Poetry, Verse and Song - and other amusements - from the American Civil War

8/6/2019 Poetry, Verse and Song - and other amusements - from the American Civil War

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Poetry, Verse, and Songand Other Amusements

from the American Civil War

Volume 1

Compiled by Kraig McNutt

The Center for the Study of the American Civil War

CivilWarPoetry.com



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Bold Soldier Boy

Oh, the wild, glorious, roving life of a bold soldier boy! With all thy faults, I love thee still. How

pleasant the sweet consciousness that God gives him that he fights in a good cause. His soul is

unfettered by the trammels of civilized life. Does he desire to worship? Where he is is his church.Does he wis h for sleep? He says with Tecumseh, ―The earth is my mother; I will repose on her

bosom.‖ No pent up Utica contracts his powers; he

travels far and near, seeing many lands. He sails on

the ocean, steams on the river, rattles on the cars,

trudges on the mud road, and climbs bold mountains.

He bares his breast to the storm and says, ―Thou art

my brother.‖ The gentle rains fall upon his brow, and

he welcomes them as a mother‘s kiss. He would not

exchange the cooling draught of water from the

sparkling fountain for all of the drinks of the most

fashionable saloon. His fare is rough, but then his

appetite is good, and he is not sickened over dainties.

He lives a life of toil, but his muscles are strong and

his heart is brave. He exists amid dangers, but he

heeds them not, for the smiles of the fair, the prayers

of the good, and the hopes of the oppressed cheer

him on. When he stands in battle, his soul sinks not infear, for above him is the flag of the free, and beneath

the soil he would lie, rather than yield to tyrants. The canon‘s deadly roar, the crash of arms, the

shout of the charge are his music. If victory comes, his soul is filled with indescribable joy. If he fails,

full well he knows, ―Whether on the scaffold high, — Or in the battle‘s van, — The noblest places for

man to die — Is where he dies for man.‖

If he perish, true hearted comrades will dig his grave. ―No useless coffin will enclose his form; he will

lay like a warrior, taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him.‖ Why need he dread death? Is

not the grave the common receptacle of the young, the beautiful, the beloved? Let not the brave

then fear to die. His memory shall be cherished by those who love him. The mighty deeds in ―which

he bore an humble part shall live in the traditions of a thousand generations – but, hush, my

wandering thoughts! Stillness reigns in camp, ‘tis time for sleep. Good night.

This description of a ―soldier boy‖ was written by Chaplain John J. Hight, 58th Indiana.





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Two white roses upon his cheeks,

And one, just over his heart, blood red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet

That fatal bullet went speeding forth,

Till it reached a town in the distant North,

Till it reached a house in a sunny street,

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat

Without a murmur, without a cry;

And a bell was tolled in that far-off town,

For one who had passed from cross to crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.



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John Burns of Gettysburg

By Francis Bret Harte

(1836-1902)

Have you heard of a story that gossips tell

Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well:

Brief is the glory that hero earns,

Briefer the story of poor John Burns:

He was the fellow who won reknown, –

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,



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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 folks say,

He fought so well on that terrible day.

And it was terrible. On the right

Raged for hours the heady fight,

Thundered the battery‘s double brass,–

Difficult music for men to face;

While on the left – where now the gravesUndulate like the living waves

That all the day unceasing swept

Up to the pits the rebels kept –

Round-shot ploughed the upland glades,

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;

Shattered fences here and there,



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Tossed their splinters in the air;

The very trees were stripped and bare;

The barns that once held yellow grain

Were heaped with harvests of the slain;

The cattle bellowed on the plain,

The turkeys screamed with might and main,

And the brooding barn-fowl left their rest

With strange shells bursting in each nest.

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.

Close at his elbow all that day

Veterans of the Peninsula,

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, –

Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in, – Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,

Then at the rifle his right hand bore;

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore,

With scraps of a slangy repertoire:

―How are you, White Hat?‖ ―Put her through!‖

―Your head‘s level!‖ and ―Bully for you!‖



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Called him ―Daddy,‖–begged he‘d disclose

The name of the tailor who made his clothes,

And what was the value he set on those;

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff,

Stood there picking the rebels off, –

With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat,

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

‗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 frownOf 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.

So raged the battle. You know the rest:

How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed,

Broke at the final charge and ran.

At which John Burns – a practical man –

Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,

And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns;

This is the moral the reader learns:

In fighting the battle, the question‘s whether

You‘ll show a hat that‘s white or a feather.



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Dead

Author unknown

There‘s an empty seat where the old folks meet, When they offer their evening prayer,

And a look forlorn, for the dear one gone,

As they gaze on his vacant chair.

There‘s a silent grief finds never relief,

And a face whence the bloom has fled,

And a maiden fair, in her beauty rare,

Who weeps for her lover — dead.

There‘s a lonely grave, where a soldier brave,

Lies asleep in the southern land,

While a rusted gun still gleams in the sun,

On the parched and burning sand.

There‘s a home above, where the good God‘s love,

Its perfection ever discloses –

Where the soldier is blest with eternal rest,

And his quiet spirit reposes.



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Company K

By Anonymous

There is a cap in the closet,

Old, tattered, and blue –

Of very slight value,

It may be, to you:

But a crown, jewel studded,

Could not buy it to-day,

With its letters of honor,

Brave ―Co. K.‖

The head that it sheltered

Needs shelter no more:

Dead heroes make holyThe trifles they wore;

So, like chaplet of honor,

Of laurel and bay,

Seems the cap of the soldier,

Marked ―Co. K.‖



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Bright eyes have looked calmly

Its visor beneath,

O‘er the work of the Reaper,

Grim Harvester Death!

Let the muster roll meagre,

So mournfully say,

How foremost in danger

Went ―Co. K.‖

Whose footsteps unbroken

Came up to the town,

Where rampart and bastion

Looked threat‘ningly down! Who, closing up breaches,

Still kept on their way,

Till, guns downward pointed,

Faced ―Co. K.‖

Who faltered or shivered?

Who shunned battle stroke?

Whose fire was uncertain?

Whose battle line broke?

Go, ask it of History,

Years from to-day,

And the record shall tell you,

Not ―Co. K.‖

Though my darling is sleeping

To-day with the dead,

And daisies and cloverBloom over his head,

I smile through my tears

As I lay it away –

That battle-worn cap,

Lettered ―Co. K.‖



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Come Up from the Fields, Father

By Walt Whitman

(1819-1892)

Come up from the fields, father, here‘s a letter

from our Pete,

And come to the front door, mother, here‘s

a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, ‘tis autumn,

Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and

redder,

Cool and sweeten Ohio‘s village with leaves

fluttering in the moderate wind,

Where apples ripe in the orchard hang and

grapes on the trellised vines,

(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?

Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were

lately buzzing?)

Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent

after the rain, and with wondrous clouds,Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful,

and the farm prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well,

But now from the fields come, father, come

at the daughter‘s call,

And come to the entry, mother, to the front

door come right away.

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous,

her steps trembling,

She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor

adjust her cap.



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Open the envelope quickly,

O this is not our son‘s writing, yet his name

is sign‘d,

O a strange hand writes for our dear son,

O stricken mother‘s soul!

All swims before her eyes, flashes with black,

she catches the main words only,

Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the

breast,

cavalry skirmish, taken to a hospital,

At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah, now the single figure to me,Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all

its cities and farms,

Sickly white in the face and dull in the head,

very faint,

By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown

daughter speaks through her sobs,

The little sisters huddle around speechless and

dismay‘d),

See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will

soon be better.

Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor maybe

needs to be better, that brave and simple soul),

While they stand at home at the door he is

dead already,The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better,

She with thin form presently drest in black,

By day her meals untouch‘d, then at night

fitfully sleeping, often waking,



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In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with

one deep longing,

O that she might withdraw, unnoticed, silent

from life escape and withdraw,

To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead

son.



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Christmas Bells

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeatOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along



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The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime

A chant sublime


Then from each black accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South,

And with the sound

The carols drownedOf peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent,

And made forlorn

The households born


And in despair I bowed my head;

―There is no peace on earth,‖ I said;

―For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good- will to men!‖

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

―God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good- will to men!‖



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Beat! Beat! Drums!

By Walt Whitman

(1819-1892)

Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow!

Through the windows — through doors — burst like a

ruthless force,

Into the solemn church and scatter the congregation,

Into the school where the scholar is studying;

Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness must

he have now with his bride,

Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his

field or gathering his grain;

So fierce you whirr and pound you drums — so shrill

you bugles blow.


Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels

in the streets;

Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the

houses? no sleepers must sleep inthose beds;

No ba rgainers‘ bargains by day — no brokers or

speculators – would they continue?

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?

Would the lawyer rise in court to state his case before the judge?

Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles wilder blow.


Make no parley — stop for no expostulation;

Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or payer;

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;

Let not the child‘s voice be heard, nor the mother‘s entreati es;

Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,

So strong you thump, O terrible drums — so loud you bugles blow.



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Battle-worn Banners

by Park Benjamin

I saw the soldiers come todayFrom battlefield afar;

No conquerors rode before their way

On his triumphal car;

But captains, like themselves, on foot

And banners sadly torn,

All grandly eloquent, though mute,

By pride and glory borne.

Those banners soiled with dirt and smoke,

And rent by shot and shell;

That through the serried phalanx broke –

What terrors they could tell!

What tales of sudden pain and death

In every cannon‘s boom,

When even the bravest held his breath

And waited for his doom.

By hands of steel those flags were waved

Above the carnage dire,

Almost destroyed, yet always saved,

‗Mid battle -clouds and fire.

Though down at times, still up they rose

And kissed the breeze again,

Dread tokens to the rebel foes

Of true and loyal men,

And here the true and loyal still

Those famous banners bear;

The bugles wind, the fifes blow shrill,

And clash the cymbals, where

With decimated ranks they come,



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And through the crowded street

March to the beating of the drum

With firm though weary feet.

God bless the soldiers! Cry the folk

Whose cheers of welcome swell;

God bless those banners, black with smoke

And torn by shot and shell!

They should be hung on sacred shrines,

Baptized with grateful tears,

And live embalmed in poetry‘s lines

Through all succeeding years.

No grander trophies could be brought

By patriot sire to son,

Of glorious battles nobly fought,

Brave deeds sublimely done.

And so, today, I chanced with pride

And solemn joy to see

Those remnants from the bloody tide

Of Victory!



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Barbara Frietchie

By John Greenleaf Whittier

(1807-1892)

Up from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them the orchards sweep,

Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,



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On that pleasant morn of the early fall

When Lee marched over the mountain-wall;

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun

Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

―Halt!‖ —the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

―Fire!‖ —out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane, and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.



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She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

―Shoot, if you must , this old gray head,

But spare your country‘s flag,‖ she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman‘s deed and word;

―Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies li ke a dog! March on!‖ he said.

All day long through Frederick street

Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tossed

Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie‘s work is o‘er,

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall‘s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie‘s grave,

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!



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Peace and order and beauty draw

Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below in Frederick town!



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Ad Poetas

By George Henry Boker

(1823-1890)

O brother bards, why stand ye silent all,

Amidst these days of noble strife,

While drum and fife and the fierce trumpet-call

Awake the land to life?

Now is the time, if ever time there was,

To strike aloud the sounding lyre,

To touch the heroes of our holy cause

Heart-deep with ancient fire.

‗T is not for all, like Norman Taillefere,

To sing before the warlike horse

Our fathers‘ glories, the great trust we bear,

And strike with harp and sword.

Nor yet to frame a lay whose moving rhyme

Shall flow in music North and South,And fill with passion, till the end of time,

The nation‘s choral mouth.

Yet surely, while our country rocks and reels,

Your sweetly-warbled olden strains

Would mitigate the deadly shock she feels,

And soothe her in her pains.

Some knight of old romance, in full career,

Heard o‘er his head the skylark sing.

And, pausing, leaned upon his bloody spear,

Lost in that simple thing.



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If by your songs no heroes shall be made

To look death boldly eye to eye,

They may glide gently to the martyr‘s aid

When he lies down to die.

And many a soldier, on his gory bed,

May turn himself, with lessened pain,

And bless you for the tender words you said,

Now singing in his brain.

So ye, who hold your breath amidst the fight,

Be to your sacred calling true:

Sing on! the far result is not in sightOf the great good ye do.



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My Portion is Defeat - Today

By Emily Dickinson

My Portion is Defeat — today – A paler luck than Victory –

Less Paeans — fewer Bells –

The Drums don‘t follow Me — with tunes –

Defeat — a somewhat slower — means –

More Arduous than Balls –

‗Tis populous with Bone and stain –

And Men too straight to stoop again – ,

And Piles of solid Moan –

And Chips of Blank — in Boyish Eyes –

And scraps of Prayer –

And Death‘s surprise,

Stamped visible — in Stone –

There‘s s omewhat prouder, over there –

The Trumpets tell it to the Air –

How different VictoryTo Him who has it — and the One

Who to have had it, would have been

Contended — to die –



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Fate of Sergeant E. Mettetal

A Poem: Composed in 1890 by A. M. Mettetal

A prisoner lies in the Florence cell

With languid thoughts of home

Of parents dear, of friends beloved

From whom he sought to roam.He heard his country‘s wild alarms

At traitorous hands upraised

To rend the banner, that our sires

With blood and sufferings raised.



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The patriotic fires that glowed

Within his manly breast

Roused stern ambitions voice for fame

Sought in the fair lands oppressed.

Decked in a suit of deepest blue

And soldier‘s knapsack bound

He bade his home and friends adieu

For deeds of glory crowned.

At Fredericksburg the rebel hosts

Were met in strong attire

There many of our brave boys fell

Neath Secessions galling fireAt Fitz Hugh‘s landing we will find

our bravest boys in blue

At Gettysburg they fought, they bled

Still to their country true

On many a battle field they fought

On fair Virginia‘s plains

And many of our twenty fourth

Were numbered with the slain.

At the battle of the Wilderness

The fate of one is told

The ‗dashing sergeant‘ here was missed

Yet dear the prize was sold

To southern dungeons he‘s reduced

To pine away in grief

While friends at home who know his fateCan send him no relief

For long – long months he‘s thus confined

With naught his heart to cheer

Though far away, are parents dear

From whom he longs to hear.



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At length a message from the north

Proclaimed the captive free

Proclaimed him free to seek the home

And friends he longed to see.

Alas! poor Emile! tragic fate

Which we must call thine own

Has taken from thy parents dear

A worthy, noble son.

On board the ‗General Lyon‘ bound

To fair Potomac‘s shore

He little thought that he should see

His native land no moreYes! there upon the burning deck

Me thinks I see him stand

With features turned to catch a glimpse

Of his dear native land.

Alas! the billows madly toss

Hope dies within his breast

Now conscious that he soon must lie

Beneath the ocean‘s crest

The angry waves roll o‘er the wreck

At midnights awful gloom

And he‘s left struggling with the tide

Against a frightful doom

But all in vain, exhausted now

He sinks beneath the wave

That rolls above that sinking formTo shroud the soldier‘s grave

Still do I hear those accents mild

Oh father! mother! hear thy child

He sinks! he dies! he‘s gone



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No little mound of earth is left

On which to strew my flowers

No marble slab by which to kneel

Mid Elmwoods shady bowers

There‘s but one solitary rock

On Carolina‘s shore

Cape Hatteras on the Atlantic side

Mid billows deafening roar.

Yes! there he sleeps our darling boy

Who fought our flag to save

But why these tears since now he fills

A martyred patriots grave.A father‘s locks are turning gray

A mother‘s voice is dumb.

The sisters smiles have flown away

While I bedeck his tomb.

O! brave defender of our rights

Renew affections chain

The memory of one blighted flower

Can make it strong again

O! Emile we can never forget

The laurels thou hast won

Has made thee follower of our

Brave Gallant Washington.

Composed by A. M. Mettetal

The poem was composed in 1890 by: Angelique Martine Mettetal

Angelique was born 10-23-1816 and died 4-27-1911. She is buried in Redford Cemetery, Wayne

County, Detroit, Michigan



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Her Letter Came too Late

Colonel W.S. Hawkins of the Confederate Army, and a prisoner of war at Camp Chase in 1864,

wrote this poem. A near friend and fellow prisoner was engaged to be married to a young lady in the

South, who proved faithless to him, and had written him a letter which arrived soon after his death.

The letter was opened and answered by Col. Hawkins in the following lines:

Your letter, lady, came too late,

For Heaven had claimed its own.

Ah, sudden change! From prison bars

Unto the Great White Throne!

And yet, I think he would have stayed

To live for his disdain,

Could he have read the careless words

Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait

Through many a weary hour,



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That o‘er his simple soldier faith

Not even death had power.

And you — did others whisper low

Their homage in your ear,

As though among their shadowy throng His spirit had a peer.

I would that you were by me now,

To draw the sheet aside,

And see how pure the look he wore

The moment when he died.

The sorrow that you gave him

Had left its weary trace,As ‘twere the shadow of the cross

Upon his pallid face.

―Her love,‖ he said, ―could change for me

The winter‘s cold to spring.‖

Ah, trust of fickle ma iden‘s love,

Thou art a bitter thing!

For when these valleys bright in May

Once more with blossoms wave,

The northern violets shall blow

Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been

But one more pang to bear,

For him who kissed unto the last

Your tress of golden hair.

I did not put it where he said,For when the angels come

I would not have them find the sign

Of falsehood in the tomb.

I‘ve seen your letter and I know

The wiles that you have wrought



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To win that noble heart of his,

And gained it — cruel thought!

What lavish wealth men sometimes give

For what is worthless all:

What manly bosoms beat for them

In folly‘s falsest thrall.

You shall not pity him, for now

His sorrow has an end,

Yet would that you could stand with me

Beside my fallen friend.

And I forgive you for his sake

As he — if it be given – May even be pleading grace for you

Before the court of heaven.

Tonight the cold wind whistles by

As I my vigil keep

Within the prison dead house, where

Few mourners come to weep.

A rude plank coffin holds his form,

Yet death exalts his face

And I would rather see him thus

Than clasped in your embrace.

Tonight your home may shine with lights

And ring with merry song,

And you be smiling as if your soul

Had done no deadly wrong.

Your hand so fair that none would thinkIt penned these words of pain;

Your skin so white — would God your heart

Were half as free from stain.

I‘d rather be my comrade dead,

Than you in life supreme:



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For yours the sinner‘s waking dread,

And his the martyr‘s dream.

Whom serve we in this life, we serve

In that which is to come:

He chose his way, you yours; let God

Pronounce the fitting doom.



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Appomattox

I stand here on this dusty road,

My rifle by my side.

They say we must surrender

And yet I‘m filled with pride.

In knowing deep within my heart,

I gave my Southland all,Like every man who took up arms

And answered Freedoms‘ call.

I‘ve worn the gray most proudly

And loved our banners dear.

To give them up and walk away,

The thought brings me to tears.

The worst for our brave men.

At least we‘ll all be going home,

To be with Kith and Kin.

Throughout the years that follow,

This tragic fateful day,

We‘ll be proud of our fair flag

And how we wore the gray.



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John Bell Hood, poem

Sadly and wearily,

Eyes dimmed by grief,

Thou, who has fought for us

With thy blood bought for us,

Freedom so brief –

Slumbereth now peacefully,

Resteth now fair,

Could I but have thee now,Soothe from thy furrowed brow

All lines of care!

Bleeding and aching wounds

Counted for naught,

They did not pierce thy heart,



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Injustice‘s cruel dart

Such sorrow wrought.

Only the victor is

Honored and cheered,

But Defeat‘s martyr must

To kind oblivion trust,

Misery reared.

Yet, where is he so strong,

Standing alone,

Fighting with Dignity

All the Malignity,

As thou hast done?

Though thou art dead and gone,Better than fame

Thou hast to us bequeathed,

With holy memories wreathed –

A noble name.

Slumber now peacefully,

Thou didst thy share,

Thou hast not lived in vain;

Leaving the stormy main,

Rest thee now fair.



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Picket Guard

All quiet and calm, lies the broad battle plain,

When heroes by hundreds lay sleeping,

They hear not the wail that has gone over the land,

They heed not the eyes that are weeping,

There‘s many afond mother mourns for her boy,

And many a maid for her Lover,And many a wife sits in sadness and gloom,

Lamenting the days that are over.

When the contest was raging with fury and might,

On that scene now so calm in its beauty,



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A soldier was seen in the midst of the fight,

Never flinching from danger, or duty.

Death‘s carnival raged, and the shot and the shell,

In the hot air around him were flying,

But he heeded them not, till he sank to the ground,

And the hero and soldier lay dying.

Oh Father! forgive for the sake of thy son,

Receive now my soul in thy Keeping,

Farewell, darling wife, I shall see you no more,

Soon this form in the grave will be sleeping,

He took from his breast, where it lay through the strife,

A picture he looked on with pleasure,He pressed his pale lips to the form he loved best,

Thanking God for so precious a treasure.

My darlings in vain for my coming you wait,

Your Father, who loves you is dying,

Good Angels are waiting to bear me away,

Not alone on the field am I dying.

Frankie and Alice and dear little Fred,

No more shall I hear your sweet prattle,

Or feel your soft Kisses upon my rough cheek,

Farewell! I have fought my last battle:

Then dear ones be good, and your mother obey,

And grieve not her heart in its sadness,

Remember your father with Kindness and love,

How he died for his country with gladness,

My eyes growing dim and my pulse beating slow,I feel that my heart strings are riven,

The shadows have passed… dearest Wife I must go

Bring the children and meet me in Heaven.

This was written by E. H. Buterbaugh for a Union soldier form PA .



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Thirty-seven

By Private Miles O‘Reilly

THREE years ago today‗We raised our hands to heaven,

And on the rolls of muster

Our names were thirty-seven ;

There were just a thousand bayonets,

And the swords were thirty-seven,

As we took the oath of service

With our right hands raised to heaven.

Oh ‘twas a gallant day,

In memory still adored.

That day of our sun-bright nuptials

With the musket and the sword‘:

Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,

And beneath a cloudless heaven

Twinkled a thousand bayonets,

And the swords were thirty-seven.

Of the thousand stalwart bayonets

Two hundred march today;

Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,

And hundreds in Maryland clay;

And other hundreds, less happy, drag

Their shattered limbs around.

And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep

Of the battlefield‘s holy ground.

For the swords —one night, a week ago,

The remnant, just eleven,

Gathered around a banqueting board

With seats for thirty-seven;



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There were two limped in on crutches,

And two had each but a hand

To pour the wine and raise the cup

As we toasted ―Our flag and land!‖

And the room‘ seemed filled with whispers

As we looked at the vacant seats,

And, with choking throats, we pushed aside

The rich but untasted meats;

Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,

As we rose up — just eleven,

And bowed as we drank to the loved and the deadWho had made us THIRTY-SEVEN.



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Christmas Night of 1862

by William Gordon McCabe

(1841-1920)

The wintry blast goes wailing by,

The snow is falling overhead;

I hear the lonely sentry‘s tread,

And distant watch-fires light the sky.

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom;

The soldiers cluster round the blazeTo talk of other Christmas days,

And softly speak of home and home.

My sabre swinging overhead

Gleams in the watch- fire‘s fitful glow,



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While fiercely drives the blinding snow,

And memory leads me to the dead.

My thoughts go wandering to and fro,

Vibrating between the Now and Then;

I see the low-browed home again,

The old hall wreathed with mistletoe.

And sweetly from the far-off years

Comes borne the laughter faint and low,

The voices of the Long Ago!

My eyes are wet with tender tears.

I feel again the mother-kiss,

I see again the glad surprise

That lightened up the tranquil eyes

And brimmed them o‘er with te ars of bliss,

As, rushing from the old hall-door,

She fondly clasped her wayward boy

Her face all radiant with the joy

She felt to see him home once more.

My sabre swinging on the bough

Gleams in the watch- fire‘s fitful glow,

While fiercely drives the blinding snow

Aslant upon my saddened brow.

Those cherished faces all are gone!

Asleep within the quiet gravesWhere lies the snow in drifting waves,

And I am sitting here alone.

There‘s not a comrade here to -night

But knows that loved ones far away



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On bended knee this night will pray:

―God bring our darling from the fight.‖

But there are none to wish me back,

For me no yearning prayers arise.

The lips are mute and closed the eyes –

My home is in the bivouac.



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He is Gone and I Have Sent Him

He has gone, and I have sent him!

Think you I would bid him stay,

Leaving, craven-like, to othersAll the burden of the day?

All the burden? nay, the triumph!

It is hard to understand

All the joy that thrills the hero

Battling for his native land?


Could I keep him at my side

While the brave old ship that bears us

Plunges in the perilous tide?

Nay, I blush but at the question,

What am I, that I should chill

All his brave and generous promptings

Captive to a woman‘s will?


I have buckled on his sword,I have bidden him strike for Freedom,

For his country, for the Lord!

As I marked his lofty bearing,

And the flush upon his cheek,

I have caught my heart rebelling

That my woman‘s arm is weak.


Not without a thought of pain,

For I know the war‘s dread chances,

And we may not meet again.

Life itself is but a lending,

He that gave perchance may take;



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If it be so, I will bear it

Meekly for my country‘s sake.


This henceforth be my pride,

I have given my cherished darling

Freely to the righteous side.

I, with all a mother‘s weakness,

Hold him now without a flaw;

Yet when he returns I‘ll hail him

Twice as noble as before.

Source: Harper‘s W eekly, November 1, 1862



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The Hero of Franklin

By Mrs. D.N. Bash

General David S. Stanley

http://battleoffranklin.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/gendavid-stanley.jpeg



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The western sun is streaming across the Southern sky,

Bright bayonets are gleaming as troop on troop pass by;

Here, messengers are hastening to do a chief‘s behest,

There, weary men have halted for greatly-needed rest;

For all day long the battle raged, as battle must,

When brothers strive with brothers, and feel their cause is just.

But now the sun is setting, the hard day‘s work is o‘er,

And watchful friend and foeman alike their dead deplore.

From far and near, the camp-fires send forth a feeble gleam,

While picket watches picket, on either side of stream.

With heavy hearts, the leaders consult as best they may.

And seen with anxious forethought to plan the coming day.

But hark! What means the tumult? Again is heard the peal

Of musketry, and cannon, and clang of glancing steel.

What means the sudden onset? Whence come the noise of war?

From every side the answer is heard above the roar.

The rebels are upon us! Forrest has crossed the ford

And Hood upon our ramparts, with al his host has poured.



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No time was now for counsel, for right and left give way;

No power on earth can save us, and Hood will gain the day.

But to one man the peril brings purpose stern and high,

And, seizing on the moment, with fury in his eye,

He dashes ‗mid the conflict, his only conscious thought,

―The patriot dead must be avenged, the battle lost refought.‖

Like lightning in a tempest, he dashes far and near,

Death in his fiery onset, and anguish in his rear.

From line to line he hastens to meet the fierce attack,

And faltering hosts are strengthened, the foe is driven back.

What matter that a bullet an ugly wound has made,

Or that a host of heroes beneath the sod are laid?

Once more the tide of battle is turned against the foe –

For this the hearts of Freeman with grateful ardor glow.

It was the hour of danger, the hour of glory, too,

The hour that nerves the bravest unwonted deeds to do.

Proud of their gallant leader, and proud of gallant deeds,

The soldiers shout, ―We follow where e‘er the general leads.‖



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All honor, then, to every man whose valor saved the day

Upon the field of Franklin, and turned the bloody fray.

And when one‘s children‘s chil dren shall read of heroes past,

Around the name of Stanley a glory shall be cast.

Source: Minty and the Cavalry, Joseph Gale, 1886.



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The Old Home

When I long for sainted memories

Like angel troops they come,

If I fold my arms and ponderOn the old, old home.

The heart hath many palpages,

Through which the feelings roam,

But it middle aisle is sacred

To the old, old home.

Chorus: Oh, the old, old home. Oh, the

old, old home

I‘ll fold my arms and ponder on the old,

old home.

Where infancy was sheltered,

Like rosebuds from the blast;

Where boyhood‘ brief elysian,

In joyousness was past.

To that bright spot forever.

As to some hallowed dome;

Life‘s pilgrim binds his visions

Tis‘ his old, old home.

Chorus: Oh, the old, old home. Oh, the old, old home

I‘ll fold my arms and ponder on the old, old home.

A father sat how proudly

By the bright hearthstone‘s says,

And told his children stories,

Of his early Manhood days:



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While one soft eye was beaming -

From child to child ‗twould roam;

Thus a mother counted her treasures

In the Old, Old home.



The birthday gifts and festivals,

The blended Vesper hymn,

But one dear one was swelling it

Is with the Seraphim.

The fonds good night of bedtime -

How quiet sleep would come,

And fold us all together,

In the Old, Old home.



Like a wreath of scented flowers,

Close intertwined each heart,

But time and change in concert,

Have blown that wreath apart.

Yes fondly cherished memories,

Like Angels ever come

If I fold my arms and ponder

On the Old, Old home.





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Sullivan Ballou Letter

July 14, 1861 Camp Clark, Washington

My very dear Sarah: The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days —perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings

of the Revolution. And I am willing —perfectly willing —to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent

with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when,God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me —perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .

Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the first Battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.



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Barney Williams (1823 – 1876), Irish songster, comedian andperformer, played for the troops

Barney Williams, (Bernard O‘Flaherty) was born in Cork county Ireland in 1823. His parentsimmigrated to America when he was a young boy and settled in New York. By 1836, at age 13, hewas connected with the Franklin theatre. He learned clogging while in Ireland and became the firstprofessional clogger in America by 1840. In his early performance-days Barney performed negrominstrels, the circus, and perf ormed a variety of song-n-dance routines.

In 1843 he played the role of Jerry Murphy in Bumpology at theChatham theatre in New York. In these days Williams played inseveral roles in the Tyrone Powers repertory, including PaddyO‘Rafferty in Born to Good Luck, and Terry O‘Rourke in TheIrish Tutor. By 1845, at age twenty-two, Williams was managerof Vauxhall Garden, NY.

Apparently Williams career never took off until he married MariaPray in 1850. It was then that he shed his role as a black-facedminstrel and focused on the celebrated Irish comic boy. In 1854the Williams husband-wife team played in San Francisco tomuch success. The next year they traveled abroad to Europeand found success there as well, especially England. It wasat The Adelphi Theatre in London that Barney debuted in RoryO‘Moore.

In 1856Barney wrote

the song, My Mary Ann for his wife. The couple continuedperforming in London and became huge hits to thepublic, though not always viewed similarly by thecritics. From 1856-1857 the Williams performedat The Adelphi . According to the LondonTimes they performed the following: Bobbing

Around, Polly, Won’t You Try Me, Oh?, and My Own Mary Anne. Some of their more popularperformances were Ireland As it Is, Barney theBaron and Our Gal.

In 1859 the Williams returned to America (NewYork) for engagements at Niblo‟s Garden . Thefirst acts they performed there were Innisfallen ,and The Men in the Gap.

By the time of the Civil War, in 1863, the Williams‘were also playing in Washington, D.C., performingThe Fairy Circle in Grover theatre in February. OnFebruary 26th t hey performed at Grover‘s for Abraham Lincoln. Apparently, that evening Barneywas able to get a hand-written note to thePresident asking for his approval of appointing a



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nephew of Williams to West Point. Lincoln did not approve the appointment but did respond toBarney in writing the next day. In October of 1863 Pvt. Miles O‟Reilly of the 47th NY mentionsBarney Williams, among others, performing for the 47th while they were heading down the Hudson.

In December 1864 we find Barney and Maria being billed at Niblo‘s Garden in New York to appear inIrish and Yankee Life together.



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On December 6th the Williams‘ debuted the The Connie Soogah (The Traveling Peddler) at Niblo‘s.There is evidence that Barney sang The Bowld Soldier Song for the Irish Brigade of the 63rd NewYork, probably in 1864 as well.

In 1867 Barney began managing Wallack‘s theatre in New York He died on April 25th, 1876 in NewYork City.



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“My Mary Ann” (1856) The Yankee Girls SongWords by Barney WilliamsMusic by M. JyseNew York. NY: Henry McCaffreyPlate No. 402

[Source:051/056@Levy]

1. Fare you well, my own Mary Ann.Fare you well for a while.For the Ship it is ready and the wind itis fair,And I am bound for the Sea, MaryAnn,and I am bound for the Sea, MaryAnn.

2. Don‘t you see that turtle dove, A sitting on yonder pile!Lamenting the loss of its one truelove,And so am I for mine, Mary Ann,and so am I for mine, Marry Ann.

3. A lobster in a lobster pot,A blue fish riggling on a hook,May suffer some, but oh! no not,What I do feel for my Mary Ann,what I do feel for my Mary Ann.

4. The pride of all the produce rare,That is our kitchen garden grow‘d, Was punkins, but none could compareIn angel form to my Mary Ann,in angel form to my Mary Ann.



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Irish songster and entertainer to the troops during the Civil War, Barney Williams received thefollowing accolades from his contemporaries:

. . . the genuine Paddy, the true Irish peasant.

When he opened his mouth you could smell the shamrock.

Barney Williams . . . held a dominating place on the American stage as the portrayer of Irish comic roles from the middle 1840′s till the 1870s.

He could make an audience roar by hispantomimc excellence.

Williams possessed the true Irish spirit of the comical . . .

It all started simply enough. I was reading through other parts of the

December 2, 1864 issue of The New York Times. As I was thumbingthrough the classifieds, more specifically the section labeled ―Amusement,‖ I stumbled upon thisparticular ad and it caught my eye:

Several things struck me. One, the ad was promoting a husband/wife team. Two, they werecomedians. Three, they used song in their routine. Fourth, there appeared to be an Irish connection.The information caught my attention enough to do a quick Google search on Barney Williams. I soondiscovered Barney Williams was originally born Bernard O‘Flaherty, born in Cork, Ireland, and heperformed for President Lincoln as well as for the troops during the Civil War (at least for the 47thNY according to Miles O‘Reilly)

Excellent speeches were made by General Daniel E. Sickles, Mr. James T. Brady, John Van Buren,Wm. E. Robinson, Commodore Joseph Hoxie, Judge Charles P. Daly, Daniel Devlin, and others;while Dr. Carmichael, Mr.John Savage, Mr. Stephen C. Massett, Mr. Barney Williams , and severalcelebrated songsters, amateur and professional, favored the company with patriotic and expressivemelodies as the good vessel steamed up the Hudson on a brief pleasure trip.



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In 1853, The Spirit of the Times maintained that Barney Williams, ― as a representative of the Irish character, excels chiefly in the impersonation of the rustic peasant: poor in pocket, yet rich in humor,with a smile for his own troubles and a sign for another‘s grief.‖ A r eviewer for the New Orleans Picayune in 1854 claimed that ―in the presentation of the genuine Paddy, the true Irish peasant, ‖

Barney Williams gave his audiences ―the broad, unmistakable, wide awake ‗broth of boy,‘ alike readyto fight or shake hands, equal ly at home with the girls or the boys.‖ In 1858 the Cork Examiner statedthat Irish themselves regarded Williams as a ― real Paddy, and a true son of the sod.” While the stageIrishman often appeared as a cross between a buffoon and a savage, the Examiner claimed to seein Williams‘s impersonation ― the genuine Irishman of humble life – brave, honest, warm hearted, upto all kinds of fun, with no conscientious aversion to a ‗drop of the native,‘ a decided taste for gettinginto scrimmages, and a willingness to go any and every length for a friend. ―How his black eyes



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twinkle, and what fun there is in his face!‖ marveled one reviewer. ―He seems brimful, and runningover, with good humour, and looks as if care never had or could touch him . . . ―

Source: ‗Twas Only an Irishman‘s Dream, p. 86 -7.



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Here are some of the names of plays in the NYPL collection that are hand-written by BarneyWilliams:

The bachelor‘s whim Born to good luckThe Connie SoogahYankee helpDarby O‘Donnell Emerald IsleEmerald RingFemale Forty thievesThe Fenians of MullingarGrist to the MillGovernor‘s Wife An hour in SevilleThe Irish AmbassadorAn Irish jokeAn Irish legacyThe Irish YankeeJack SheppardKate KearneyThe Knight of ArvaThe Ladder of LoveThe Lakes of KillarneyLatest from New YorkLaw for ladiesThe LeprechaunLucifer MatchesMelissa MeddleMiles O‘Reilly My brother TeddyOne of the right sortOrphan of TIpperaryPaul DoghertyShamrockThe three sistersTwelve PreciselyThe Wept of the Wish-ton-wishWomen will talk



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Don‟t be Caught „dead‟ with playing cards

―A few things I will never forget while in the service, at onetime not engaged in battle, quite a number of the Boyswas playing cards , having what they term a good time. Allof a sudden we heard firing off to the right and the boom ofcannon off to the left and officers riding back and forth, andwe was soon in line and marching to the firing line wherewe hear we would have to face death. So the Boys beganto throw away their cards. No one wanted to be killed witha deck of cards in his pocket. But I never saw aTestament thrown away during a battle.‖

- Personal recollection of (1845-1935), Thomas Jefferson Williams (right),120th Indiana, Company D.

114 th Pennsylvania boys play cards to relieve the boredom.

http://ourcivilwarrecord.wordpress.com/tag/tj-williams/






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James I Robertson, Jr., writes, ―The one development that could bring an abrupt halt to gamblingwas the call to battle. Men would promptly throw away cards, dice, and other gambling instrumentsso that, if wounded or killed, no ‗passports to sin‘ would be found in their persons. Avid gamblerscould then be seen intently reading their Bibles as they awaited the command to form ranks. Suchrepentance was generally short-lived. The more ardent gamblers who survived the battle would rushfrantically into woods and fields in search of discarded items.‖

Soldiers Blue and Gray, Robertson: p. 95.

Five men sit at a table playing cards and betting. Ships sail by in the background.

First prisoner: ―I‘ve lost twice‘s on that damn‘d old ace.‖

Dealer: ―Hurry up and make your bets.‖

Third prisoner: ―How many times has the jack won.‖

Fourth prisoner: ―I‘ll wait and see how the cards runs.‖

Civil War Treasures from the New-York Historical Society ,



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Civil War Treasures from the New-York Historical Society ,



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Sheet music – Louisville Citizen Guards Louisville Citizen Guards, published by D.P. Faulds & Co., Louisville, Ky, n.d., Sarony, Major &Knapp, N.Y. lithographer, with hand colored lithographed cover of two militia men at attention withtent camp in background, after a daguerreotype by Webster & Bro., Louisville, 5 numbered pageswith blank rear cover,



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August of 1860. Kentucky is represented here (below) with Simon Bolivar Buckner‘ s unit theKentucky State Guard at Louisville. This is Bucker‘s own unit, the Citizen Guard. They would be theheart of the 5th Kentucky Infantry in the Confederate Army.

Kentucky had both pro-Southern and pro-Northern militia elements. The pro-South Kentucky StateGuard may have used a blue flag with a light blue circle in the center, which bore the federal coat ofarms therein. One such example for a KSG unit does survive today.



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Original Handwritten Poem Inscribed to Abraham LincolnFrom Colonel Thomas Worthington of the 46th Ohio OVIFebruary, 1864-Dated Civil War Period, Original Manuscript Poem Signed, "Col. T. Worthington," written inPencil, entitled "Tis but one hundred thousand men," Very Fine. eBay



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Tis but one hundred thousand men!

'If we can't kill you in battle ----- we can starve you Chivalric rebel to death.'

From Madawaska's icy shoreTo Rio Bravo's burning sands,From wild and wide Atlantic's roarTo mild Pacific's golden strand,Up, up ye friends of freedom all,To drive the vipers from the denWhere pine your friends in famined thrall !Tis but one hundred thousand men !

From where the Everglades spread wideTo Minnesota's farthest wild,From far Superior's icy tideTo Pensacola's zephyrs mild,Grasp, freemen, grasp your brands of wrathAnd march, march fiercely forward themTo snatch your braves from lingering death!'Tis but one hundred thousand men !

O think ye, at your groaning boardsWhere August crowns the bloom of day,And brown November heaps his hoardsOf plenty on your winter's day.Think ye of these whose fetters bindTheir famined frames in treason's den;And can ye linger yet behind ?'Tis but one hundred thousand men !

Unsatisfied where fields of bloodTheir crimson harvests daily bear,These traitor-friends of demon moodDeem not of honorable war.'If ye are not in battle slainWith famine ye'll be murdered' - thenForward ! they shall be free again,



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Though t'were ten hundred thousand men !

Call out the states of '87,The first five free from slavery's stainTo these the glorious boon be giveTo snatch our braves from treason's chain.Ohio far Wisconsin greets;Calls Illinois to MichiganAnd Indiana bravely meetsThe call ten myriads of men.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Colonel Thomas Worthington of the 46th Ohio Infantry, was commissioned on October 1861 and was later Court-martialed and cashiered from the Union Army as the result of a bitter dispute with General Sherman over Sherman'salleged errors at the Battle of Shiloh. More than a poem, this is a significant, historical document. It expresses thepersonal feelings of the author, and links him directly to his well documented Civil War service. A highly important,museum quality piece.

The author of this Poem, Colonel Thomas Worthington, is himself quite famous. He has a book written about himentitled, "Tom Worthington's Civil War: Shiloh, Sherman, and the Search for Vindication" by James D. Brewer.



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Patriotic cover endorsed by Major (John) Poland of the 13th RegimentPennsylvania Volunteers

eBay item for sale January 2011

Original soldier ‘s poem –

The Western Virginia Hills



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Source: eBay, January 2011

The Old Union Wagon

In Uncle Sam ’ s dominions in 1861

The fight between Secession to the Union was begunThe South declared they'd have the 'Rights' that Uncle Sam denied

Or in Secession's wagon they'd all take a ride Chorus Hurrah for the wagon

The old Union wagon

We'll stick to our wagon & all take a rideThe makers of our Wagon were men of solid wit

They made it out of Charter Oak that wouldn't rot or split

Its wheels were of material the strongest & the best

And two were named the North & South and two the East & West Our Wagon bed is strong enough for any revolution

In fact tis the hull of the old 'Constitution'

Her coupling strong her...long and any where you get her

No tyrants from can break her down no traitor can upset her Now the old Union Wagon the nations all admired Her wheels had run for four score years and never once been tired

Her passengers were happy as long her way she whirled

And the Old Union Wagon was the glory of the world But when Old Abe took command the South wheel got displeased

Because the public fat was gone that kept her greased

And when he gathered up the reins & started on his route

She plunged into Secession & knocked some fellers out Now while in the Secession's mire the wheel was stuck very tightly

Some lousy passengers got in & cursed the driver slightly

But Abram couldn't see it so he didn't heed the Clatter

There's too much black mud on the wheel that's what's the matter So Abram gave them notice that in eighteen sixty three

Unless the Rebels dried it up he'd set their niggers free

And then the man that led the war to fight against our nationWould drop his gun & home he'd run to fight against starvation

When Abram said free the slaves that furnished their supplies



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It opened Northern traitors months & Southern traitors eyesThe slaves said they will run away if you this ruely freed them

But Abram guessed perhaps they best go home and oversee them

A sound our Union Wagon with shoulders to the wheel

A million soldiers...with hearts as true as steel And of all generals high or low that helped them save the nation

There's none that strike a harder blow than General Emancipation.



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eBay – January 2011

Our Union

Dissolve this mighty Union

Go stop you rolling sunBlot out the planets from this sphereWhich now in oder run

Go stop the raging billows

Go calm the raging sea

And then this mighty Union

May be dissolved by thee

Dissolve this happy UnionCommand our Good to sleep

And cause the sons of Freedom

In bitterness to weep

But hark they say with one accord

This blessed land shall shine

The Freedom of this Country

Be preserved by power divine

Dissolve this matchless UnionOh what a wicked thought

The blast this mighty structure

That was so dearly bought

Dissolve the starry Union

Go hide your shameful heads

Behold the mighty hand of God

Her spangled Banner spreads

Dissolve this wide spread Union

Her mountains on your frown

Volcanoes in their fiery mist

In floods to sweep your down



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But hark from every State the sound Of union still is heard

Her countless sons assemble round

Their banners at a word



eBay – January 2011

Vermont postcard – Poem, From the Bloody Fray

Documents

Poetry, Verse and Song - and other amusements - from the American Civil War