thee, And now sleep side by side with thee; And for every one who lives and dies, On the solid land or the heaving sea, Dear warrior-boy—like thee.
THE RIVER FIGHT. By HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. [Admiral Farragut was so impressed with this irregular but spirited description of the river battle below New Orleans that he sought out the author and their acquaintance ended in a warm friendship. Brownell having expressed a desire to witness a naval conflict, Farragut took him on board the Flagship Hartford at the time of the storming of the Mobile forts, and the poet repaid the courtesy with the poem which appears elsewhere in this collection, called “The Bay Fight.”— Editor.]. On our high poop-deck he stood, And round him ranged the men Who have made their birthright good Of manhood once and again,— Lords of helm and of sail, Tried in tempest and gale, Bronzed in battle and wreck. Bell and Bailey grandly led Each his line of the Blue and Red; Wainwright stood by our starboard rail; Thornton fought the deck. And I mind me of more than they, Of the youthful, steadfast ones, That have shown them worthy sons Of the seamen passed away.
Tyson conned our helm that day; Watson stood by his guns. Now, up the river!—through mad Chalmette Sputters a vain resistance yet, Small helm we gave her our course to steer,— ’Twas nicer work then you well would dream, With cant and sheer to keep her clear Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream, The Louisiana, hurled on high, Mounts in thunder to meet the sky! Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,— Fifty fathom of rebel mud! The Mississippi comes floating down, A mighty bonfire from off the town; And along the river, on stocks and ways, A half-hatched devil’s brood is ablaze,— The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames, (Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!) And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn! The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done?
A glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dash’d down the line, ’mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compell’d it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril’s play, He seem’d to the whole great army to say: “I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day.”. TARDY GEORGE.
[This poem was written at a time when the impatience of the Northern people with the delay of McClellan to make use of the means so lavishly provided for him, was scarcely to be restrained. For many months McClellan had been in command of a vast army, perfectly equipped and thoroughly disciplined, yet month after month went by with nothing done and nothing attempted. The discontent of the people found much angrier expression than was given to it in these stanzas, but this is one of the best metrical protests that appeared.— Editor.]. Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ring’d with flame; Rode in and sabred and shot—and fell: Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung ’Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. Line after line, ay, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. But over them lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls?
’Tis a death salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! Over them now—year following year— Over their graves the pine-cones fall, And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still, That saved the army at Chancellorsville. “Freedom!” their battle-cry,— “Freedom!
Or leave to die!” Ah! And they meant the word, Not as with us ’tis heard, Not a mere party shout; They gave their spirits out, Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death; Praying,—alas! That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what “freedom” lent To the black regiment. Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North, And from the fields your arms have won to-day go proudly forth! For now, O comrades dear and leal—from whom no ills could part, Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation’s constant heart— Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain, Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,— At last we have our heart’s desire, from them we met have wrung A victory that round the world shall long be told and sung!
It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray, That gave the grand old army strength to conquer on this day! Oh, now forget how dark and red Virginia’s rivers flow, The Rappahannock’s tangled wilds, the glory and the woe; The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full sore How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more; The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rain That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain! There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack, And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track; But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afar The paths of yon retreating host that shun the northern star. At night before the closing fray, when all the front was still, We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knew How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do. Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breath Of Buford’s stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynolds’ death, Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,— How well the Stone, the Iron, brigades their bloody outposts kept: ’Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all, And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.
And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of what grim day just done, The fight by Round Top’s craggy spur—of all the deadliest one; It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well, And like a field in spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell. There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red. And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead: The mangled corpses fallen above—the peaceful dead below, Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago; It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain, What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain! Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morningtide, And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied. From the east already goes up the rattling din; The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin! They whirl fierce Ewell from their front!
Now we of the Second pray, As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day. But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour, While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power; And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear, And along the lines, where’er they came, went up the ringing cheer. ’Twas past the hour of nooning; the summer skies were blue; Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view; So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay, It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away; When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke, Against our lines from seven-score guns the dreadful tempest broke! Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest, And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west; Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud, And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.
The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew; Oh, now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true! From yonder wood that skirts the valley’s further marge, The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge. It is a fearful sight to see their double rank Come with a hundred battle-flags—a mile from flank to flank! Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast; Their standards wave—their hearts are brave—they hasten not, nor rest, But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher, And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire. Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent! They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent.
But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land, Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand: Vain, vain! Give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast! Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast; They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run; Their arms, their colors, are our spoil; the furious fight is done!
Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray: Cheer! The grand old Army at last has won the day! The day has won the cause!
No gray-clad host henceforth Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North! ’Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore, The great spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar: It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher; But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call, Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall. Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go. Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead; But with a price the fight was ours—we too have tears to shed!
The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave, Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hill-side grasses wave! The trampled grass shall thrive another year, The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new spring appear, But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God; Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod; Only their names and deeds are ours—but, for a century yet, The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget. God send us peace! And where for aye the loved and lost recline Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm—O North, your sprigs of pine! But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home, And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come— When children’s children throng the board in the old homestead spread, And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well: “’Twas for the Union and the Flag,” the veteran shall say, “Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!”. JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. By BRET HARTE.
[A Union officer who was with the Eleventh Corps in the battle of Gettysburg says: “During the first day’s fight, an old man, in a swallow-tailed coat and battered cylinder hat, came stalking across the fields from the town, and made his appearance at Colonel Stone’s position. With a musket in his hand and ammunition in his pocket, this venerable citizen asked Colonel Wister’s permission to fight. Wister directed him to go over to the Iron Brigade, where he would be sheltered by the woods; but the old man insisted on going forward to the skirmish line. He was allowed to do so, and continued firing until the skirmishers retired, when he was the last man to leave. He afterwards fought with the Iron Brigade, where he was three times wounded.
This patriotic and heroic citizen was Constable John Burns of Gettysburg.”— Author’s note.]. Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg? Ah, well: Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns; He was the fellow who won renown— The only man who didn’t back down When the rebels rode through his native town; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away. That was in July, sixty-three,— The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. I might tell how, but the day before, John Burns stood at his cottage-door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet; Or, I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail, red as blood; Or, how he fancied the hum of bees Were bullets buzzing among the trees. But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,— Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folk say, He fought so well on that terrible day.
And it was terrible. Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns.
How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient, long buff vest, Yellow as saffron—but his best; And buttoned over his manly breast Was a bright-blue coat with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons—size of a dollar,— With tails that the country-folk called “swaller.” He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat.
Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the “quiltings” long ago. ’Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked; And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man’s strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war. LEE TO THE REAR.
[During the battles in the Wilderness at the beginning of the campaign of 1864, General Robert E. Lee, impressed with the desperate necessity of carrying a certain peculiarly difficult position, seized the colors of a Texas regiment and undertook to lead the perilous assault in person. The troops and their colonel remonstrated with vehemence, the colonel, in his men’s behalf, pledging the regiment to carry the position if General Lee would retire.
The troops advanced to the charge shouting “Lee to the Rear!” as a sort of battle cry.— Editor.]. SHERMAN’S MARCH TO THE SEA. [General Sherman, in a recent conversation with the editor of this collection, declared that it was this poem with its phrase, “march to the sea,” that threw a glamour of romance over the campaign which it celebrates.
Said General Sherman: “The thing was nothing more or less than a change of base, an operation perfectly familiar to every military man, but a poet got hold of it, gave it the captivating label, ‘The March to the Sea,’ and the unmilitary public made a romance out of it.” It may be remarked that the General’s modesty overlooks the important fact that the romance lay really in his own deed of derring-do; the poet merely recorded it, or at most interpreted it to the popular intelligence. The glory of the great campaign was Sherman’s and his army’s; the joy of celebrating it was the poet’s; the admiring memory of it is the people’s.— Editor.]. THE YEAR OF JUBILEE. [A body of negro troops entered Richmond singing this song when the Union forces took possession of the Confederate capital. It is an interesting fact, illustrative of the elasticity of spirit shown by the losers in the great contest, that the song, which might have been supposed to be peculiarly offensive to their wounded pride and completely out of harmony with their deep depression and chagrin, became at once a favorite among them, and was sung, with applause, by young men and maidens in wellnigh every house in Virginia.— Editor.]. THE CONQUERED BANNER.
[This poem appeared very soon after the surrender of the Confederate armies, and was probably the first, as it is the finest, poetical expression of reverent regret for the Lost Cause, without any touch of bitterness in its loss. The author was a Catholic priest, who wrote a number of poems of merit, though none that appealed so strongly as this one does to the generous sympathy of the victor with the sorrow of the vanquished.
The author was born in Norfolk, Va., August 15, 1839, and died in Louisville, Ky., April 22, 1886.— Editor.]. That since the roses die, No mortal loveliness may long endure; No joy outlast a sigh; No passion’s thrill, no labor’s work remain Beyond a season; that Decay doth reign;— Though in the tyrant’s very riot, sure, Some pledge of hope is found That all the universe is not a grave And life sits somewhere crowned. Not Tasso’s soft persuasion unto sin I find, dear rose, thy withered leaves within, Nor any precept Epicurus gave; To me thou dost not breathe A thought of festivals, or memory Of woven, wine-dipped wreath, Or kisses on ripe lips, or fond regret For bounds by time to fleeting pleasures set, Or wish to bring thy beauty back to thee. And there to one that quaffed From the deep farmhouse well, with careless zest, A luscious draught, A fair girl said, scorn lurking round her mouth: “Dare these men meet the veterans of the South?” Half earnestly she spoke, and half in jest.
The soldier’s serious eyes An instant flashed, and then grew soft again, While yet the quick surprise Was flushing his bronzed cheek; but he was born To reverence womanhood, and not to scorn; And so disdained to wound her with disdain. He spoke with quiet grace In even tones, a smile both quaint and grave Upon his firm, strong face: “To wear in the next battle give to me A rose,” he said, “and then the rose will see!” In sobered mood she plucked this flower and gave. “HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?” By BRET HARTE. [There is nothing in the history of the Civil War worthier of celebration in verse, or more to be honored in the remembrance, than the organization and work of the United States Sanitary Commission. When the conditions created by the stress of the war became apparent, the compassion of kindly men and women in the North was deeply stirred by the thought that there was suffering among the soldiers which the government could not relieve, and that there were wants which could not be supplied by military agencies. The generous desire to minister to these wants and to relieve this suffering was quickly organized into action with that business-like sagacity which distinguishes the American character.
The Sanitary Commission was formed as the agent and almoner of the popular generosity. It was supported entirely by voluntary contributions.
It was as thoroughly organized as the army commissariat itself, and wherever there was a comfort needed, or a wounded or sick man to be cared for, its supply wagons, its appliances, and its trained nurses were found. The affectionate gratitude of the troops toward the beneficent association is reflected in this poem.— Editor.].
WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER. [There is nothing in this sentimental song that enables one to read the riddle of its remarkable popularity during the Civil War. It has no poetic merit; its rhythm is commonplace, and the tune to which it was sung was of the flimsiest musical structure, without even a trick of melody to commend it. Yet the song was more frequently sung, on both sides, than any other, the Southern soldiers inserting “gray” for “blue” in the sixth line of the first stanza, with cheerful recklessness of the effect upon the rhyme.
The thing was heard in every camp every day and many times every day. Men chanted it on the march, and women sang it to piano accompaniment in all houses.
A song which so strongly appealed to two great armies and to an entire people is worthy of a place in all collections of war poetry, even though criticism is baffled in the attempt to discover the reason of its popularity.— Editor.]. And the troopers sit in their saddles all Like statues carved in an ancient hall, And they watch the whirl from their breathless ranks, And their spurs are close to the horses’ flanks, And the fingers work of the sabre hand— Oh, to bid them live, and to make them grand! And the bugle sounds to the charge at last, And away they plunge, and the front is passed! And the jackets blue grow red as they ride, And the scabbards too, that clank by their side, And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron-shod As they gallop right on o’er the plashy red sod— Right into the cloud all spectral and dim, Right up to the guns black-throated and grim, Right down on the hedges bordered with steel, Right through the dense columns—then “ Right about wheel!” Hurrah!
A new swath through the harvest again! Hurrah for the Flag! To the battle, Amen!
GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR, JOHN BROWN’S BODY. [The strong hold which this song and the three which follow it (“Marching thro’ Georgia,” “The Battle-Cry of Freedom” and “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp”) had upon the favor of the Union soldiers during the war entitles them to insertion here in spite of their lack of poetic merit. The critics, from the time of Mr. Richard Grant White’s collection until now, have condemned them as doggerel, but songs that were sung with enthusiasm by all the soldiers of the republic during the dark years of the Civil War cannot be denied the possession of merit, whether criticism is able to recognize it or not.— Editor.]. Transcriber Notes: Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected.
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