«Песни южан времен Гражданской войны в США»

Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,

Old Virginia’s blood and thunder, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw old Georgia, the next in the van,

She cut down the Yankees almost to a man;

Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,

Georgia’s some in a fight, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw Alabama in the midst of the storm,

She stood like a giant in the contest so warm;

Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,

Alabama fought the Yankees, boys, till the last one did fly.

I saw Texas go in with a smile,

But I tell you what it is, she made the Yankees bile;

Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,

Texas is the devil, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw North Carolina in the deepest of the battle,

She knocked down the Yankees and made their bones rattle;

Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,

North Carolina’s got the grit, boys; root, hog, or die.

Old Florida came in with a terrible shout,

She frightened all the Yankees till their eyes stuck out;

Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,

Florida’s death on Yankees; root, hog, or die.

КРАЙ КОРОЛЯ ХЛОПКА.

Автор Джо. Огюстин Сигниго .

Мотив — «Красный, белый и синий».

(Это была любимая песня войск Теннесси, особенно 13-го и 154-го полков. «Мемфис Аппил», 9 декабря 1861 г.)

Oh! Dixie, the land of King Cotton,

“The home of the brave and the free,”

A nation by freedom begotten,

The terror of despots to be;

Wherever thy banner is streaming,

Base tyranny quails at thy feet,

And liberty’s sunlight is beaming,

In splendor of majesty sweet.

Chorus—Three cheers for our army so true,

Three cheers for Price, Johnson, and Lee:

Beauregard, and our Davis forever,

The pride of the brave and the free!

When Liberty sounds her war-rattle,

Demanding her right and her due,

The first land that rallies to battle

Is Dixie, the shrine of the true:

Thick as leaves of the forest in Summer,

Her brave sons will rise on each plain,

And then strike, until each vandal comer

Lies dead on the soil he would stain.

Chorus.

May the names of the dead that we cherish,

Fill memory’s cup to the brim;

May the laurels they’ve won never perish,

“Nor star of their glory grow dim;”

May the States of the South never sever,

But the champions of freedom e’er be;

May they flourish Confed’rate forever,

The boast of the brave and the free.

Chorus.

МАЛЬЧИК-СОЛДАТ ЮГА.

В исполнении мисс Салли Партингтон в постановке «Виргинский кавалер», Ричмонд, шт. Виргиния, 1863 г. Композитор капитан Г. В. Александер .

Мотив — «Мальчик с каштановыми волосами».

Настроения этой песни пришлись по душе солдатам Конфедерации, и больше года Новый ричмондский театр каждую ночь заполнялся «повстанцами блокады», которые восторженными ура приветствовали «мисс Салли», примадонну Конфедерации.

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у компании Оливер Дитсон и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart’s name,

He’s off to the wars and gone,

He’s fighting for his Nannie dear,

His sword is buckled on;

He’s fighting for his own true love,

His foes he does defy;

He is the darling of my heart,

My Southern soldier boy.

Chorus.—Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!

He is my only joy,

He is the darling of my heart,

My Southern soldier boy.

When Bob comes home from war’s alarms,

We start anew in life,

I’ll give myself right up to him,

A dutiful, loving wife.

I’ll try my best to please my dear

For he is my only joy;

He is the darling of my heart

My Southern soldier boy.

Chorus.—Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!

He is my only joy,

He is the darling of my heart,

My Southern soldier boy.

Oh! if in battle he was slain,

I am sure that I should die,

But I am sure he’ll come again

And cheer my weeping eye;

But should he fall in this our glorious cause,

He still would be my joy

For many a sweetheart mourns the loss,

Of a Southern soldier boy.

Chorus.—Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!

I’d grieve to lose my joy,

But many a sweetheart mourns the loss

Of a Southern soldier boy.

I hope for the best, and so do all

Whose hopes are in the field;

I know that we shall win the day,

For Southrons never yield,

And when we think of those that are away,

We’ll look above for joy,

And I’m mighty glad that my Bobby is

A Southern soldier boy.

Chorus.

МЯТЕЖНИК — СВЯЩЕННОЕ ИМЯ.

Написано узником Старой капитолийской тюрьмы в Вашингтоне.

Rebel is a sacred name;

Traitor, too, is glorious;

By such names our father’s fought—

By them were victorious.

Chorus—Gaily floats our rebel flag

Over hill and valley—

Broad its bars, and bright its stars,

Calling us to rally.

Washington a rebel was,

Jefferson a traitor,—

But their treason won success,

And made their glory greater.

Chorus.

O’er our southern sunny strand

Vandal feet are treading;

And the Hessians on our land

Devastation spreading.

Chorus.

Can you then inactive be?

Maidens fair are saying;

And their bright eyes shame us out

With this long delaying.

Chorus.

Rouse ye, children of the free,

Rally to our streamer;

The vandal flag floats o’er our land,—

Awaken, Southern dreamer!

Chorus.

Rebel arms shall win the fight,

Rebel prayers defend us;

Rebel maidens greet us home,

When tyrants no more rend us.

Chorus.

МОЛОДОЙ ДОБРОВОЛЕЦ.

Слова и музыка Джона М. Хьюэтта .

Our flag is unfurl’d and our arms flash bright,

As the sun rides up the sky;

But ere I join the doubting fight,

Lovely maid, I would say, “Good by.”

I’m a young volunteer, and my heart is true

To the flag that woos the wind;

Then, three cheers for that flag and our country, too,

And the girls we leave behind.

Chorus.—Then adieu! then adieu! ’tis the last bugle’s strain

That is falling on the ear;

Should it so be decreed that we ne’er meet again,

Oh! remember the young volunteer.

When over the desert, thro’ burning rays,

With a heavy heart I tread;

Or when I breast the cannon’s blaze,

And bemoan my comrades dead,

Then, then, I will think of my home and you,

And our flag shall kiss the wind;

With huzza for our cause and our country, too,

And the girls we leave behind.

Chorus.

АРАХИС.

Слова А. Пендера . Музыка П. Натта .

[Ноты этой песни можно получить у Оливер Дитсон и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс.]

Одна из самых известных песен Конфедерации. Мелодия пришлась по вкусу солдатам, и в своем самом веселом настроении они с очаровательным задором выкрикивали: «Арахис! Арахис! Арахис!»

Sitting by the roadside on a summer day,

Chatting with my messmates, passing time away,

Lying in the shadow underneath the trees,

Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas!

Chorus.—Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas! eating goober peas!

Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas!

When a horseman passes, the soldiers have a rule,

To cry out at their loudest, “Mister, here’s your mule,”

But another pleasure enchantinger than these,

Is wearing out your grinders, eating goober peas!

Chorus.

Just before the battle the General hears a row,

He says “The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now,”

He turns around in wonder, and what do you think he sees?

The Georgia militia eating goober peas!

Chorus.

«Лежа в тени под деревьями».

I think my song has lasted almost long enough,

The subject’s interesting, but the rhymes are mighty rough,

I wish this war was over, when free from rags and fleas,

We’d kiss our wives and sweethearts and gobble goober peas!

Chorus.

ПРИЗЫВ НАШЕЙ СТРАНЫ.

Автор Х. Вальтер .

[С разрешения Анри Вермана.]

To arms! Oh! men in all our Southern clime,

Do you not scent the battle from afar,

And hear the ringing clash of armor chime,

Where men have met all panoplied for war?

To arms! Let not your country call in vain

For willing hearts to shield her from the foe,

But let the ardor of a patriot’s fame

Brightly within each manly bosom glow.

Chorus.—But let the ardor of a patriot’s fame

Brightly within each manly bosom glow.

To arms! in this, your country’s hour of need!

Behold her beautiful and broad domain,

And say, if patriot hearts shall freely bleed

To keep it sacred from invasion’s stain?

To arms! and don the panoply of war,

Stay not like cowards from the battle-field;

But with your armor on, march where the roar

Of cannon tells you that your brothers bleed!

Chorus.

The trumpet and the clarion sound to arms,

The noisy drum in solemn echo beats,

And martial music, robed in all her charms,

The magic words, To arms! To arms! repeats.

To arms! The mortal combat has begun,

Rush on and fight amidst the deadly fray,

Nor pause until the work is nobly done,

And honor crowns us with her wreath of bay!

ПУШЕЧНАЯ ПЕСНЯ.

Aha! a song for the trumpet’s tongue!

For the bugle to sing before us,

When our gleaming guns, like clarions,

Shall thunder in battle chorus!

Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing,

Where the black bombs whistle o’er us,

With rolling wheel and rattling peal

They’ll thunder in battle chorus!

Chorus.—With the cannon’s flash, and the cannon’s crash,

With the cannon’s roar and rattle,

Let Freedom’s sons, with their shouting guns,

Go down to their country’s battle!

Their brassy throats shall learn the notes

That make old tyrants quiver;

Till the war is done, or each Tyrrell gun

Grows cold with our hearts forever!

Where the laurel waves o’er our brothers graves,

Who have gone to their rest before us

Here’s a requiem shall sound for them

And thunder in battle chorus!

Chorus.

By the light that lies in our Southern skies,

By the spirits that watch above us;

By the gentle hands in our Summer lands,

And the gentle hearts that love us!

Our father’s faith let us keep till death,

Their fame in its cloudless splendor—

As men who stand for their mother land,

And die—but never surrender!

Chorus.

БЛАГОРОДНАЯ К. С. А.

Мотив — «Да здравствует компания».

I’ll sing you a song of the South’s sunny clime,

Chivalrous C. S. A.!

Which went to housekeeping once on a time;

Bully for C. S. A.!

Like heroes and princes they lived for a while,

Chivalrous C. S. A.!

And routed the Hessians in most gallant style;

Bully for C. S. A.!

Chorus.—Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!

Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!

In C. S. A.! In C. S. A.!

Aye, in chivalrous C. S. A.!

They have a bold leader—Jeff. Davis his name—

Chivalrous C. S. A.!

Good generals and soldiers, all anxious for fame;

Bully for C. S. A.!

At Manassas they met the North in its pride,

Chivalrous C. S. A.!

But they easily put McDowell aside;

Bully for C. S. A.!

Chorus.

Ministers to England and France, it appears,

Have gone from the C. S. A.!

Who’ve given the North many fleas in its ears,

Bully for C. S. A.!

Reminders are being to Washington sent,

By the chivalrous C. S. A.!

That’ll force Uncle Abe full soon to repent,

Bully for C. S. A.!

Chorus.

Oh, they have the finest of musical ears,

Chivalrous C. S. A.!

Yankee Doodle’s too vulgar for them, it appears;

Bully for C. S. A.!

The North may sing it and whistle it still,

Miserable U. S. A.!

Three cheers for the South!—now, boys, with a will!

And groans for the U. S. A.!

Chorus.

ВОЕННАЯ ПЕСНЯ СЕВЕРНОЙ КАРОЛИНЫ.

Мотив — «Энни Лори».

We leave our pleasant homesteads,

We leave our smiling farms,

At the first call of duty

We rush at once to arms;

We rush at once to arms,

To guard our coasts we fly,

For the land our mothers lived, on

Bravely to bleed or die.

Up, boys, and quit your pleasure,

Up, men, and quit your toil!

The invader’s foot must never

Be pressed upon our soil;

Be pressed upon our soil,

In which our fathers sleep;

Their blessed graves our care, boys,

Most sacredly must keep.

’Twas in our brave old State, men,

That first of all was sung,

The thrilling song of freedom

That through the land hath rung;

That through the land hath rung,

And we’ll sound its notes once more,

Till our men and children shout

From the mountain to the shore.

Sweet eyes are filled with tears, men,

Sweet tears of love and pride,

As our wives and sweethearts bid us

Go meet whate’er betide,

Go meet whate’er betide,

And God our guide shall be,

As we drive the foe before us,

And rush to victory.

ПЛАТЬЕ ДОМОТКАННОГО СУКНА.

Автор Кэрри Белл Синклер .

Мотив — «Синий флаг со звездой».

Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl,

And glory in the name,

And boast it with far greater pride

Than glittering wealth or fame.

We envy not the Northern girl,

Her robes of beauty rare,

Though diamonds grace her snowy neck,

And pearls bedeck her hair.

Chorus.—Hurrah! Hurrah!

For the sunny South so dear,

Three cheers for the homespun dress

The Southern ladies wear!

The homespun dress is plain, I know,

My hat’s palmetto, too;

But then it shows what Southern girls

For Southern rights will do.

We send the bravest of our land,

To battle with the foe,

And we will lend a helping hand—

We love the South, you know.

Chorus.

Now Northern goods are out of date;

And since old Abe’s blockade,

We Southern girls can be content

With goods that’s Southern made.

We send our sweethearts to the war;

But, dear girls; never mind—

Your soldier-love will ne’er forget

The girl he left behind.

Chorus.

The soldier is the lad for me—

A brave heart I adore;

And when the sunny South is free,

And when fighting is no more,

I’ll choose me then a lover brave,

From out that gallant band.

The soldier lad I love the best

Shall have my heart and hand.

Chorus.

The Southern land’s a glorious land,

And has a glorious cause;

Then cheer, three cheers for Southern rights,

And for the Southern boys!

We scorn to wear a bit of silk,

A bit of Northern lace,

But make our homespun dresses up,

And wear them with a grace.

Chorus.

And now, young man, a word to you:

If you would win the fair,

Go to the field where honor calls,

And win your lady there.

Remember that our brightest smiles

Are for the true and brave,

And that our tears are all for those

Who fill a soldier’s grave.

Chorus.

ПЕСНЯ ЗНАМЕНИ.

Автор Джеймс Б. Маршалл .

Up, up with the banner, the foe is before us,

His bayonets bristle, his sword is unsheathed,

Charge, charge on his line with harmonious chorus,

For the prayers go with us that beauty has breathed.

He fights for the power of despot and plunder,

While we are defending our altars and homes;

He has riven the firmly knit Union asunder,

And to bind it with tyranny’s fetters he comes,

Like the prophet Mokanna, whose veil so resplendent,

His monstrous deformity closely concealed;

Duplicity marks Lincoln’s course, and dependent

On falsehood is every fair promise revealed.

When that veil shall be raised, Freedom’s last feast be taken,

A banquet to which all his followers will crowd;

Oh, horror of horrors! who can view it unshaken?

Without sense they will sit all in suppliance bowed!

We do not forget that they once were our brothers,

That we sat in our boyhood around the same board,

That our heart’s best idolatry blest the same mothers,

And to the same fathers libations we poured.

We rallied around the same star-spangled standard,

When called to the field by the tocsin of war,

But they from our side have unfeelingly wandered,

And we strip from our flag every recusant star.

They have forced us to stand by our own constitution,

To defend our lov’d homesteads, our altars and fires,

While they tamely submit to a tyrant’s pollution,

Beneath whose foul tread their own freedom expires.

Then up with the banner, its broad stripes wide flowing,

’Tis the emblem of Liberty—flag of the free;

Let it wave us to triumph, and every heart glowing,

Nerve each arm’s bravest blows for its lov’d Tennessee.

ДОБРОВОЛЕЦ.

С разрешения А. Вермана . Аранжировка Дж. С. Вирека .

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у компании Оливер Дитсон и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

The hour was sad, I left the maid,

A lingering farewell taking;

Her sighs and tears my steps delayed,

I thought her heart was breaking.

In hurried words her name I blessed,

I breathed the vows that bind me,

And to my heart in anguish pressed

The girl I left behind me.

Then to the East we bore away

To win a name in story,

And, there, where dawns the sun of day,

There dawned our sun of glory.

Both blazed in noon on Manassas’ plain,

Where, in the post assigned me,

I shared the glory of that fight—

Sweet girl I left behind me!

Full many a name our banners bore

Of former deeds of daring—

But they were of the days of yore,

In which we had no sharing;

But now, our laurels freshly won,

With the old ones shall entwin’d be,

Still worthy of our sires, each son,

Sweet girl I left behind me!

The hope of final victory

Within my bosom burning,

Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee,

And of my fond returning.

But should I ne’er return again,

Still worth thy love thou’lt find me,

Dishonor’s breath shall never stain

The name I leave behind me.

ЧТЕНИЕ СПИСКА.

“Is there any news of the war?” she said;

“Only a list of the wounded and dead,”

Was the man’s reply,

Without lifting his eye

To the face of the woman standing by.

“’Tis the very thing I want,” she said;

“Read me a list of the wounded and dead.”

He read the list—’twas a sad array

Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;

In the very midst was a pause, to tell

That his comrades asked, “Who is he, pray?”

“The only son of the widow Gray,”

Was the proud reply

Of his Captain nigh.

What ails the woman standing near?

Her face has the ashen hue of fear!

“Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!

Oh, God! but my heart is sorrow sick!

Is he wounded?” “No! he fell,” they say,

“Killed outright on that fatal day!”

But see, the woman has swooned away!

«Лишь список раненых и убитых».

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light,

Slowly recalled the events of the fight;

Faintly she murmured, “Killed outright!

It has cost me the life of my only son,

But the battle is fought and the victory won;

The will of the Lord, let it be done!”

God pity the cheerless widow Gray,

And send from the halls of Eternal Day

The light of His peace to illume her way!

ПОЛОСЫ И ЗВЕЗДЫ.

Автор У. А. Хейнс .

Мотив — «Усыпанное звездами знамя».

Oh, the tocsin of war still resounds o’er the land,

And legions of braves are now rushing to battle,

Our lint-stocks are lighted, our guns are all manned,

Loud thunders the cannon, and musketry rattle,

Our hosts there are led

By the blue, white and red,

While the battle fiend flaps his pale wing o’er the dead.

Chorus.—Let the bars and stars of our banner ever wave

O’er the land of the South, the home of the brave.

O, say, can you see through the mist and the gloom,

Through the clouds of the battle our stars brightly shining,

’Tis a beacon of hope, ’tis a signal of doom

To the hordes of the vandals our borders now lining;

Proud defiance we hurl

And our flag we unfurl,

Let it float, proudly float, in the gaze of the world.

Chorus.

For thirty years or more, we have waited and prayed

That the chains of oppression and wrongs might be sundered,

But the black fiends of the North, with their plans foully laid,

Have raised up a whirlwind and the old ship’s now foundered.

We shouted the alarm,

We spoke of our wrongs,

Now the argument’s exhausted, we’ll stand by our arms.

Chorus.

Oh! Manassas has been fought, and the field has been won,

And the brag guns of Sherman our brave boys have taken;

Our foes have retreated back to old Washington,

But the ranks of our Dixie still remain there unshaken;

And over the graves

Of the New York Zouaves

The bars and the stars now triumphantly waves.

Chorus.

ВОЕННАЯ ПЕСНЯ.

«Чарлстон Меркьюри».

С уважением посвящается упомянутым ротам.

Мотив — «Маршируйте, маршируйте, Эттрик и Тевиотдейл».

March, march on, brave “Palmetto” boys,

“Sumpter” and “Lafayettes” forward in order;

March, march “Calhoun” and “Rifle” boys,

All the base Yankees are crossing the border,

Banners are round ye spread,

Floating above your head,

Soon shall the Lone Star be famous in story,

On, on, my gallant men,

Vict’ry be thine again;

Fight for your rights till the green sod is gory.

Young wives and sisters have buckled your armor on;

Maidens ye love bid ye go to the battle-field;

Strong arms and stout hearts have many a vict’ry won,

Courage shall strengthen the weapons ye wield;

Wild passions are storming,

Dark schemes are forming,

Deep snares are laid, but they shall not enthrall ye;

Justice your cause shall greet,

Laurels lay at your feet,

If each brave band be but watchful and wary.

Let fear and unmanliness vanish before ye;

Trust in the Rock who will shelter the righteous;

Plant firmly each step on the soil of the free,—

A heritage left by the sires who bled for us,

May each heart be bounding,

When trumpets are sounding,

And the dark traitors shall strive to surround ye;

The great God of battle

Can still the war-rattle,

And brighten the land with a sunset of glory.

ЗНАМЯ ЮГА.

Напев — «Мокрый парус и бегущая волна».

Three cheers for the Southern flag,

That floats upon the gale,

Once more fling out its flapping folds,

And make its foeman quail.

And make each foeman quail, my boys,

While, like an earthquake roar,

Goes forth our war cry through the land,

For liberty once more.

Chorus.—Three cheers for the Southern flag,

That floats above the gale,

Once more fling out its flapping folds,

And make its foeman quail.

Oh, for an Abolition crowd,

I hear old Abe cry out,

Affrighted by the march of foes,

The freeman’s mighty shout.

That shouting welcomes to our heart,

The freeman’s chosen man—

Jeff Davis—who now heads our hosts,

And leads the glorious van.

Chorus.

Full brightly waves our flag in air,

O’er Sumpter’s fort just won.

And soon o’er Pickens’ towering heights

It will glitter in the sun.

It will glitter in the sun, my boys,

And fan the battle cloud,

The struggling freeman’s sigh of hope,

The fallen heroes’ shroud.

Chorus.

And now three cheers for the glorious flag,

That victory has won,

And may it soon be towering o’er

The Dome at Washington.

The Dome at Washington, my boys,

While Abolition hosts

Shall quail and shake before the flag—

The freeman’s glorious boast.

Chorus.

ЗВЕЗДЫ И ПОЛОСЫ.

O, the South is the queen of all nations,

The home of the brave and the true—

She makes no vain demonstration;

But shows what her brave sons can do;

Her freedom and advancement they cherish—

“Our rights, our liberties,” they cry,

“To the rescue, we’ll win the fight or perish,

For the Southern boys never fear to die.”

Chorus.—Then hurrah for the “Stars and Bars,”

No stain on its folds ever be—

Its glory dishonor never mars,

And ’twill yet grace the land of the free.

Bring forward the tankard and fill it,

Ye sons that are loyal and brave,

Our blood—O, how freely we’ll spill it,

We are fighting for freedom or the grave;

Our armies may be scattered and disbanded,

Yet the wild-woods we still will infest—

Yet shall fear the brave foe tho’ single-handed,

When the death rattle burst from his breast.

Chorus.

Though black clouds sometimes may darken,

And shadow the bright sunny sky;

To the rumbling of cannon we’ll hearken,

Which tells of the foe as they fly.

Tho’ thousands may fall stark and gory,

Their requiem from gun and cannon mouth,

They’ll win fame, freedom and glory;

And all for the loved “Sunny South.”

Chorus.

ПЕСНЯ КОНФЕДЕРАЦИИ.

Мотив — «Обращение Брюса».

Написано для рейнджеров Керкс-Ферри и посвящено им их капитаном Э. Ллойдом Уайлзом . Исполнено глин-клубом 4 июля 1861 года на барбекю в Керкс-Ферри (Катахула, шт. Луизиана) после вручения дамами знамени рейнджерам Керкс-Ферри.

Rally round our country’s flag!

Rally, boys, nor do not lag;

Come from every vale and crag,

Sons of Liberty!

Northern Vandals tread our soil,

Forth they come for blood and spoil,

To the homes we’ve gained with toil,

Shouting, “Slavery.”

Traitorous Lincoln’s bloody band

Now invades the freeman’s land,

Arm’d with sword and firebrand,

’Gainst the brave and free.

Arm ye, then, for fray and fight,

March ye forth both day and night,

Stop not till the foe’s in sight,

Sons of chivalry.

In your veins the blood still flows

Of brave men who once arose—

Burst the shackles of their foes;

Honest men and free

Rise, then, in your power and might,

Seek the spoiler, brave the fight;

Strike for God, for Truth, for Right:

Strike for Liberty!

ЛИ У ДИКИХ ЗЕМЕЛЬ.

Автор мисс Молли Э. Мур .

’Twas a terrible moment!

The blood and the rout!

His great bosom shook

With an awful doubt.

Confusion in front,

And a pause in the cries:

And a darkness like night

Passed over our skies:

There were tears in the eyes

Of General Lee.

As the blue-clad lines

Swept fearfully near,

There was wavering yonder,

And a break in the cheer

Of our columns unsteady:

But “We are here! We are ready

With rifle and blade!”

Cried the Texas Brigade

To General Lee.

He smiled—it meant death,

That wonderful smile;

It leaped like a flame

Down each close set file;

And we stormed to the front

With a long, loud cry—

We had long ago learned

How to charge and to die:

There was faith in the eye

Of General Lee.

But a sudden pause came,

As we dashed on the foe,

And our scathing columns

Swayed to and fro;

Cold grew our blood,

Glowing like wine,

And a quick, sharp whisper

Shot over our line,

As our ranks opened wide—

And there by our side

Rode General Lee.

How grandly he rode!

With his eyes on fire,

And his great bosom shook

With an awful desire!

But, “Back to the rear!

’Till you ride to the rear

We will not do battle

With gun or with blade!”

Cried the Texas Brigade

To General Lee.

Генерал Роберт Э. Ли.

And so he rode back;

And our terrible yell

Stormed up to the front;

And the fierce, wild swell,

And the roar and the rattle,

Swept into the battle

From General Lee.

I felt my foot slip

In the gathering fray—

I looked, and my brother

Lay dead in my way.

I paused but one moment

To draw him aside;

Ah! the gash in his bosom

Was bloody and wide!

But he smiled, for he died

For General Lee.

Christ! ’twas maddening work;

But the work was done,

And a few came back

When the hour was won.

Let it glow in the peerless

Records of the fearless—

The charge that was made

By the Texas Brigade

For General Lee.

ЮЖНАЯ ПЕСНЯ.

За авторством «Л. М.» в газете «Луисвилл Куриер» .

If ever I consent to be married,

And who would refuse a good mate?

The man whom I give my hand to,

Must believe in the rights of the State.

To a husband who quietly submits

To negro-equality sway,

The true Southern girl will not barter

Her heart and affections away.

The heart I may choose to preside o’er,

True, warm, and devoted must be,

And have true love for a Union

Under the Southern Liberty Tree.

Should Lincoln attempt to coerce him

To share with the negro his right,

Then, smiling, I’d gird on his armor,

And bid him God-speed in the fight.

And if he should fall in the conflict,

His memory with tears I will grace;

Better weep o’er a patriot fallen,

Than blush in a Tory embrace.

We girls are all for a Union,

Where a marked distinction is laid

Between the rights of the mistress

And those of the kinky-haired maid.

ТЕХАССКАЯ МАРСЕЛЬЕЗА.

Автор Джеймс Хайнс из Техаса.

Sons of the South, arouse to battle!

Gird on your armor for the fight!

The Northern Thugs, with dread “war’s rattle,”

Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;

Meet them as ocean meets in madness

The frail bark on the rocky shore,

When crested billows roam and roar,

And the wrecked crew go down in sadness:

Chorus.—Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!

Scatter yon vandal hordes!

Despots and bandits, fitting food

For vultures and your swords.

Shall dastard tyrants march their legions

To crush the land of Jackson—Lee?

Shall freedom fly to other regions,

And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?

Or shall their “footprints’ base pollution”

Of Southern soil in blood be purged,

And every flying slave be scourged

Back to his snows in wild confusion.

Chorus.

Vile despots, with their minions knavish,

Would drag us back to their embrace;

Will freemen brook a chain so slavish?

Will brave men take so low a place?

O, Heaven! for words—the loathing, scorning

We feel for such a Union’s bands:

To paint with more than mortal hands,

And sound our loudest notes of warning.

Chorus.

What! Union with a race ignoring

The charter of our Nation’s birth?

Union with bastard slaves adoring

The fiend that chains them to the earth?

No! we reply in tones of thunder,

No! our staunch hills fling back the sound—

No! our hoarse cannon echo round—

No! evermore remain asunder!

Chorus.

Кадетская пуговица Джексона.

БИТВА НА МИССИСИПИ.

The tyrant’s broad pennant is floating

In the South, o’er our waters so blue:

On our homes now his foul eye is gloating;

The homes of the brave and the true.

Chorus.—But our flag at the “head of the Passes,”

Is borne by men brave and true;

We will teach them to fear our “Manassas;”[2]

Three cheers for our Red, White, and Blue.

We will give his proud fleet such a greeting

As the storm-cloud’s shaft to the tree;

As the rock to the wave in their meeting—

Is the stroke of the brave and the free.

Chorus.

Though his minions may come as the locust,

And outnumber the sands of the sea,

Their numbers will serve to provoke us,

To dare, to die, or live free.

Chorus.

Every breeze from the “Crescent” is laden

With defiance to the despot on our shore;

Strong men, the child, and each maiden,

Join in chorus with the cannon’s loud roar.

Chorus.

ПЕСНЯ ДЛЯ ЮГА.

Of all the mighty nations, in the East or in the West,

Our glorious Southern nation is the greatest and the best;

We have room for all true Southrons, with our Stars and Bars unfurled,

And a general invitation to the people of the world.

Chorus.—Then, to arms, boys! to arms, boys! make no delay,

Come from every Southern State, come from every way,

Our army isn’t large enough, Jeff Davis calls for more,

To hurl the vile invader from off our Southern shore.

Ohio is our northern line, far as her waters flow,

And on the south is the Rio Grande and the Gulf of Mexico;

While between the Atlantic Ocean, where the sun begins to rise,

Westward to Arizona, the land of promise lies.

Chorus.

While the Gulf States raise the cotton, the others grain and pork,

North and South Carolina’s factories will do the finer work;

For the deep and flowing waterfalls that course along our hills,

Are “just the things” for washing sheep and driving cotton mills.

Chorus.

Our Southern boys are brave and true, and joining heart and hand

And are flocking to the “Stars and Bars” as they are floating o’er the land.

And all are standing ready, with their rifles in their hands,

And invite the North to open graves down South in Dixie’s land.

Chorus.

ПЕСНЯ СОЛДАТА ЮГА.

За авторством «П. Е. К.» в газете «Ричмонд Экзаминер» .

Напев — «Извозчик Барклая и Перкинса».

Эти строки были написаны 8 января 1861 года для друга, который рассчитывал исполнить их в театре, однако в то время они показались слишком сепаратистскими по своему духу.

I’m a soldier, you see, that oppression has made!

I don’t fight for pay or for booty;

But I wear in my hat a blue cockade,

Placed there by the fingers of Beauty.

The South is my home, where a black man is black,

And a white man there is a white man;

Now I am tired of listening to Northern clack,—

Let us see what they will do in a fight, man.

The Yankees are cute; they have managed, somehow,

Their business and ours to settle;

They make all we want, from a pin to a plough,

Now we’ll show them some Southern mettle.

We have had just enough of their Northern law,

That robbed us so long of our right, man,

And too much of their cursed abolition jaw,—

Now we’ll see what they’ll do in a fight, man!

Their parsons will open their sanctified jaws,

And cant of our slave-growing sin, sir;

They pocket the profits, while preaching the laws,

And manage our cotton to spin, sir.

Their incomes are nice, on our sugar and rice,

Though against it the hypocrites write, sir;

Now our dander is up, and they’ll soon smell a mice,

If we once get them into a fight, sir.

Our cotton bales once made a good barricade,

And can still do the State a good service;

With them and the boys of the blue cockade,

There is power enough to preserve us.

So shoulder your rifles, my boys, for defense,

In the cause of our freedom and right, man;

If there’s no other way for to learn them sense,

We may teach them a lesson in fight, man.

The stars that are growing so fast on our flags,

We treasure as Liberty’s pearls,

And stainless we’ll bear them, though shot into rags;

They were fixed by the hands of our girls,

And fixed stars they shall be in our national sky,

To guide through the future aright, man,

And your Cousin Sam, with their gleam in his eye,

May dare the whole world to fight, man.

УМИРАЮЩИЙ СОЛДАТ.

Автор А. Б. Каннингем из Луизианы.

Мотив — «Дева Монтерея».

Upon Manassas’ bloody plain a soldier boy lay dying!

The gentle winds above his form in softest tones were sighing;

The god of day had slowly sank beneath the verge of day,

And the silver moon was gliding above the milky way.

The stars were shining brightly, and the sky was calm and blue,

Oh, what a beautiful scene was this for human eyes to view!

The river roll’d in splendor, and the wavelets danc’d around,

But the banks were strew’d with dead men, and gory was the ground.

But the hero-boy lay dying, and his thoughts were very deep,

For the death-wound in his young side was wafting him to sleep;

The thought of home and kindred away on a distant shore,

All of whom he must relinquish, and never see them more.

And as the night-breeze passed by, in whispers o’er the dead,

Sweet memories of olden days came rushing to his head;

But his mind was weak and deaden’d, so he turned from where he lay,

As the Death-angel flitted by, and call’d his soul away!

«Мальчик-герой умирал».

ЗНАМЯ ЮГА.

Автор — полковник В. С. Хокинс , армия Конфедерации, лагерь Чейз, шт. Огайо.

Sing-ho! for the Southerner’s meteor flag

As ’tis flung in its pride to the breeze,

From the happy glen and the beetling crag,

’Tis the pride of the land and the seas.

Hurrah! for the scintillant Cross of Red,

As it waves and glances in light,

Beneath it our brothers grandly tread,

To battle for God and right.

The flag for which Southrons had gladly died

Is the badge of the tyrant now,

And for it no blush of joy or pride

Suffuseth the cheek or brow.

****

Sing ho! for the Southerner’s flag for aye,

And ho! for its beautiful Cross;

It shall be the signal of bold array

Where the windy surges toss.

On a traitor’s heart be the curses of night,

And palsied the craven hand

That fails in the hazard of furious fight

For God and our Native Land.

Hurrah! as over the hills it waves,

Or is borne on the ocean’s breast,

Hurrah! as it leads our valorous braves,

Or is drooped o’er the hero’s rest.

Whether it greets the uprising sun

Or is bathed in the western light,

Beneath it shall all our hopes be won

For “God will defend the right.”

О, ДЖОННИ БУЛЛ, МОЙ МИЛЫЙ ДОН.

Мотив — «Джон Андерсон, милый мой».

В декабре 1861 года восемьдесят семь британских военных кораблей находились в водах Вест-Индии. Этот факт породил следующее подражание старой песне.

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! I wonder what you mean,

By sending all these frigates out, commissioned by the Queen;

You’ll frighten off the Yankees, John, and why should you do so?

But catch and sink, or burn them all, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Yankee hands profane,

Were laid in wanton insult upon the lion’s mane,

He roared so loud and long, John, they quickly let him go,

And sank upon their trembling knees, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Lincoln first began

To try his hand at war, John, you were a peaceful man;

But now your blood is up, John, and well the Yankees know,

You play the —— when you start, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! let’s take the field together,

And hunt the Yankee Doodles home, in spite of wind and weather,

And ere a twelve-month roll around, to Boston we will go,

And eat our Christmas dinner there, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

БОЕВАЯ ПЕСНЯ МОРГАНА.

Автор ген. Бэзил Дьюк из Кентукки.

Мотив — сочетание «Марсельезы» и «Старого штата Гранит».

Ye sons of the South, take your weapons in hand,

For the foot of the foe hath insulted your land:

Sound! sound the loud alarm!

Arise! arise and arm!

Let the hand of each foeman grasp the sword to maintain

Those rights which, once lost, he can never regain.

Chorus.—Gather fast ’neath our flag,

For ’tis God’s own decree,

That its folds shall still float

O’er a land that is free!

See ye not those dark clouds which now threaten the sky?

Hear ye not that stern thunder now bursting so nigh?

Shout! shout your battle-cry!

Win! win this fight or die!

What our fathers achieved our own valor can keep,

And we’ll save our fair land or we’ll sleep our last sleep!

Chorus.

On our hearts and our arms and our God we rely,

And a nation shall rise, or a people shall die.

Form! form the serried line!

Advance! advance our proud ensign:

To your country devote every life that she gave,

Let the land they invade give their army its grave.

Chorus.

Though their plunder-paid hordes come to ravage our land,

Give our fields to the spoiler, our homes to the brand,

Our souls are all aglow,

To face the hireling foe.

Give the robbers to know that we never will yield,

While the arm of one Southron a weapon can wield.

Chorus.

From our far Southern shore now arises a prayer,

While the cry of our women fills with anguish the air.

O! list that pleading voice,

Each youth now make his choice;

Now tamely submit like a coward or slave,

Or rise and resist like the free and the brave.

Chorus.

Kentucky! Kentucky! can you suffer the sight

Of your sisters insulted, your friends in the fight?

Awake! be free again!

O! break the tyrant’s chain:

Let each hand seize the sword it drew for the right,

From the homes of your fathers drive the dastard in flight.

Chorus.

Knoxville, Tenn., July 4, 1862.

ЗА КИПЫ.

Мотив — «Джонни, наполняй чашу».

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у компании Оливер Дитсон и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

We all went down to New Orleans,

For Bales, for Bales;

We all went down to New Orleans,

For Bales, says I;

We all went down to New Orleans

To get a peep behind the scenes,

“And we’ll all drink stone blind,

Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

We thought when we got in the “ring,”

For Bales, for Bales;

We thought when we got in the “ring,”

For Bales, says I;

We thought when we got in the “ring,”

Greenbacks would be a dead sure thing,

“And we’ll all drink stone blind,

Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

The “ring” went up with bagging and rope,

For Bales, for Bales;

Upon the “Black Hawk” with bagging and rope,

For Bales, says I;

Went up “Red River” with bagging and rope,

Expecting to make a pile of “soap,”

“And we’ll all drink stone blind,

Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks,

For Bales, for Bales;

But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks,

For Bales, says I;

But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks,

Burned up the cotton and whipped old Banks,

“And we’ll all drink stone blind,

Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

Our “ring” came back and cursed and swore,

For Bales, for Bales;

Our “ring” came back and cursed and swore,

For Bales, says I;

Our “ring” came back and cursed and swore,

For we got no cotton at Grand Ecore,

“And we’ll all drink stone blind,

Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

Now let us all give praise and thanks,

For Bales, for Bales;

Now let us all give praise and thanks,

For Bales, says I;

Now let us all give praise and thanks

For the victory (?) gained by General Banks,

“And we’ll all drink stone blind,

Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

ПЕСНЯ ЮГА.

Hurrah for the South, the glorious South! the land of song and story—

Her name shall ring, and the world shall sing her honor, fame, and glory;

For the skies above, which smiled in love, are dark with hearth-fires burning;

She rises in might to defend the right, on her treacherous brethren turning.

Chorus.—Sons of the South, arise! arise!

For never shall fall upon her—

The land we love all the earth above,

One stain of dark dishonor.

Hurrah for the South, the gallant South, with her great heart proudly beating;

She takes her stand at Freedom’s hand, and dreams not of retreating;

Oh! Southern boys, for fireside joys, with their hearts so brave and tender,

Will relentlessly fight, and to death’s dark night alone will they surrender.

Chorus.

No Northern band shall rule this land—to the breeze give Freedom’s banner,

As its glowing folds o’er our land unroll, from mountain and savannah;

O’er river and lake the sound shall break, and swell with thundering glory;

Hurrah for the South! the noble South! the land of war and story!

Chorus.

КРАЙ ЮГА.

Автор А. Ф. Леонард .

Мотив — «Друг моей души».

Land of the South! the fairest land

Beneath Columbia’s sky!

Proudly her hills of freedom stand,

Her plains in beauty lie.

Her dotted fields, her traversed streams

Their annual wealth renew;

Land of the South! in brightest dreams

No dearer spot we view.

****

Flag of the South! aye, fling its folds

Upon the kindred breeze;

Emblem of dread to tyrant holds—

Of freedom on the seas,

Forever may its stars and stripes

In cloudless glory wave;

Red, white, and blue—eternal types

Of nations free and brave!

States of the South! the patriot’s boast!

Here equal laws have sway;

Nor tyrant lord, nor despot host,

Upon the weak may prey.

Then let them rule from sea to sea,

And crown the queenly isle—

Union of love and liberty,

’Neath heaven’s approving smile.

ДАМЫ, В ГОСПИТАЛЬ!

Автор — «Персон» , корреспондент газеты «Чарлстон Куриер» .

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,

Turn the key on your jewels to-day,

And the wreath of your tendril-like tresses,

Braid back in a serious way:

No more delicate gloves, no more laces;

No more trifling in boudoir or bower;

But come with your souls in your faces,

To meet the stern wants of the hour.

Look around! By the torch-light unsteady,

The dead and the dying seem one;

What? trembling and paling already,

Before your mission’s begun?

These wounds are more precious than ghastly;

Time presses her lips to each scar,

While she chants of that glory which vastly

Transcends all the horrors of war.

“... How mellow

The light showers down on that brow.”

Pause here by this bedside. How mellow

The light showers down on that brow;

Such a brave, brawny visage! Poor fellow!

Some homestead is missing him now;

Some wife shaded her eyes in the clearing;

Some mother sits moaning, distressed;

While the lov’d one lies faint but unfearing,

With the enemy’s ball in his breast.

Here’s another; a lad—a mere stripling—

Picked up on the fields almost dead,

With the blood through the sunny hair rippling,

From a horrible gash in the head!

They say he was first in the action,

Gay-hearted, quick-handed and witty;

He fought till he dropped with exhaustion,

In front of our fair Southern city.

Fought and fell ’neath the guns of that city,

With a spirit transcending his years;

Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,

And wet his pale lips with your tears:

Touch him gently; most sacred that duty

Of dressing that poor shatter’d hand;

God spare him to rise in his beauty,

And battle once more for his land!

Who groan’d? What a passionate murmur:

“In Thy mercy, oh God! let me die!

Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,”

That musket ball’s entered his thigh:

Turn the light on those poor furrow’d features,

Gray-haired and unknown, bless thee, brother!

Oh Heaven! that one of Thy creatures

Should e’er work such woe on another.

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your ’kerchief

Let the tatter’d old collar go wide!

See! he stretches out blindly to see if

The surgeon still stands by his side:

“My son’s over yonder—he’s wounded—

O this ball has entered my thigh!”

And again he burst out all a tremble,

“In Thy mercy, O God, let me die!”

Pass on: It is useless to linger

While other are claiming your care;

There is need for your delicate finger,

For your womanly sympathy there:

There are sick ones athirst for caressing;

There are dying ones raving of home

There are wounds to be bound with a blessing

And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest

Of death in its ghastliest view;

The nearest as well as the farthest

Is here with the traitor and true;

And crown’d with your beautiful patience,

Made sunny with love at the heart;

You must balsam the wounds of a nation,

Nor falter nor shrink from your part.

Up and down through the wards where the fever

Stalks noisome and gaunt and impure,

You must go with your steadfast endeavor

To comfort, to counsel, to cure!

I grant you the task is superhuman,

But strength will be given to you

To do for those lov’d ones, what woman

Alone in her pity can do.

And the lips of the mothers will bless you,

As angels sweet visaged and pale;

And the little ones run to caress you,

And the wives and the sisters cry Hail!

But e’en if you drop down unheeded,

What matter? God’s ways are the best!

You have pour’d out your life where ’twas needed,

And He will take care of the rest.

ГВАРДИИ ДЭВИСА.

Автор лейтенант В. П. Каннингем .

Soldiers! raise your banner proudly,

Let it pierce our Texan sky—

Hurrah! it was shouted loudly—

“We will do it or we’ll die!”

Thus spoke the heroic Dowling!

To his Irish gallant band:

“Let us send the foes a howling,

From our lovely Texas land!”

Nobly answer’d those brave men all,

To his soul-stirring appeal;

“Aye, we’ll drive them away or fall;

We’ll fight them with lead and steel.”

The Irishmen desert never

The people that treat them well;

Their friends they love forever;

Their foes may “go to ——!”

“Steady, steady, keep cool, my boys,

Now they are near—ready—fire!”

Thus their noble chieftain cries,

And they fire and never tire.

Hear the heavy, thundering sound,

The men of war they cry;

The dull earth itself resounds

As the foemen fight and die.

But hurrah! the white flag’s flying—

See, they spare the fallen foe!

They attend the wounded—dying—

The brave will have it so.

O, Davis Guards! ye men of war,

You’ve made a glorious name!

Thus always guard our Texas Star,

And preserve, for aye, your fame.

And when around the social glass

In years to come, you meet,

O ne’er forget the Sabine Pass!

But its mem’ries fondly greet.

ВОЕННАЯ ПЕСНЯ.

Автор Дж. Х. Вудкок .

Напев — «Синий флаг со звездой».

Huzza! huzza! let’s raise the battle cry,

And whip the Yankees from our land,

Or with them fall and die;

Rush on our Southern columns,

And make the brigands feel

That all the booty they will get,

Will be our Southern steel.

Chorus.—Huzza! huzza! let’s raise our banner high,

And nobly drive the Yankees out,

Or with them fall and die.

We are fighting for our mothers, our sisters and our wives;

For these, and our country’s rights,

We’ll sacrifice our lives.

Then trusting still to Heaven,

We’ll charge th’ invading host,

Till liberty and independence

Shall be the Nation’s boast.

Chorus.

Then on with our columns—slay the vandal foe—

Beat them from our sunny soil,

And lay their colors low.

To the great God of Nations

Our sacred cause confide,

For we are fighting for our liberty

And He is on our side.

Chorus.

МНЕ МИЛЕЕ ВСЕГО ЮГ.

The South for me! The sunny clime,

Where earth is clothed in beauty’s hue,

And Nature vies in scenes sublime,

With all the old world ever knew;

I love thy soil where’er I roam,

Sweet land! and when afar from thee,

My fond heart throbs with thoughts of home,

And echoes back “The South for me.”

Chorus.—The South for me, the South for me,

The golden clime, the heart’s desires,

The only land where men are free,

And worthy of their free-born sires.

The South for me! the patriot’s heart

Beats ever to that slogan cry;

And heroes, armed and ready, start

For their loved land to do or die;

But leave the Southron’s valor free,

Let Southern heroes meet the foe,

And when rings out “the South for me,”

Their strong right arms will deal the blow.

Chorus.

The South for me! its bright-eyed maids,

Its clime, its stars, its silvery skies,

Its streamlets, with their lovely naiads,

Its vales, where varying beauties rise,

Its cotton fields, where dusky slaves,

Are happy in protection kind,

The stranger’s home, though Yankee knaves

May never there a welcome find.

Chorus.

КАРОЛИНА.

Автор миссис К. А. Б. Музыка А. Э. Б.

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у компании Оливер Дитсон и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

’Mid her ruins proudly stands,

Our Carolina!

Fetters are upon her hands,

Dear Carolina!

Yet she feels no sense of shame,

For upon the scroll of Fame,

She hath writ a deathless name,

Brave Carolina!

She was first our wrongs to feel,

Our Carolina!

First to draw the glittering steel,

Dear Carolina!

Ready first to strike the blow,

At th’ oppressor and the foe,

And to lay their standard low,

Brave Carolina!

Nobly now she bears her wrongs,

Our Carolina!

In her might she still hath songs,

Dear Carolina!

In the dust her sons lie low,

Yet though stricken by the foe,

Pride is mingled with her woe—

Brave Carolina!

On her brow there is no stain,

Our Carolina!

She hath poured out blood like rain,

Dear Carolina!

Vain her sufferings and her pains,

On her limbs are clanking chains,

But her glory yet remains,

Brave Carolina!

Bitterly we mourn her fate,

Our Carolina!

Cherished old Palmetto State;

Dear Carolina!

Yet while man’s brave soul is free,

Honored proudly she shall be,

Mother of true chivalry!

Brave Carolina!

ПЕСНЯ ВИКСБЕРГА. [3]

Автор капитан Дж. В. А. Райт .

Мотив — «Жизнь на волнах океана».

A life on the Vicksburg bluff,

A home in the trenches deep,

Where we dodge “Yank” shells enough—

And our old “pea-bread” won’t keep.

On “Old Logan’s” beef I pine,

For there’s fat on his bones no more;

Oh! give me some pork in brine,

And “truck” from a sutler’s store.

Chorus.—A life on the Vicksburg bluff,

A home in the trenches deep,

Where we dodge “Yank” shells enough—

And our old “pea-bread” won’t keep,

Pea-bread, pea-bread, pea-bread;

Our old pea-bread won’t keep.

«Итак, сегодня ночью мы похороним „Старого Логана“».

Old Grant is starving us out,

Our grub is fast wasting away,

Pemb don’t know what he’s about,

And he hasn’t for many a day.

So we’ll bury “Old Logan” to-night,

From tough beef we’ll be set free;

We’ll put him far out of sight—

No more of his meat for me.

Chorus.

Texas “steers” are no longer in view,

Mule steaks are now “done up brown,”

While “pea-bread,” mule roast, and mule stew,

Are our fare in old Vicksburg town.

And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the “Yanks” and their gunboats rave,

A life in “bomb-proofs” for me,

And a tear o’er “Old Logan’s” grave.

Chorus.

СКУЧАЮТ ЛИ ПО МНЕ В ТРАНШЕЯХ?

ПЕСНЯ ВИКСБЕРГА.

Мотив — «Скучают ли по мне дома?»

Do they miss me in the trenches, do they miss me,

When the shells fly so thickly around?

Do they know that I’ve run down the hillside

To hunt for my hole in the ground?

The shell exploded so near me,

It seemed best for me to run;

And altho’ some laugh’d as I crawfished,

I could not discover the fun.

I often get up in the trenches,

When some Yank is near out of sight,

And fire a round or two at him,

To make the boys think I will fight;

But when the Feds commence shelling,

I run to my hole down the hill—

I’ll swear my legs never would stay there,

Altho’ all may stay there that will.

I’ll save myself thro’ the dread struggle,

And when the great battle is o’er,

I’ll claim my full rations of laurels,

As always I’ve done heretofore.

I’ll swear that I fought them as bravely

As the best of my comrades who fell—

And swear to all others around me,

That I never had fears of a shell.

ПАРНИ! ДЕРЖИТЕ ПОРОХ СУХИМ.

Can’st tell who lose the battle, oft in the council-field?

Not they who struggle bravely, not they who never yield.

Chorus.—Not they who are determined to conquer or to die,

And hearken to this caution: Boys, keep your powder dry!

The foe awaits you yonder! he may await you here,

Have brave hearts, stand with courage; be strangers all to fear!

And when the charge is given, be ready at the cry:

Look well each to his priming—Boys, keep your powder dry!

Chorus.

Does a lov’d one home await you, who wept to see you go,

When with a kiss imprinted, you left with sacred vow—

You’d come again when warfare and arms are all laid by,

To take her to your bosom?—Boys, keep your powder dry!

Chorus.

Does a father home await you? a sister whom you love?

A mother who has reared you, and pray’d to Him above—

“Protect my boy, preserve him, and when the battle’s done,

Send to his weeping mother, bereft, her darling son!”

Chorus.

The name of Freedom calls you, the names of martyr’d sires,

And Liberty’s imploring, from all her hallow’d fires!

Can you withstand their calling? You cannot pass them by—

You cannot! now charge fiercely!—Boys, keep your powder dry.

Chorus.

ПЕСНЯ ГВАРДИИ ГОРОДА БАЙУ.

В БОЛОТЕ ЧИКАХОМИНИ.

Fighting for our rights now, feasting when they’re won,

By that Cross and Stars, boys, fluttering in the sun—

The girls at home will hear, boys, of our banquet of hard corn,

And they’ll think and pray for us, boys, at night and dewy morn,

Then hand around the corn, boys, and pass the full canteen;

Corn and water, and a fight, boys, are enough for us, I ween.

Sleeping in the swamps now, without shelter or a bed;

The heaven’s green sky above us, green turf beneath our head;

But at home when we arrive, boys, tender arms shall us enfold;

Our pillows shall be the hearts, boys, that now our image hold.

Shells are flying over us, the bullets ’round us fly;

But we’ll lie upon the grass, boys, and munch our corn away!

We’re driven to their gunboats the base, invading foe;

In quick time, such as Texans can, we’ll make the Federals go.

Our mothers are praying for us, our darling sisters too;

Our sweethearts—ah! God bless them! what can’t we dare or do?

With our country’s rights and darling ones emblazon’d on our shields,

We’ll fight with God’s protection, till each base invader yields.

In thinking of our cause, boys, and all we love at home,

These hard grains to heavenly manna have miraculously turn’d;

And from this battered old canteen I’ve drained a nectar sweet;

’Tis the heart that makes the banquet, and not what we have to eat.

Soon will we hail brave “Stonewall!” in Maryland set free!

And our “Old Line” Chief[4] with his Texas boys shall shout for his victory.

With the Cross and Stars then wreathed in flowers, we’ll turn our steps again,

To the hearts and homes that sigh for us, on our proud prairie plain;

Then with gentle hands to tend us, and the chalice for canteen,

With our rights all won, we’ll rest us, boys, in peace and joy serene.

ПАРОЛЬ.

Alas! the rolling hours pass slow—

The night is very dark and still—

And in the marshes, far below,

Is heard the lonely whippoorwill:

I scarce can see a foot ahead—

My ears are strained to catch each sound—

I feel the leaves beneath me spread—

And the springs bubbling thro’ the ground.

Along the beaten path I pace,

Where white rays mark my sentry’s track;

In formless things I seem to trace

The foeman’s form, with bended back—

I think I see him crouching low!

I stop and list—I stop and peer—

Until the neighb’ring hillocks grow

To groups of soldiers, far and near.

With ready piece I wait, and watch,

Until my eyes—familiar grown—

Detect each harmless earthern notch,

And turn “Guerrillas” into stone;

And then amid the lonely gloom,

Beneath the tall magnolia trees,

My silent marches I resume,

And think of other times than these.

“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 word—

With “arms aport” I change my mate,

Then onward pass, and all is well!

But in my 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 so ordain,

Where’er I go, what fate be mine,

Whether in pleasure or in pain

I still may have the “Countersign!”

ЛЮБИМЫЕ ДОМА.

Автор полковник К. Г. Форшей .

The sentinel treads his martial round,

Afar from his humble home—

The soldier he tramps till his thoughts are found