The Project Gutenberg eBook of American War Ballads and Lyrics, Volume 2 (of 2)

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Title: American War Ballads and Lyrics, Volume 2 (of 2)

Editor: George Cary Eggleston


Release date: February 19, 2017 [eBook #54211]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMERICAN WAR BALLADS AND LYRICS, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) ***

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RUNNING THE BATTERIES.

AMERICAN  WAR  BALLADS
AND LYRICS

A COLLECTION OF THE SONGS AND BALLADS OF THE
COLONIAL WARS, THE REVOLUTION, THE WAR
OF 1812-15, THE WAR WITH MEXICO
AND THE CIVIL WAR

EDITED BY
GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON
VOLUME II.

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NEW YORK AND LONDON
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press

Copyright
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
1889

The Knickerbocker Press, New York
Electrotyped and Printed by
G. P. Putnam’s Sons

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CONTENTS.
  PAGE.
The Civil War—Continued  1
Lyon  3
My Maryland  6
Battle Hymn of the Republic 10
The Picket Guard 12
The Countersign 14
Jonathan to John 19
There’s Life in the Old Land Yet 26
Never or Now 28
Boy Brittan 30
The “Cumberland” 35
On Board the “Cumberland” 38
The Sword-Bearer 45
The Old Sergeant 48
The “Varuna” 56
The River Fight 58
Sheridan’s Ride 72
Kearney at Seven Pines 75
Stonewall Jackson’s Way 77
Marching Along 80
The Burial of Latané 82
Tardy George 85
Wanted—A Man 88
Overtures from Richmond 91
Barbara Frietchie 95
Music in Camp 99
Fredericksburg 103
Treason’s Last Device 106
In Louisiana 109
John Pelham 113
The Battle of Charleston Harbor 116
Running the Batteries 120
Keenan’s Charge 124
Death of Stonewall Jackson 127
Under the Shade of the Trees 129
Stonewall Jackson 131
The Black Regiment 132
Little Giffen of Tennessee 136
Gettysburg 138
At Gettysburg 147
John Burns of Gettysburg 150
Woman’s War Mission 156
Three Hundred Thousand More 160
Lee to the Rear 162
“Kearsarge” and “Alabama” 167
The Bay Fight 170
The Loyal Fisher 193
Sherman’s March to the Sea 195
Sherman’s March 198
The Year of Jubilee 200
The Conquered Banner 203
Somebody’s Darling 207
Left on the Battle-Field 209
Driving Home the Cows 211
After All 214
“He’ll See It when He Wakes” 216
The Réveille 218
Réveille 220
The White Rose 222
The Blue and the Gray 230
Ready 233
A Georgia Volunteer 235
“How are You, Sanitary?” 239
The Men 243
The Guerillas 245
When This Cruel War is Over 249
Cavalry Song (Stedman) 252
Cavalry Song (Raymond) 254
The Cavalry Charge (Taylor) 256
The Cavalry Charge (Durivage) 258
Roll-Call 261
Reading the List 263
A Woman of the War 265
Glory Hallelujah! or, John Brown’s Body   270
Marching through Georgia 273
The Battle-Cry of Freedom 275
Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 277

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ILLUSTRATIONS.
  PAGE.
Running the Batteries   Frontispiece
The Civil War  1
The Countersign 15
The “Cumberland” 35
Sheridan’s Ride 72
Barbara Frietchie 95
Fredericksburg 103
In Louisiana 109
John Pelham 113
Running the Batteries 120
Keenan’s Charge 124
The Black Regiment 132
Gettysburg 138
John Burns of Gettysburg 150
Three Hundred Thousand More 160
“Kearsarge” and “Alabama” 167
The Bay Fight 170
The Conquered Banner 204
Driving Home the Cows 211
After All 214
Cavalry Song 252
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Typogravures by W. Kurtz.

The Civil War

PART II.

THE CIVIL WAR

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LYON.

By HENRY PETERSON.

S
Sing, bird, on green Missouri’s plain, Thy saddest song of sorrow; Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain Ye from the winds can borrow; Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh, Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, For him who knew well how to die, But never to surrender!
Up rose serene the August sun Upon that day of glory; Up curled from musket and from gun The war-cloud gray and hoary. It gathered like a funeral pall Now broken and now blended, Where rang the bugle’s angry call, And rank with rank contended.
Four thousand men, as brave and true As e’er went forth in daring, Upon the foe that morning threw The strength of their despairing. They feared not death—men bless the field That patriot soldiers die on— Fair Freedom’s cause was sword and shield, And at their head was Lyon!
The leader’s troubled soul looked forth From eyes of troubled brightness; Sad soul! the burden of the North Had pressed out all its lightness. He gazed upon the unequal fight, His ranks all rent and gory, And felt the shadows close like night Round his career of glory.
“General, come lead us!” loud the cry From a brave band was ringing— “Lead us, and we will stop, or die, That battery’s awful singing.” He spurred to where his heroes stood, Twice wounded—no wound knowing— The fire of battle in his blood And on his forehead glowing.
Oh, cursed for aye that traitor’s hand, And cursed that aim so deadly, Which smote the bravest of the land, And dyed his bosom redly! Serene he lay, while past him prest The battle’s furious billow, As calmly as a babe may rest Upon its mother’s pillow.
So Lyon died! and well may flowers His place of burial cover, For never had this land of ours A more devoted lover. Living, his country was his pride, His life he gave her dying; Life, fortune, love—he naught denied To her and to her sighing.
Rest, patriot, in thy hill-side grave, Beside her form who bore thee! Long may the land thou diedst to save Her bannered stars wave o’er thee! Upon her history’s brightest page, And on Fame’s glowing portal, She’ll write thy grand, heroic rage And grave thy name immortal.
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MY MARYLAND.

By JAMES R. RANDALL.

T
The despot’s heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son’s appeal, Maryland! My Mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life or death, for woe or weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, Remember Howard’s warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come with thy panoplied array. Maryland! With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray, With Watson’s blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland, my Maryland!
Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain, “Sic semper!” ’tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng Stalking with liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland!
I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder-hum Maryland! The “Old Line’s” bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum— She breathes! She burns! She’ll come! She’ll come! Maryland, my Maryland!
[Southern.]
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BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

By JULIA WARD HOWE.

M
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish’d rows of steel; “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal”; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on.
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
November, 1861.
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THE PICKET GUARD.

By ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

“A
“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say, “Except now and then 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 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, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.
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 in the low trundle bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack—his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep— For their mother—may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken— Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree— The 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 rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looks like a rifle—ah! “Mary, good-bye!” And the 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.

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THE COUNTERSIGN.

[In his admirably edited collection of poems of the civil war, entitled “Bugle Echoes,” Mr. Francis F. 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.]

The Countersign

THE COUNTERSIGN.

A
Alas! the weary hours pass slow, The night is very dark and still; And in the marshes far below I hear the bearded whippoorwill; I scarce can see a yard ahead, My ears are strained to catch each sound; I hear the leaves about me shed, And the spring’s bubbling through the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rays mark my sentry’s track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace The foeman’s form with bending back, I think I see him crouching low; I stop and list—I stoop and peer, Until the neighboring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers far and near.
With ready piece I wait and watch, Until my eyes, familiar grown, Detect each harmless earthen notch, And turn guerrillas into stone; And then, amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, My silent marches I resume, And think of other times than these.
Sweet visions through the silent night! The deep bay windows fringed with vine, The room within, in softened light, The tender, milk-white hand in mine; The timid pressure, and the pause That often overcame our speech— The time when by mysterious laws We each felt all in all to each.
And then that bitter, bitter day, When came the final hour to part; When, clad in soldier’s honest gray, I pressed her weeping to my heart; Too proud of me to bid me stay, Too fond of me to let me go, I had to tear myself away, And left her, stolid in my woe.
So rose the dream, so passed the night— When, distant in the darksome glen, Approaching up the sombre height I heard the solid march of men; Till over stubble, over sward, And fields where lay the golden sheaf, I saw the lantern of the guard Advancing with the night relief.
“Halt! Who goes there?” my challenge cry, It rings along the watchful line; “Relief!” I hear a voice reply; “Advance, and give the countersign!” With bayonet at the charge I wait— The corporal gives the mystic spell; With arms aport I charge my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well.
But in the tent that night awake, I ask, if in the fray I fall, Can I the mystic answer make When the angelic sentries call? And pray that Heaven may so ordain, Whene’er I go, what fate be mine, Whether in pleasure or in pain, I still may have the countersign.
[Southern.]
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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.]