Chapter I: Remember the Hour When Sadly We Parted (1)

_Companion Song to "When this Cruel War is Over."_

I remember the hour when sadly we parted,
The tears on your pale cheek glist'ning like dew,
When clasped in your arms almost broken-hearted,
I swore by the bright sky I'd ever be true,
True to the love that nothing could sever,
And true to the flag of my country forever.

CHORUS.--Then weep not, love, oh! weep not,
Think not our hopes are vain,
For when this fatal war is over,
We will surely meet again.

Oh, let not, my own love, the summer winds winging
Their sweet-laden zephyrs o'er land and o'er sea,
Bring aught to your heart with the autumn birds singing,
But hopes for the future and bright dreams of me;
For while in your pure heart my mem'ry you're keeping,
I ne'er can be lonely while waking or sleeping.
CHORUS.

But if, while the loud shouts of vict'ry are ringing,
O'er the land that foul traitors have caught to betray,
You hear o'er the voices so joyfully singing,
That he who so loved you has fallen in the fray,
Oh think that he's gone where there's dark treason never,
Where tears and sad partings are banished forever.
CHORUS.

OUR FLAG; OR, THE ORIGIN OF THE STARS AND BARS.[14]

Words and Music by HARRY MCCARTHY.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

Young stranger, what land claims thy birth?
For thy flag is but new to the sea,
And where is the nation on earth,
That the right of this flag gives to thee;
Thy banner reminds us of one
By the Champions of Freedom unfurled,
And the proudest of nations have owned,
'Twas a glory and pride to the world;
That flag was the "Stripes and Stars,"
And the colors of thine are the same,
But thou hast the "Stars and the Bars,"
Oh, stranger, pray tell us thy name.

That flag, with its garland of fame,
Proudly waved o'er my father and me,
And my grandsires died to proclaim
It the flag of the brave and the free;
But alas! for the flag of my youth;
I have sighed and dropped my last tear,
For the North has forgotten her truth,
And would tread on the rights we hold dear;
They envied the South her bright Stars,
Her glory, her honor, her fame,
So we unfurled the "Stars and the Bars"
And the Confederate Flag is its name.

And her bright colors shone forth,
All glorious in fair Freedom's light,
We swore to remember their birth,
And in her honor forever to fight;
So woe to the foeman who'll dare,
Our Southern soil to invade,
For bless'd by the smiles of the fair,
And in right's powerful armor arrayed;
We'll strike for our Southern stars,
Our honor, our glory, our fame,
We'll strike for the "Stars and the Bars,"
For the Confederate Flag is its name.

THE NAVASOTA VOLUNTEERS.

By WM. NEELY, of Durant's Cavalry.

_Air--"Susanna, Don't you Cry."_

We're the Navasota volunteers, our county is named Grimes;
Oh, come along, my conscript boys, we can't leave you behind;
Jeff Davis is our President, and Stephens is the Vice--
At the head of our armies are Lee, Beauregard and Price.

We have other officers and generals in command,
To lead our gallant forces on, and give the right command;
Good old Magruder's our choice, and will help the Yankees roast;
So come and go along with us, and help defend the coast.

O come along, my jolly boys, and help us all to fight--
To go against old Uncle Abe I know that we are right;
So come along, my countrymen, and with us take your stand;
With help of God, we'll whip old Abe, and all his Yankee band.

Come volunteer, my brave, brave boys, and help to fight it out;
We can whip the Abolitionists, without a single doubt;
We are volunteers of Texas--we are the very chaps,
To whip the Abolitionists, and stop their "nutmeg" traps.

Come volunteer, my Texas boys, altho' you are forty-six--
We'll whip old Abe and Buell, with all their Yankee tricks;
Their armies are invading us, and this we cannot stand,
We must whip them back to Yankeedom, O come and take a hand.

Come, all of you brave Southerners, and join our common cause,
To go against old Lincoln and all his Yankee boys;
If we find them on the hills, or find them in their ditches,
If you go along with us we'll whip them out their "britches."

Now, there is our good doctor, with his powder and his pills,
Who is willing to go with us and cure us of our ills;
There are some of our countrymen, whose names I will not tell,
Who say they cannot volunteer, "for they are not very well!"

There is the officeseeker! altho' not very noted,
He would go along with us if he could only be promoted!
There is the little lawyer! who is of no great note,
He will not go along with us unless we will promote!

Now, there is the merchant! with his all in his hand,
Who'll sell unto his customers at the highest price he can;
If you say to the merchant, when you go in to trade,
"I cannot stand your price," he'll holler out "Blockade!"

And then there's the yearling thief, that ought to go to battle;
The country would be better off rid of all such cattle;
And there's the rich planters, with their negroes and their lands,
They will not go along with us to fight old Lincoln's bands.

They remind me of a tale, perhaps you've heard yourself:
While a woman fought a bear her husband hid himself;
The battle was fought, and the good old lady won it--
Old man then came crawling out--"Old woman, hain't we done it!"

There are speculating parsons, who wish their country well--
And they will warn poor sinners of going down to hell;
They cannot go along with us, they do not wish to fight,
They'll stay at home to prey on us, that all may come out right.

Now unto all such fellows be everlasting shame;
And all our honest countrymen will surely them disdain;
Come, all ye Texas ladies, now listen to my song,
And do not marry any man that will not go along.

To defend the coast of Texas we all feel now inclined;
To leave our wives and little ones in the care of those behind;
We hope that they'll prove faithful, and to their wants attend,
And see that they're provided for while we the land defend.

Farewell! my friends and neighbors, we bid you all adieu.
Farewell to wife and children! we now must part with you!
O God! in mercy bless us! sustain us by Thy grace!
And grant we all may meet again our lov'd ones to embrace!

"For I know there is no other,
E'er can be so dear to me."]

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Composed by FR. SULZNER.

Permission of HENRI WEHRMANN, New Orleans, La.

I am dreaming of thee,
Dearest, I am dreaming still of thee,
For thy spirit haunts me ever,
Like some fairy melody;
When in loneliness I wander,
Or in haunts of mirth and glee,
Still my heart to thine is turning,
I am dreaming still of thee.

When the stars are softly smiling,
Thro' the lone and silent night,
Then I think of thee and heaven,
With a holy, calm delight;
For thy spirit is so radiant
In its love and purity,
That whene'er I dream of angels,
I am dreaming still of thee.

There are hours when dreary shadows,
Cast their gloom upon my heart,
When I think how well I love thee,
When I feel that we must part;
For I know there is no other,
E'er can be so dear to me,
And whene'er of love I'm dreaming,
I am dreaming still of thee.

I am dreaming of thee, dearest,
Still I dream of thee alone;
We shall meet again in heaven,
There our spirits shall be one;
For the earth when thou wert near me,
Was a paradise to me,
And whene'er I dream of heaven,
I am dreaming still of thee.

"When the stars are softly smiling
* * * *
Then I think of thee and heaven."]

BY THE BANKS OF RED RIVER.

Words by E. E. KIDD.

Music by LA HACHE.

Oh, gone is the soul from his wondrous dark eye,
And gone is her life's dearest glory.
The tales of fond lovers unheeded pass by,
Her heart hears a single sad story,
How her gallant young hero fell asleep, and will never
Awake from his dream by the banks of Red River.

CHORUS.--How her gallant young hero fell asleep, and will never
Awake from his dream by the banks of Red River.

How oft to the window she rushes to wait,
As though she expected his coming;
She lists, ah! she hears him swing open the gate,
And the song he was wont to be humming;
But she turns, ah! she feels he's asleep and will never
Awake from his dream by the banks of Red River.
CHORUS.

Ah, many a sun will awaken the morn,
All dressed in its radiant glory,
Ere the heart of the maiden shall ever be torn
From the woe of his sorrowful story,
For it bent--it has broke. Oh! God it will never
Arise from that grave by the banks of Red River.
CHORUS.

THE OFFICERS OF DIXIE.

By A GROWLER.

Let me whisper in your ear, sir,
Something that the South should hear, sir,
Of the war, of the war, of the war in Dixie;
A growing curse--a "burning shame," sir,
In the chorus I will name, sir,
Of the war, of the war, of the war in Dixie.

CHORUS.--The officers of Dixie alone, alone!
The honors share, the honors wear
Throughout the land of Dixie!
'Tis so, 'tis so, throughout the land of Dixie.

Swelling 'round with gold lace plenty,
See the gay "brass button" gentry;
Solomon in all his splendors
Was scarce arrayed like these "defenders."
CHORUS.

In cities, sir, it is alarming
To see them 'round the hotel swarming;
And at each little "one-horse town," sir,
See the "birds" how they "fly 'round," sir.
CHORUS.

On the steamboat, in the cars, sir,
Deep respect is shown the "bars," sir.
And if a "star" or two is spotted,
See how "the elephant" is courted.
CHORUS.

Should a grand soiree be given,
The "braided lions" take the even.
No, no! the privates are not slighted!
They can't expect to be invited!
CHORUS.

The ladies! bless the darling creatures!
Quite distort their pretty features,
And say (I know you've seen it done, sir),
"They'll have an officer or none," sir.
CHORUS.

And if when death-shots round us rattle,
An officer is kill'd in battle--
How the martyr is lamented!
(This is right--we've not dissented).
CHORUS.

But only speak of it to show, sir,
Privates are not honor'd so, sir.
No muffled drum, no wreath of glory,
If one dies, proclaims the story.
CHORUS.

In Dixie's land, in every way, sir,
"Fuss and feathers" "win the day," sir,
For with all sexes, sizes, ages,
How the "gold lace fever" rages!
CHORUS.

List the moral of my song, sir;
In Dixie there is something wrong, sir.
As all that glitters is not gold, sir,
Read and ponder what I've told, sir.
CHORUS.

THE SENTINEL'S DREAM OF HOME.

By COL. A. M. HOBBY.

'Tis dead of night, nor voice, nor sound, breaks on the stillness of the
air,
The waning moon goes coldly down on frozen fields and forests bare:
The solemn stars are glittering high, while here my lonely watch I keep,
To guard the brave with anxious eye, who sweetly dream and sweetly sleep.

Perchance of home these sleepers dream, of sainted ones no longer here,
Whose mystic forms low bend unseen, and breathe soft whispers in their
ear:
Sleep on, sleep on, my comrades brave, quaff deep to-night of pleasure's
cup,
Ere morning's crimson banners wave, and reveille shall rouse thee up.

The sporting winds and waves to-night seem tired of their boisterous
play,
And armed ships, with signal lights and bristling guns before me lay:
But not of ships nor battle-fields, with clash of arms and roll of
drums--
To softer scenes my spirit yields--to-night a sweeter vision comes.

It is thine own beloved one! whose kiss I feel, whose smile I see;
O God! protect that wife at home, begirt with growing infancy:
To-night, to-night I'm with you there, around my knees fond children
gather!
And climb, the envied kiss to share, amidst the sounds of "Husband!
Father!"

Such thoughts my eyes with moisture fill, my bosom heaves, my pulses
start;
Close down I'll press my gun to still the wild emotions of my heart:
Hush! pleading one--I cannot stay! the spoiler comes with fiendish
wrath--
Black ruin marks his bloody way, and blazing homes have lit his path.

"Go, husband, go! God nerve thy blows--their footsteps foul blot from
our shore--
Strike! 'till our land is free from foes whose hands are stained with
Southern gore;
Strike! husband, strike--I'd rather weep, the widow of a patriot brave,
Than lay my heart (I'd scorn to sleep) beside a subjugated slave."

Thy woman's soul is true and grand! the battle-field my home shall be,
Until our country'll proudly stand acknowledged as a nation free;
'Till then, oh, welcome fields of strife, the victor's shout, the
vanquished cry,
Where ebbs the crimson stream of life, where quick and dead together lie.

'Mid bursting shell and squadron's dash, where broken ranks disorder'd
fly,
Where angry cannon's flash on flash paints hell upon the lurid sky,
Where many a brave shall sink to rest, and fondly cherish'd hopes will
set,
And blood that warms the manly heart, will dim the glittering bayonet.

When these are past, and victory's sun in undimm'd splendor lights the
skies,
And peace, by dauntless valor won, and proudly free our banner flies,
Then to my Western prairie home, with eager haste, each nerve shall
strain,
Nor from its hallow'd precincts roam, unless my country call again.

There unalloy'd shall be our bliss; we'll watch the sun give morning
birth,
And, sinking, leave his parting kiss upon the dewy lips of earth.

* * * * *

The moon has waxed and waned away; the morning star rides pale and high--
Fond dreams of home no longer stay, but fade like stars on mornings sky.

GALVESTON, TEXAS, Feb. 1, 1864.

CAMP DOUGLAS BY THE LAKE.

A PRISON SONG.

_Air--"Cottage by the Sea."_

Childhood's days have long since faded,
Youth's bright dreams like lights gone out,
Distant homes and hearths are shaded,
With the future's dread and doubt.

CHORUS.--Here, old Michigan before us,
Moaning waves that ever break,
Chanting still the one sad chorus,
At Camp Douglas by the Lake. (Repeat.)

Exiles from our homes, we sorrow
O'er the present's darkening gloom;
Will we know that with the morrow,
We'll wake to feel the same hard doom.
CHORUS.

Oh, for one short hour of gladness,
One hour of hope, this pain to break,
And chase away the heavy sadness,
At Camp Douglas by the Lake.
CHORUS.

I would some Southern bird was singing,
Warbling richest, softest lays,
Back to eager memory bringing,
Sweetest thoughts of happy days.
CHORUS.

I dread the night's uneasy slumber;
Hate the day that bids me wake,
Another of that dreary number,
At Camp Douglas by the Lake.
CHORUS.

Never Sabbath bells are tolling,
Never words of cheer and love;
Wintry waves are round us rolling,
Clouds are hiding heaven above.
CHORUS.

Dixie Land! still turn toward you,
Hearts that now in bondage ache,
Hearts that once were strong to guard you,
Wasting here beside the lake.

REFRAIN.--John Morgan crossed the river,
And I went across with him.
I was captured in Ohio,
Because I could not swim.

MISSOURI.

Words and music by HARRY MCCARTHY.

Sung by Harry McCarthy throughout the Confederate States in his Personation Concerts.

[The music of this song can be obtained of Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

Missouri! Missouri! bright land of the West,
Where the wayworn emigrant always found rest,
Who gave to the farmer reward for the toil
Expended in breaking and turning the soil;
Awake to the notes of the bugle and drum!
Awake from your peace, for the tyrant hath come;
And swear by your honor that your chains shall be riven,
And add your bright star to our Flag of Eleven.

They'd force you to join in their unholy fight,
With fire and with sword, with power and with might,
'Gainst fathers and brothers, and kindred near,
'Gainst women and children, all you hold dear;
They've o'errun your soil, insulted your press;
Murdered your citizens, shown no redress;
So swear by your honor that your chains shall be riven,
And add your bright star to our Flag of Eleven.

Missouri! Missouri! where is thy proud fame?
Free land of the West, thy once cherished name
Trod in the dust by a tyrant's command,
Proclaiming there's martial law in the land,
Men of Missouri! strike without fear!
McCulloch, Jackson, and brave men are near;
So swear by your honor that your chains shall be riven,
And add your bright star to our Flag of Eleven.

OH, NO! HE'LL NOT NEED THEM AGAIN![15]

Oh, no! no! he'll not need them again--
No more will he wake to behold,
The splendor and fame of his men--
The tale of his victories told!
No more will he wake from that sleep,
Which he sleeps in his glory and fame,
While his comrades are left here to weep
Over Cleburne! his grave and his name.

Oh, no; he'll not meet them again,
No more will his banner be spread
O'er the field of his gallantry's fame;
The soldier's proud spirit is fled!
The soldier who rose 'mid applause,
From the humblemost place in the van--
I sing not in praise of the cause,
But rather in praise of the man.

Oh, no; he'll not need them again,
He has fought his last battle without them,
For barefoot he, too, must go in,
While barefoot stood comrades about him;
And barefoot they proudly marched on,
With blood flowing fast from their feet;
They thought of the past victories won,
And the foes that they now were to meet.

Oh, no; he'll not need them again,
He is leading his men to the charge,
Unheeding the shells or the slain,
Or the showers of the bullets at large.
On the right, on the left, on the flanks,
He dashingly pushes his way,
While with cheers, double quick and in ranks,
His soldiers all followed that day.

Oh, no; he'll not need them again,
He falls from his horse to the ground!
O anguish! O sorrow! O pain!
In the brave hearts that gathered around;
He breathes not of grief, nor a sigh
On the breast where he pillowed his head,
Ere he fix'd his last gaze upon high--
"I'm killed, boys, but fight it out!" said.

Oh, no; he'll not need them again,
But treasure them up for his sake;
And oh, should you sing a refrain,
Of the memories they still must awake,
Sing it soft as the summer-eve breeze,
Let it sound as refreshing and clear;
Tho' grief-born there's that which can please,
In thoughts that are gemmed with a tear.

IN MEMORIAM.

Lieut. Sidney A. Sherman,[16] who fell at the Battle of Galveston, January 1, 1863.

By MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE.

Pillow his head on his flashing sword,
Who fell ere the fight was won,
The turf looks red where his life was poured--
He fell beside his gun!

He died with the gleam in his youthful eye,
The fire in his gallant breast,
The light was shadowed but could not die,
That glisten'd upon his breast!

For Liberty claimed his parting breath,
And Fame his last trumpet cry:
Yes, Freedom hath torn his young name from Death--
The brave can never die!

His young breast met, like an ocean rock,
The clash of the battle-storm;
His proud soul smiled at the tempest shock,
That thundered around his form.

But his life grew faint when the storm raged high,
And ebbed with the dawning sun,
And there on the field of victory
He fell beside his gun!

From the gallant throng there is missed a crest,
A sword from the ranks of steel,
A hand from the gun whose mad unrest,
Hath made our foemen reel.

A blithe young voice from the mellow strain,
That floated at evenfall;
A voice from the camp-song's high refrain,
A step in his father's hall:

In his father's hall--where his mother's eye,
Late hung with a gleam of joy,
On the proud young form, as the hopes beat high
In the breast of her soldier boy.

And the dashing sound of the distant sea,
With the wail in its troubled breast,
To the hearts 'round that clouded hearth will be,
But an echo of their unrest!

But pillow his head on his flashing sword,
Whose Fame on the field was won--
The strife raged high where his blood was poured--
And--he fell beside his gun!

Oh, circle the banner around his form,
That he loved with a soldier's pride,
For it shone like a star thro' the battle storm,
O'er the field where our hero died!

He went from the red field down to the grave,
He fell where his fame was won,
And his own fair State hath a name for the brave,
And a song for her martyred son!

Yes, Liberty shrined his parting breath,
And Texas his fainting cry--
Yes, Fame hath torn his young name from death,
The brave can never die!

Then pillow his head on his flashing sword,
Who fell where the field was won;
The turf is red where his life was poured--
He fell beside his gun!

TYLER, TEXAS, 1863.

YANKEE VANDALS.

_Air--"Gay and Happy."_

The Northern Abolition vandals,
Who have come to free the slave,
Will meet their doom in "Old Virginny,"
Where they all will get a grave.

CHORUS--So let the Yankees say what they will,
We'll love and fight for Dixie still,
Love and fight for, love and fight for,
We'll love and fight for Dixie still.

When the Hessian horde is driven,
O'er Potomac's classic flood,
The pulse of a new-born freedom,
Then will stir old Maryland's blood.
CHORUS.

Then we'll crown our warrior chieftains
Who have led us in the fight,
And have brought the South in triumph,
Through dread danger's troubled night.
CHORUS.

And the brave who nobly perished,
Struggling in the bloody fray;
We'll wear a wreath of fadeless laurel
For their glorious memory.
CHORUS.

O'er their graves the Southern maidens,
From sea-shore to mountain grot,
We'll plant the smiling rose of beauty
And the sweet forget-me-not.
CHORUS.

RIDING A RAID.

_Air--"Bonny Dundee."_

'Tis old Stonewall, the rebel, that leans on his sword,
And, while we are mounting, prays low to the Lord;
Now each cavalier who loves honor and right,
Let him follow the feather of Stuart to-night.

CHORUS--Come, tighten your girths and slacken your rein;
Come, buckle your blanket and holster again;
Try the click of your trigger and balance your blade,
For he must ride _sure_ who goes riding a raid.

Now gallop, now gallop, to swim or to ford;
Old Stonewall, still watching, prays low to the Lord.
Good-by, dear old rebel; the river's not wide,
And Maryland's lights in the windows do shine.
CHORUS.

Then gallop, then gallop, by ravine and rocks,
Who would bar up the way takes his toll in hard knocks;
For with these points of steel up the lines of old Penn,
We have made some fine strokes and will make 'em again.
CHORUS.

THE TOAST OF MORGAN'S MEN.

By CAPT. THORPE, Kentucky.

Unclaimed by the land that bore us,
Lost in the land we find
The brave have gone before us,
Cowards are left behind!
Then stand to your glasses, steady,
Here's a health to those we prize,
Here's a toast to the dead already,
And here's to the next who dies.

TRUE HEART SOUTHRONS.

_Air--"Blue Bonnets over the Border."_

For trumpet and drum, leave the soft voice of maiden;
For the tramp of armed men, leave the maze of the dance;
One kiss on the lips, with words of love laden--
One look in dimm'd eyes--then the rifle and lance.

CHORUS.--March, march, true heart Southrons,
Fall into ranks and march in good order,--
Escambia shall many a day tell of the fierce affray,
When we drove the base Northmen far over our border

Do ye weep, ye fair flowers, our hearth-stones that brighten?
For every tear shed shall fall ten foemen's lives;
Far in the cold North their hosts we will frighten,
As we strike for our "Homes, our sweethearts, and wives."
CHORUS.

THE SOLDIER'S AMEN.

As a couple of good soldiers were walking one day,
Said one to the other: "Let's kneel down and pray!
I'll pray for the war, and good of all men:
And whatever I pray for, do you say 'Amen!'"

"We'll pray for the generals and all of their crew,
Likewise for the captains and lieutenants too;
May good luck and good fortune them always attend!
And return safely home;" said the soldier, "Amen!"

"We'll pray for the privates, the noblest of all;
They do all the work and get no glory at all;
May good luck and good fortune them always attend,
And return crowned with laurels!" said the soldier, "Amen!"

"We'll pray for the pretty boys who want themselves wives,
And have not the courage to strike for themselves;
May bad luck and bad fortune them always attend!
And go down to Old Harry!" said the soldier, "Amen!"

"We'll pray for the pretty girls, who make us good wives,
And always look at a soldier with tears in their eyes;
May good luck and good fortune them always attend!
And brave gallants for sweethearts!" said the soldier, "Amen!"

"We'll pray for the conscript, with frown on his brow,
To fight for his country he won't take the vow;
May bad luck and bad fortune him always attend;
And die with dishonor!" said the soldier, "Amen!"

HERE'S YOUR MULE.

A farmer came to camp, one day, with milk and eggs to sell,
Upon a mule who oft would stray to where no one could tell,
The farmer, tired of his tramp, for hours was made a fool
By ev'ryone he met in camp, with, "Mister, here's your mule."

CHORUS.--Come on, come on, come on, old man, and don't be made a fool,
I'll tell the truth as best I can,
John Morgan's got your mule.

His eggs and chickens all were gone before the break of day,
The mule was heard of all along--that's what the soldiers say;
And still he hunted all day long--alas! the witless fool--
While ev'ry man would sing the song, "Mister, here's your mule."
CHORUS.

The soldiers now, in laughing mood, on mischief were intent,
They toted muly on their backs, around from tent to tent;
Through this hole and that they pushed his head, and made a rule
To shout with humorous voices all, "Mister, here's your mule."
CHORUS.

Alas! one day the mule was missed, ah! who could tell his fate?
The farmer, like a man bereft, searched early and searched late;
And as he passed from camp to camp, with stricken face, the fool
Cried out to ev'ryone he met, "Oh, Mister, where's my mule?"
CHORUS.

SABINE PASS.

Dedicated to the Davis Guards--(The Living and the Dead).

By MRS. M. J. YOUNG.

Sabine Pass! in letters of gold,
Seem written upon the sky to-day,
Sabine Pass! with rhythmic feet,
Comes passionately stepping down my lay.

Sabine Pass! and the white sail ships,
With their cruel cannons' grinning teeth,
Tearing in shreds the sullen smoke,
That seem'd weaving for us a winding sheet.

Sabine Pass! with its Irish hearts,
As true as the blessings the Shamrock brings,
Hearts as full of royal blood
As that which nerves the arms of kings.

Few, ah! few were the Davis band,
"We cannot conquer, but we can die!"
Said the dauntless Dowling, as up he sprang,
And nailed the starry cross on high.

Twenty-seven ships in pomp and pride,
Came sailing through the Pass that day;
Go ask of any Texan child,
How many ships survived the fray.

The God of battle, who loves the brave,
Who gave to Gideon of old the fight,
Sent victory down that "Guard" to save,
And crowned them with immortal light.

Dark storms have since o'erswept our land,
And tyrants do our souls harass,
But glory shines on Dowling's band,
The forty-two heroes of the Pass.

Come, fill your glass with Texas wine,
Wine that is generous, red and free,
And drink with me to the knightliest man,
Who conquered the foe on land and sea.

But tears, rough, manly tears, for the dead,
Like dews of night bedim the glass,
With throbbing hearts and lifted hands,
We name him--"Dowling! of the Pass."

HOUSTON, TEXAS.

SHORT RATIONS; OR, THE CORN-FED ARMY.

Fair ladies and maids of all ages,
Little girls and cadets howe'er youthful,
Home-guards, quartermasters and sages,
Who write for the newspapers so truthful!
Clerks, surgeons, and supes--legislators,
Staff officers, (fops of the Nation,)
And even you, dear speculators,
Come list to my song of starvation!

CHORUS.--For we soldiers have seen something rougher
Than a storm, a retreat, or a fight,
And the body may toil on, and suffer
With a smile, so the heart is all right!

Our bugles had roused up the camp,
The heavens looked dismal and dirty,
And the earth looked unpleasant and damp,
As a beau on the wrong side of thirty;
We were taking these troubles with quiet,
When we heard from the mouths of some rash ones,
That the army was all put on diet,
And the Board had diminish'd our rations!
CHORUS.

Reduce our rations at all?
It was difficult, yet it was done--
We had one meal a day--it was small--
Are we now, Oh, ye gods! to have none?
Oh, ye gentlemen issuing rations,
Give at least half her own to the State,
Put a curb on your maddening passions,
And, commissaries--commiserate!
CHORUS.

Tell me not of the Lacedaemonian,
Of his black broth and savage demeanor,
We keep up a fare less Plutonian,
Yet I'd swear our corn coffee is meaner!
Tell me nothing of ancients and strangers,
For, on seeing our Southern-bred Catos,
I have laugh'd at old Marion's Rangers,
Who feasted on roasted potatoes!
CHORUS.

Erewhile we had chicken and roasters,
For the fowls and pigs were ferocious,
We would send them to shoot Pater Nosters,
And the deed was not stamped as atrocious;
But since we have been shot for the same,
We parch corn--it is healthier, but tougher--
The chickens and pigs have got tame,
But the horses and mules have to suffer.
CHORUS.

But the "corn-fed" is proof to all evils,
Has a joke for all hardships and troubles,
In honor and glory he revels,
Other fancies he looks on as bubbles!
He is bound to be free, and he knows it,
Then what cares he for toil and privation!
He is brave, and in battle he shows it,
And will conquer in spite of starvation!
CHORUS.

THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL.

_Air--"Rosin the Bow."_

Hark! the tocsin is sounding, my comrades;
Bind your knapsacks--away let us go,
Where the flag of the freeman is waving--
March to vanquish the ruffian foe!

CHORUS.--Ho for Liberty! Freedom or death, boys,
That's the watchword, away let us go
To the sound of the drum and the bugle,
March to vanquish the ruffian foe![17]

Farewell to the scenes of my childhood,
To my mother, who's praying for me;
She would weep if the son of her bosom
From the face of a foeman should flee.

Farewell to the home and the hearthstone,
Where my sisters are weeping for me;
Oh; the foot of the spoilers shall never,
Stain the home of the brave and the free.

Adieu, thou beloved of my bosom!
For thy soldier-love shed not a tear;
But beseech the great Lord of the battle,
To protect him and all he holds dear.

Adieu, honored father! who taught me,
For the rights of a freeman to stand--
To resist, when his rod, the aggressor,
Shakes in wrath o'er my dear native land.

Oh, my country, thou home of my loved ones!
You, the tyrant would seek to enslave--
Sweep you off from the face of creation,
Wake, freemen, our country to save!

Hear the threats of that ruthless banditti,
Who for "booty" and "beauty" would fight;
Shall they sweep our loved South from creation?
No! her sons will arise in their might!

"Sweep the South from the face of the earth!" boys?
We can sweep, too, O land of our birth!
For our homes and our altars and dear ones,
We the ruffians can sweep from the earth.

Adieu to the church, where the Christian
For the soldier and Sabbath will pray;
But the Bible and chaplain go with us,
And Jehovah, our God, is our stay!

When the old British lion oppressed us,
He with Washington went to the field;
Unto Him we will look in the battle,
And will strike 'til the enemy yield!

THE BATTLE OF SHILOH HILL.

By M. B. SMITH, of Co. C., Second Regiment Texas Volunteers.

_Air--"Wandering Sailor."_

Come, all ye valiant soldiers, and a story I will tell,
It is of a noted battle you all remember well;
It was an awful strife, and will cause your blood to chill,
It was the famous battle that was fought on Shiloh Hill!

It was the sixth of April, just at the break of day,
The drums and fifes were playing for us to march away;
The feeling of that hour I do remember still,
For the wounded and the dying that lay on Shiloh Hill.

About the hour of sunrise the battle it began,
And before the day had vanished we fought them hand to hand;
The horrors of the field did my heart with anguish fill,
For the wounded and the dying that lay on Shiloh Hill.

There were men of every nation laid on those rocky plains,
Fathers, sons and brothers were numbered with the slain,
That has caused so many homes with deep mourning to be filled,
All from the bloody battle that was fought on Shiloh Hill.

The wounded men were crying for help from everywhere,
While others, who were dying, were offering God their prayer:
"Protect my wife and children, if it is Thy holy will!"
Such were the prayers I heard that night on Shiloh Hill.

And early the next morning, we were called to arms again,
Unmindful of the wounded and unmindful of the slain,
The struggle was renewed, and ten thousand men were killed;
This was the second conflict of the famous Shiloh Hill.

The battle it raged on, though dead and dying men,
Lay thick all o'er the ground, on the hill and in the glen,
And from their deadly wounds their blood ran like a rill;
Such were the mournful sights that I saw on Shiloh Hill.

Before the day was ended the battle ceased to roar,
And thousands of brave soldiers had fall'n to rise no more;
They left their vacant ranks for some other ones to fill,
And now their mouldering bodies all lie on Shiloh Hill.

And now my song is ended about those bloody plains,
I hope the sight by mortal man may ne'er be seen again;
But I pray to God, the Saviour, "if consistent with Thy will,"
To save the souls of all who fell on bloody Shiloh Hill.

STONEWALL'S REQUIEM.

Permission of the OLIVER DITSON CO.

Music by M. DEEVES.

The muffled drum is beating,
There's a sad and solemn tread,
Our banner's draped in mourning,
As it shrouds the "illustrious dead,"
Proud forms are bent with sorrow,
And all Southern hearts are sore,
The hero now is sleeping--
Noble Stonewall is no more.

'Mid the rattling of the muskets,
And the cannons' thund'rous roar,
He stained the field of glory,
With his brave life's precious gore;
And though our flag waved proudly,
We were victors ere sunset--
The gallant deeds of Chancellorsville,
Will mingle with regret.

They've borne him to an honored grave,
The laurel crowns his brow,
By hallowed James' silent wave
He's sweetly sleeping now;
Virginia to the South is dear,
She holds a sacred trust,
Our fallen braves from far and near,
Are covered with her dust.

She shrines the spot where now is laid,
The bravest of them all,
The Martyr of our country's cause,
Our idolized Stonewall;
But though his spirit's wafted
To the happy realms above;
His name shall live forever linked,
With reverence and love.

LITTLE GIFFIN.

By DR. FRANCIS O. TICKNOR.

"A ballad of such unique and really transcendent merit, that in our judgment it ought to rank with the rarest gems of modern martial poetry."--P. H. HAYNE.

Out of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire,
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!)
Specter such as we seldom see,
Little Giffin of Tennessee!

"Take him and welcome!" the surgeon said:
"Much your doctor can help the dead!"
And so we took him and brought him where,
The balm was sweet on the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed--
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

Weary War with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death,
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint in the steel-blue eye,
Spoke of the spirit that wouldn't die.

And didn't! nay more! in death's despite,
The crippled skeleton learned to write!
"Dear mother," at first, of course, and then,
"Dear Captain" inquiring about the "men,"
Captain's answer--"Of eighty and five,
Giffin and I are left alive!"

"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"
Little Giffin was up and away.
A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye;
"I'll write, if spared." There was news of a fight,
But none of Giffin! he did not write!

I sometimes fancy that were I a king
Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I'd give the best on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,
For little Giffin of Tennessee!

STUART.

By MRS. HENRY J. VOSE.

Music by A. E. BLACKMAR.

[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

Oh! mother of States and of men,
Bend low thy queenly head,
On his shield is borne to thy arms again,
Thy youngest, fairest dead;
Drop tears like rain for that strong heart stilled,
For that dauntless spirit fled!

Sleep well, O stainless knight,
'Neath the folds of the starry cross,
For the day now breaks o'er the long, long night
Of our anguish, peril and loss;
But alas! for the eyes that smiled on death,
And the life that held life dross.

They say thine ancestral line,
Swayed the scepter, and wore the crown;
But none girded a nobler sword than thine,
Nor more stainless life laid down;
And we ask no gleam from their grand old past,
To brighten thy young renown.

On the field thy life was giv'n,
Where our best blood has been poured;
At the feet of our country's God, in heaven,
Thou hast laid another sword,
When Jackson's head was so lately bowed,
The tried soldier of the Lord.

Oh, swords of the South! like flame,
Leap forth for this life-blood shed,
Strike the foe till he flies from the field in shame,
Sheathe not till the hilt is red!
And redeem the land that enshrines in her heart,
The graves of her glorious dead!

ONLY A SOLDIER.

By MAJOR LAMAR FONTAINE.

"Only a soldier!" I heard them say,
With a heavy heart I turned away,
And heaved a sigh.
Then watched the tramp of the horses' feet,
As the hearse moved slowly down the street,
And hot tears dimmed my eye.

"Only a soldier!" confined in there--
A father's joy and a mother's care,
Torn from his home.
Now a maiden sighs for his return,
On his sister's cheek the teardrops burn,
For her soldier-brother's gone.

"Only a soldier!" I thought anew,
As fancy came, and I quickly drew
"The parting hour,"
That hour he left at his country's call,
To place himself as a living wall,
Where sterner men might cower.

In dreams he'd seen friends kneeling down
To raise his head from the battle-ground,
And thus he'd say:
"Tell my father that fighting I fell,
'Mid hammering shot and screaming shell,
When the South had won the day."

Alas! he never had dreamed of death,
But as borne on whistling bullets' breath,
'Mid muskets flashing;
And where the war-dogs howling loud,
Breathe with sulphur-smoke a battle cloud--
The shells with thunders crashing!

But a fevered cot is his battle-ground,
And slowly, calmly in death he's bound
To the "Far-off-Land."
No gentle sister's spirit is there,
E'en in stranger's form with tender care,
To bathe his dry burning hand.

The dark sod hides the form of the dead,
Dew-drops kiss no more that pale forehead,
Nor gleam on his hair.
Life's hope is gone! Life's sorrowing o'er,
His spirit is on the "echoless shore,"
Dwelling with angels up there.

Thus unwept, unmourned, he sank to rest,
E'en by human sympathy unblest,
To an unknown grave!
God, who notes e'en the sparrow's fall,
Shall, in the dread resurrection, call
To Heaven the soldier brave!

WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME.

The boys are coming home again,
This war will soon be o'er,
The Southern land again will stand,
As happy as of yore;
Yes, hand in hand, and arm in arm,
Together we will roam,
Oh! won't we have a happy time,
When all the boys come home.

CHORUS.--We'll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom's lofty dome;
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
We'll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom's lofty dome;
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.

We'll have no more false hopes and fears,
No more heartrending sighs--
The messengers of peace will dry
The weary mourner's eyes,
We'll laugh and sing, we'll dance and play,
Oh! wait until they come,
And joy will crown the happy day,
When all the boys come home.
CHORUS.

How proud our nation then will stand!
United evermore,
We'll bid defiance to the foe,
That dare approach our shore,
We'll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom's lofty dome,
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
CHORUS.

THE DRUMMER BOY OF SHILOH.

On Shiloh's dark and bloody ground the dead and wounded lay,
Amongst them was a drummer boy that beat the drum that day;
A wounded soldier raised him up--his drum was by his side--
He clasped his hands, and raised his eyes, and prayed before he died.

"Look down upon the battlefield, O Thou our heavenly Friend,
Have mercy on our sinful souls"--the soldiers cried, "Amen!"
For gathered 'round, a little group, each brave man knelt and cried--
They listened to the drummer boy who prayed before he died.

"Oh, Mother," said the dying boy, "Look down from Heaven on me!
Receive me to thy fond embrace! Oh, take me home to thee!
I've loved my country as my God, to serve them both I've tried,"
He smiled, shook hands, death seized the boy who prayed before he died.

Each soldier wept then like a child--stout hearts were they and brave--
The Flag his winding-sheet! God's Book the key unto his grave;
They wrote upon a simple board these words, "This is a guide,
To those who mourn the drummer boy who prayed before he died."

OLD STONEWALL.

By C. D. DASHER.

Music by F. YOUNKER.

[The music of this Song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

Oh, don't you remember old Stonewall, my boys,
Old Stonewall on charger so gray,
Whose memory is dear to the sons of the South,
The heroes that once wore the gray.
He was true to the cause of the men that he led,
Heroic in death as in life,
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife--
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife.

The harvest waves over the battlefield, boys,
And where bullets once pattered like rain,
The peach blooms are drifting like snow in the air,
And the hillocks are springing in grain,
Oh! green in our hearts may the memories be,
Of those heroes, in blue or in grey,
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array--
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array.

THE SOUTH;

OR, I LOVE THEE THE MORE.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

My heart in its sadness turns fondly to thee,
Dear land where our lov'd ones fought hard to be free;
I loved thee when struggling, and bleeding and sore,
But now thou art conquered, I love thee the more!

Gallant South! when the noble, the gifted, the brave,
Dashed onward to battle, like wave after wave,
Determin'd to die for the land they adore,
Though vain were their efforts, I love thee the more.

Bright South! though the winter is closing around,
And dead leaves of autumn now carpet the ground,
Thy beauties of woodland, of river and shore,
Still charm the beholder, I love thee the more.

Dear South! though thy beautiful forests and hills,
Thy emerald valleys and silvery rills,
Are subject to strangers--not free as of yore--
Thus changed, and in sorrow, I love thee the more.

Sweet South! lovely land of beautiful flowers,
Though cool now the zephyrs, and faded thy bowers,
Oh, soon shall the springtime thy beauties restore,
And bloom o'er our lost ones--I love thee the more.

Darling South! when I think every forest and grove,
And valley have pillow'd the heads that we love,
Have echoed their war cry and drank of their gore,
I feel thou art sacred, and love thee the more.

THE POOR SOLDIER!

A Popular Camp-fire Song of the 62d Alabama Regiment (The Boy Regiment.)

Little do rich people know,
What we poor soldiers undergo--
Called upon to take up arms,
To guard our country from all harm.

Break of day--the morning gun,
Wakes the rebels--the fife and drum,
Breaks a soldier's sweet repose--
He tumbles out--puts on his clothes.

First sergeant rushes in and out:
"Hurrah! hurrah, boys! do turn out;"
Front and rear he forms his line--
His 'coutrements and sword must shine.

"Eyes right!--steady!" is the word;
Our captain then presents his sword--
The sergeant jerks out his roll--
Names are called--the absent told.

Our surgeon is a man of skill,
Gives the sick each day bread pills;
If his pills do not act well--
He swears and damns our souls to hell.

Would you know who wrote this song,
I will tell--it won't take long;
It was composed by A. T. Height,
While walking post one rainy night.

THE BONNIE WHITE FLAG;

OR, THE PRISONER'S INVOCATION TO PEACE.

Col. W. S. HAWKINS.

In _Camp Chase Ventilator_, 1864.

_Air--"Bonnie Blue Flag."_

Though we're a band of prisoners,
Let each be firm and true,
For noble souls and hearts of oak,
The foe can ne'er subdue.
We then will turn us homeward,
To those we love so dear;
For peace and happiness, my boys,
Oh, give a hearty cheer!

CHORUS.--Hurrah! Hurrah! for peace
And home, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie White Flag,
That ends this cruel war!

The sword into the scabbard,
The musket on the wall,
The cannon from its blazing throat,
No more shall hurl the ball;
From wives and babes and sweethearts,
No longer will we roam,
For ev'ry gallant soldier boy,
Shall seek his cherished home.
CHORUS.

Our battle banners furled away,
No more shall greet the eye,
Nor beat of angry drums be heard,
Nor bugle's hostile cry.
The blade no more be raised aloft,
In conflict fierce and wild.
The bomb shall roll across the sward,
The plaything of a child.
CHORUS.

No pale-faced captive then shall stand,
Behind his rusted bars,
Nor from the prison window bleak,
Look sadly to the stars;
But out amid the woodland's green,
On bounding steed he'll be,
And proudly from his heart shall rise,
The anthem of the free.
CHORUS.

The plow into the furrow then,
The fields shall wave with grain,
And smiling children to their schools,
All gladly go again.
The church invites its grateful throng,
And man's rude striving cease,
While all across our noble land,
Shall glow the light of Peace.
CHORUS.

BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG.

Dedicated with respect and admiration to Maj.-Gen. EARL VAN DORN.

For sixty days and upward a storm of shell and shot,
Rained 'round as in a flaming shower, but still we faltered not!
"If the noble city perish," our grand young leader said,
"Let the only walls the foe shall scale be ramparts of the dead!"

For sixty days and upward the eye of heaven waxed dim,
And even throughout God's holy morn, o'er Christian's prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult, as if the fiends of air,
Strove to engulf the voice of faith in shriekings of despair.

There was wailing in the houses, there was trembling on the marts,
While the tempest raged and thundered 'midst the silent thrill of hearts;
But the Lord, our shield, was with us--and ere a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets, with scarce one throb of dread.

And the little children gambolled--their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment as the huge bombs whirled and blazed!
Then turning with silv'ry laughter to the sports which children love,
Thrice mailed in the sweet instinctive thought that the good God watched
above.[18]

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster from scores of flame-clad ships,
And above us, denser, darker, grew the conflict's wide eclipse,
'Till a solid cloud closed o'er like a type of doom and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quiv'ring tongues of forked and vengeful fire.

But the unseen hands of angels, these death shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy, ruled o'er the battle tide;
In the houses ceased the wailing, and through the war-scarred marts,
The people strode with the step of hope to the music in their hearts.

DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON.

Music by C. BLAMPHIN.

On a bright May morn in 'Sixty-three,
And eager for the action,
On a battlefield for Liberty,
Stood gallant Stonewall Jackson.
Both flesh and blood alike the same,
They strove to gain each other's fame,
And long may hist'ry pen the name,
Of gallant Stonewall Jackson.

CHORUS.--Who was his soldiers' pride,
And for his country died,
On a bright May day in 'Sixty-three,
And ready for the action,
On a battlefield for Liberty
Stood gallant Stonewall Jackson.

A man more kind was never born,
In battle no one bolder;
His loss all noble hearts will mourn,
This gallant faithful soldier;
For when the word was duty,
He was first to fight for victory;
Oh! may he live in history,
The gallant Stonewall Jackson.
CHORUS.

But alas! his time was come,
To see our promised land;
His comrade's fatal gun,
Shot through his arm and hand;
The Almighty's will was read,
Upon his noble brow;
"My race is run," he said.
Death has its victim now.
CHORUS.

THE SOUTHERN CAPTIVE.

By CAPT. SAM HOUSTON.

[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

Softly comes the twilight stealing gently through my prison bars,
While from out the vault of heaven, faintly glimmering come the stars;
Well I know my mother's weeping for her long-lost wandering boy--
Does she know that still I'm living? even that would give her joy.

No, they tell her that I'm sleeping 'neath the turf on Shiloh's plain;
That she ne'er will see her wanderer--never on this earth again;
Oh, my poor heart sinks within me, as the months roll slowly by,
And it seems in this cold Northland a lone captive I must die!

Yes, far away from friends and kindred, without a hand to mark my grave--
And not upon a field of glory I'll sleep amid the Southern brave;
Mother! yes, your boy is dying! soon he'll pass through death's dark
wave,
And the wintry wind be sighing o'er a captive's lonely grave.

THE VOLUNTEER; OR, IT IS MY COUNTRY'S CALL.

By HARRY MCCARTHY.

I leave my home and thee, dear, with sorrow at my heart,
It is my country's call, dear, to aid her, I depart;
And on the blood-red battle plain, we'll conquer or we'll die;
'Tis for our honor and our name, we raise the battle-cry.

CHORUS.--Then weep not, dearest, weep not, if in the cause I fall;
Oh, weep not, dearest, weep not, it is my country's call.