«Песни южан времен Гражданской войны в США»

For her soldier boy’s safe return from Richmond on the James.

“And on my heart, dear comrade, lay close these auburn braids,

Of one that is the fairest of all our village maids;

We were to have been wedded, but death the bridegroom claims,

And she is far that loves me, from Richmond on the James.

“O, does the pale face haunt her, dear friend, that looks on thee,

Or is she laughing, singing, in careless, girlish glee?

It may be she is joyous, and loves but joyous themes,

Nor dreams her love lies bleeding near Richmond on the James.

“And tho’ I know, dear comrade, thou’lt miss me for a while,

When their faces—all left to love thee—again on thee shall smile,

Again thou’lt be the foremost in all their youthful games,

But I shall lie near Richmond—near Richmond on the James.”

The land is fill’d with mourning from hall and cot left lone,

We miss the well-known faces that used to greet our own,

And long shall weep poor wives, mothers, and titled dames,

To hear the name of Richmond—of Richmond on the James.

ДОРОГА НА РИЧМОНД ТРУДНА.

Посвящается ген. А. Э. Бернсайду.

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

Would you like to hear my song, I’m afraid it’s rather long,

Of the famous “on to Richmond” double trouble;

Of the half a dozen trips, and half a dozen slips,

And the very latest bursting of the bubble?

’Tis pretty hard to sing, and like a round, round ring,

’Tis a dreadful knotty puzzle to unravel,

Though all the papers swore, when we touched Virginia’s shore,

That Richmond was a hard road to travel.

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel;

Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

First, McDowell, bold and gay, set forth the shortest way,

By Manassas, in the pleasant Summer weather,

But unfortunately ran on a Stonewall, foolish man,

And had a “rocky journey” altogether;

And he found it rather hard to ride o’er Beauregard,

And Johnston proved a deuce of a bother,

And ’twas clear, beyond a doubt, that he didn’t like the route,

And a second time would have to try another.

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For Manassas is a hard road to travel,

Manassas gave us fits, and Bull Run made us grieve,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

Next came the Woolly-Horse,[12] with an overwhelming force,

To march down to Richmond by the Valley,

But he couldn’t find the road, and his “onward movement” showed

His campaigning was a mere shilly-shally.

Then Commissary Banks, with his motley, foreign ranks,

Kicking up a great noise, fuss and flurry,

Lost the whole of his supplies, and with tears in his eyes,

From the Stonewall ran away in a hurry.

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For the Valley is a hard road to travel,

The Valley wouldn’t do, and we had all to leave,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

Then the great Galena came, with her port-holes all aflame,

And the Monitor, that famous naval wonder,

But the guns at Drury’s Bluff gave them speedily enough,

The loudest sort of reg’lar Rebel thunder.

The Galena was astonished and the Monitor admonished,

Our patent shot and shell were mocked at,

While the dreadful Naugatuck, by the hardest kind of luck,

Was knocked into an ugly cocked hat.

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For James River is a hard road to travel,

The gun-boats gave it up in terror and despair,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I declare!

Then McClellan followed soon, both with spade and balloon,

To try the Peninsular approaches,

But one and all agreed that his best rate of speed,

Was no faster than the slowest of “slow coaches.”

Instead of easy ground, at Williamsburg he found

A Longstreet indeed, and nothing shorter,

And it put him in the dumps, that spades wasn’t trumps,

And the Hills he couldn’t level “as he orter.”

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For Longstreet is a hard road to travel,

Lay down the shovel and throw away the spade,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I’m afraid.

Then said Lincoln unto Pope, “You can make the trip, I hope;”

“I will save the universal Yankee nation,

To make sure of no defeat, I’ll leave no lines of retreat,

And issue a famous proclamation.”

But that same dreaded Jackson, this fellow laid his whacks on,

And made him by compulsion, a seceder.[13]

And Pope took rapid flight from Manassas’ second fight,

’Twas his very last appearance as a leader.

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For Stonewall is a hard road to travel,

Pope did his very best, but was evidently sold,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I’m told!

Last of all the brave Burnside, with his pontoon bridge, tried

A road no one had thought of before him,

With two hundred thousand men for the Rebel slaughter pen,

And the blessed Union flag waving o’er him,

But he met a fire like hell, of canister and shell,

That mowed his men down with great slaughter,

’Twas a shocking sight to view, that second Waterloo,

And the river ran with more blood than water.

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

Rappahannock is a hard road to travel,

Burnside got in a trap, which caused him for to grieve,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

We are very much perplexed to know who is the next

To command the new Richmond expedition,

For the Capital must blaze, and that in ninety days,

And Jeff and his men be sent to perdition.

We’ll take the cursed town, and then we’ll burn it down,

And plunder and hang each cursed rebel;

Yet the contraband was right when he told us they would fight,

“Oh! yes, massa, they fight like the devil.”

Chorus.—Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel;

Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,

For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

ПАРОЛЬ ЮЖЯН.

Подражание английской песне времен Крымской войны.

М. Ф. Бигни, 1861 г. Музыка С. Гловера.

What shall the Southron’s watchword be,

Fighting for us on land and sea?

Bearing our flag o’er the billow’s foam,

Shedding his blood for his Southern home?

To bleed and conquer he’s bravely gone;

Freedom and glory still urge him on.

Then shall the Southron’s watchword be,

“The grave of the hero or victory!”

What shall the Southron’s watchword be,

Bearing the banner that proves him free?

Bravely he dashes amid the strife,

For home and country, for child and wife;

His aims are bright and his hopes are high;

His brave resolve is to do or die;

Then shall the Southron’s watchword be,

“The grave of the hero or victory!”

What shall the Southron’s watchword be,

Fighting the battles of liberty?

Holy the light on his manly brow,

The victor’s wreath or the cypress bough!

Such are the thoughts which the brave inspire,

Filling their souls with the soldier’s fire;

Then shall the Southron’s watchword be,

“The grave of the hero or victory!”

ЕСТЬ ЕЩЕ ЖИЗНЬ НА СТАРОЙ ЗЕМЛЕ.

Слова Джеймса Б. Рэндалла. Музыка Эдварда О. Итона.

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

By blue Patapsco’s billowy dash,

The tyrant’s war-shout comes,

Along with the cymbal’s fitful clash,

And the roll of his sullen drums.

We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills,

And we shall not forgive or forget—

There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills,

“There’s life in the Old Land yet!”

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead;

We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred—

We crouch—’tis to welcome the triumph-tread

Of the peerless Beauregard.

Then woe to your vile, polluting horde,

When the Southern braves are met;

There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword,—

“There’s life in the Old Land yet!”

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind

With the clank of an iron chain;

The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind,

O’er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;

And we—though we smite not—are not thralls,

We are piling a gory debt;

While down by McHenry’s dungeon walls,

“There’s life in the Old Land yet!”

Our women have hung their harps away,

And they scowl on your brutal bands,

While the nimble poignard dares the day,

In their dear, defiant hands;

They will strip their tresses to string our bows,

Ere the Northern sun is set—

There’s faith in their unrelenting woes,

“There’s life in the Old Land yet!”

There’s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,

’Tis vocal without noise;

It gushed o’er Manassas’ solemn plains,

From the blood of the Maryland boys.

That blood shall cry aloud and rise

With an everlasting threat—

By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,

“There’s life in the Old Land yet!”

New Orleans Delta, Sept., 1861.

ТЫ ИДЕШЬ НА ВОЙНУ, МАЛЬЧИК ВИЛЛИ!

Слова и музыка Джона Х. Хьюитта.

You are going to the wars, Willie boy, Willie boy,

You are going to the wars far away,

To protect our rights and laws, Willie boy, Willie boy,

And the banner in the sun’s golden ray;

With your uniform all new,

And your shining buttons, too,

You’ll win the hearts of pretty girls,

But none like me so true.

Oh, won’t you think of me, Willie boy, Willie boy;

Oh, won’t you think of me when far away?

I’ll often think of ye, Willie boy, Willie boy,

And ever for your life and glory pray.

You’ll be fighting for the right, Willie boy, Willie boy,

You’ll be fighting for the right, and your home;

And you’ll strike the blow with might, Willie boy, Willie boy,

’Mid the thundering of cannon and of drum;

With an arm as true as steel,

You’ll make the foeman feel,

The vengeance of a Southerner,

Too proud to cringe or kneel;

Oh, should you fall in strife, Willie boy, Willie boy,

Oh, should you fall in strife on the plain,

I’ll pine away my life, Willie boy, Willie boy,

And never, never smile again.

МОЙ МЭРИЛЕНД.

Написано в Пойнт-Купе, шт. Луизиана, 26 апреля 1861 г. Впервые опубликовано в газете New Orleans Delta.

Джеймса Р. Рэндалла.

[Ноты этой песни можно получить у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс.]

The despot’s heel is on thy shore,

Maryland!

His torch is at thy temple door,

Maryland!

Avenge the patriotic gore

That flecked the streets of Baltimore,

And be the battle queen of yore,

Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son’s appeal,

Maryland!

My Mother-State, to thee I kneel,

Maryland!

For life or death, for woe and weal,

Thy peerless chivalry reveal,

And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,

Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,

Maryland!

Thy beaming sword shall never rust,

Maryland!

Remember Carroll’s sacred trust,

Remember Howard’s warlike thrust,

And all thy slumberers with the just,

Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day,

Maryland!

Come! with thy panoplied array,

Maryland!

With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray,

With Watson’s blood at Monterey,

With fearless Lowe, and dashing May,

Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,

Maryland!

Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,

Maryland!

Come! to thine own heroic throng,

That stalks with Liberty along,

And ring thy dauntless slogan-song,

Maryland! My Maryland!

Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain,

Maryland!

Virginia should not call in vain,

Maryland!

She meets her sisters on the plain—

“Sic semper,” ’tis the proud refrain

That baffles minions back amain,

Maryland!

Arise, in majesty again,

Maryland! My Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek,

Maryland!

For thou wast ever bravely meek,

Maryland!

But lo! there surges forth a shriek

From hill to hill, from creek to creek—

Potomac calls to Chesapeake,

Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll,

Maryland!

Thou wilt not crook to his control,

Maryland!

Better the fire upon thee roll,

Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,

Than crucifixion of the soul,

Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum,

Maryland!

The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum,

Maryland!

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb—

Huzzah! she spurns the Northern scum!

She breathes—she burns! she’ll come! she’ll come!

Maryland! My Maryland!

ТОСТЫ МЯТЕЖНИКОВ, ИЛИ ДО ДНА!

Oh, here’s to South Carolina! drink it down,

Here’s to South Carolina, drink it down,

Here’s to South Carolina, the first to open up the fray.

Chorus.—Drink it down, drink it down,

Drink it down, down, down.

Oh, here’s to Mississippi! drink it down,

Here’s to Mississippi, drink it down,

Here’s to Mississippi, for she gave old Abe the slip.

Oh, here’s to Alabama! drink it down,

Here’s to Alabama—we’ll fight for her banner.

Oh, here’s to Florida State, drink it down,

Here’s to Florida—to Southern rights she’ll ne’er say nay.

Oh, here’s to Georgia State—drink it down,

Here’s to Georgia State—altho’ she is rather late.

Oh, here’s to Louisiana! drink it down,

Here’s to Louisiana—how glorious is her banner.

Oh, here’s to gallant Texas! drink it down,

Here’s to gallant Texas—the Yankees say “she vexes us.”

Oh, here’s to brave Virginia! drink it down,

Here’s to brave Virginia—she’ll hold up the Confederacy.

Oh, here’s to Arkansas! drink it down,

Here’s to Arkansas—for she’ll break old Abram’s jaw.

Oh, here’s to North Carolina! drink it down,

Here’s to North Carolina—with a whoop and a hurrah.

Oh, here’s to Tennessee! drink it down,

Here’s to Tennessee—for she’s bound to be free.

Oh, here’s to brave Missouri! drink it down,

Here’s to brave Missouri—whose sons will ne’er say die!

Oh, here’s to old Kentuck! drink it down,

Here’s to old Kentuck—she yet may have the pluck.

Oh, here’s to Maryland! drink it down,

Here’s to Maryland—bleeding beneath a tyrant’s hand.

Oh, here’s to General Lee! drink it down,

Here’s to General Lee—for he’ll set the Rebels free!

Oh, here’s to Magruder! drink it down—

Here’s to our Magruder—the Yankees’ great deluder.

ХАРАБРАЯ ДЕВУШКА, ПОРАЗИВШАЯ ПОДЛОГО ТОРИ, О!

Посвящается мисс Слиделл.

Слова Клабса. Музыка Дьюси Даймондс.

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

Ho, gallants, brim the beaker bowl,

And click the festal glasses, oh!

The grape shall shed its sapphire soul,

To eulogize the lasses, oh!

And when ye pledge the lip and curl

Of loveliness and glory, oh!

Here’s a bumper to the gallant girl

That smote the dastard Tory, oh!

Chorus.—A bumper, a thumper,

To loveliness and glory, oh!

A bumper to the gallant girl

That smote the dastard Tory, oh!

Our boys are fighting East and West,

Our women do not linger, oh!

They take their diamonds from the breast,

Their rubies from the finger, oh!

They send their darlings to the war

Of honor and of glory, oh!

They’ve all the spirit of a man,

To smite a dastard Tory, oh!

Chorus.

Джек Морган.

ТРИ УРА НАШЕМУ ДЖЕКУ МОРГАНУ.

Юджина Рэймонда.

The snow is in the cloud, and night is gathering o’er us.

The winds are piping loud and fan the blaze before us;

Then join the jovial band, and tune the vocal organ;

And with a will we’ll all join in—three cheers for our Jack Morgan!

Chorus.—Gather round the camp-fire, our duty has been done,

Let’s gather round the camp-fire, and have a little fun.

Let’s gather round the camp-fire, our duty has been done,

’Twas done upon the battle-field, three cheers for our Jack Morgan!

Jack Morgan is his name—the fearless and the lucky;

No dastard foe can tame the son of old Kentucky.

His heart is with his State, he fights for Southern freedom,

His men their General’s word await—they’ll go where he will lead ’em.

Chorus.

He swore to free his home—to burst her chains asunder,

With sound of trump and drum, and loud Confederate thunder;

And in the darksome night, by light of homesteads burning,

He’ll put the skulking foe to flight, their hearts to wailings turning.

Chorus.

The dungeon dark and cold could not his body prison,

Nor tame a spirit bold that o’er reverse had risen.

Then sing the song of joy—our toast be lovely woman;

And Morgan, he’s the gallant boy to plague the hated foeman!

Пуговица Миссисипи.

МОЛИСЬ, ДЕВА, МОЛИСЬ!

А. В. Керчевал. А. Дж. Тёрнер.

Патриотичным женщинам Юга.

Maiden, pray for thy lover now,

Thro’ all this starry night,

Heaven prove auspicious to thy vow,

For with to-morrow’s dawning light,

We meet the foe in deadly fight!

Pray, maiden, pray!

Maiden, pray that the banner high

Advanced, our cross may wave;

And foeman’s shot and steel defy!

In triumph floating o’er the brave,

Who strike for freedom or the grave;

Pray, maiden, pray!

Maiden, pray for thy Southern land

Of streams and sunlit skies;

See thou her living greatness stand!

While in her hero-dust there lies,

Whatever glory verifies!

Pray, maiden, pray!

Maiden, pray that your trumpet blast

And rocket’s signal light,

But summon squadrons, thick and fast!

To win in our glorious fight

For Home, for Freedom, and the Right;

Pray, maiden, pray!

1863.

СЕРЫЙ МУНДИР СОЛДАТА.

Мисс Кэрри Белл Синклер.

I’ve seen some handsome uniforms deck’d off with buttons bright,

And some that are so very gay they almost blind the sight;

But of these handsome uniforms I will not sing to-day,

My song is to each soldier lad who wears a suit of gray!

Chorus.—Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! for Southern boys we say,

And God bless every soldier lad who wears a suit of gray!

Brass buttons and gold lace I know are beautiful to view,

And then, to tell the honest truth, I own I like them, too;

Yet should a thousand officers come crowding round to-day,

I’d scorn them for a lad who wears a simple suit of gray.

Chorus.

God bless our Southern soldiers! for ev’ry one is dear,

And God defend each gallant form, no matter what they wear;

For each has acted well his part, yet still, in truth, I say,

The bravest of the brave are those who wear a suit of gray.

Chorus.

Tho’ torn and faded be each coat, their buttons tarnish’d too,

I know beneath each soldier’s dress a Southern heart beats true;

We honor ev’ry gallant son who fights for us to-day,

And heav’n protect the noble boys who wear the suit of gray.

Chorus.

They bravely strike for freedom, and on the battle-field,

They’re the first to strike a blow, they are the last to yield;

At Richmond and Manassas who was it won the day?

It was our noble Southern boys, all clad in suits of gray.

Chorus.

God bless our Southern soldiers! for each we breathe a prayer,

And over ev’ry fallen son we shed a mourner’s tear!

Oh, sacred be the grave of those who died so far away,

And honor’d be each one who sleeps clad in a suit of gray.

(Omit chorus.)

’Round ev’ry patriot soldier’s brow the laurel wreath entwines,

And ’round the battle-flag they bear a ray of glory shines,

And when the foe is conquer’d, with pride we then will say,

“All honor to the noble boys who wore the suit of gray.”

Chorus.

(A Chorus, after the Battle of Franklin)—

You may talk about your Beauregard, and sing of General Lee,

But General Hood, of Texas, played hell in Tennessee.

ПЕСНЯ ТЕХАССКИХ РЕЙНДЖЕРОВ.

Миссис Дж. Д. Янг.

Мелодия — «Желтая роза Техаса».

The morning star is paling, the camp-fires flicker low,

Our steeds are madly neighing, for the bugle bids us go:

So put the foot in stirrup, and shake the bridle free,

For to-day the Texas Rangers must cross the Tennessee.

With Wharton for our leader, we’ll chase the dastard foe,

’Till our horses bathe their fetlocks in the deep blue Ohio.

Our men come from the prairies rolling broad, proud and free,

From the high and craggy mountains to the murmuring Mexic’ sea;

And their hearts are open as their plains; their tho’ts as proudly brave

As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard, or the Gulf’s resistless wave.

Then, quick! into the saddle, and shake the bridle free,

To-day with gallant Wharton we cross the Tennessee.

’Tis joy to be a Ranger! to fight for dear Southland!

’Tis joy to follow Wharton, with his gallant, trusty band!

’Tis joy to see our Harrison plunge, like a meteor bright,

Into the thickest of the fray, and deal his deadly might,

Oh! who’d not be a Ranger, and follow Wharton’s cry!

And battle for their country, and, if needs be, die?

By the Colorado’s waters, on the Gulf’s deep murmuring shore,

On our soft, green, peaceful prairies, our home we may see no more,

But in those homes our gentle wives, and mothers with silvery hairs,

Are loving us with tender hearts, and shielding us with prayers.

So trusting in our country’s God, we draw our stout good brand,

For those we love at home, our altars and our land.

Up! up! with the crimson battle flag, let the blue pennon fly;

Our steeds are stamping proudly, they hear the battle cry!

The thundering bomb, the bugle’s call, proclaim the foe is near:

We strike for God and native land, and all we hold most dear.

Then spring into the saddle, and shake the bridle free,

For Wharton leads, thro’ fire and blood, for Home and Victory.

ПОХОРОНЫ ОФИЦЕРА.

Hark! ’tis the shrill trumpet calling,

It pierceth the soft summer air!

Tears from each comrade are falling,

For the widow and orphan are there:

Our bayonets earthward are turning,

And the drum’s muffled breath rolls around,

But he hears not the voice of their mourning,

Nor awakes to the bugle’s shrill sound.

Sleep, soldier! tho’ many regret thee,

Who stand by thy cold bier to-day,

Soon, soon shall the kindest forget thee,

And thy name from the earth pass away;

The man thou did’st love as a brother,

A friend in thy place will have gained;

Thy dog will keep watch for another,

And thy steed by a stranger be reined.

But tho’ many now weep for thee sadly,

Soon joyous as ever shall be;

Tho’ thy bright orphan boy may laugh gladly

As he sits on some kind comrade’s knee,

There is one who will still do her duty

Of tears for the true and the brave,

As when first in the bloom of her beauty,

She weeps o’er her brave soldier’s grave!

СМЕРТЬ СОЛДАТА.

А. Б. Каннингема.

The night-cloud had lowered o’er Shiloh’s red plain,

And the blast howled sadly o’er wounded and slain;

The lightning flashed vividly, fiercely and proud,

And glared thro’ the mist of the smoke and the cloud;

The thunder pealed loudly from heaven’s black sky,

Where litely the cannon had pealed the war-cry;

The last gun had been fired, and its moaning sound

Had died ’way in the distance, and echoed around.

Where the fight had raged fiercest, near a deep ravine,

At the foot of a crag (a wild, thrilling scene),

A soldier lay there all ghastly and gory,

Who’d fall’n in the strife for freedom and glory!

His life-blood was pouring from out a deep gash

He’d received ’mid the battle’s loud roar and fierce crash;

“O mother! O mother! I never thought this,

When but a mere child I received thy sweet kiss—

“That I’d die on a field all gory and red

With the blood of the wounded, the dying and dead,

With no friend or relation to cheer my dark way,

But the forms of dear comrades all lifeless as clay,

None to watch o’er me but the ghosts of the dead,

None to smooth down the death-pillow ’neath my poor head;

And sadly I think of my home in the South,

Where I roam’d a mere boy in the pride of my youth.

“When I scaled the steep crag o’er the river’s wild roar,

Or chased the fleet stag ’long the bright, sunny shore—

When I bounded in pride o’er valley and hill—

O memories, how sweet! ye haunt me now still.

But away with the thoughts of my joyous boyhood,

I’ll face the grim monster death with calm fortitude:

Then, mother, farewell! farewell, dearest mother;

Farewell to my father, sisters and brother!

“And when I am gone never utter a sigh,

But remember your Charlie reigns proudly on high!”

Then death flapp’d wildly his wings on the moor,

As his soul took its flight to a heavenly shore—

The lightning flash’d fiercely, the howling winds surge,

The thunder pealed loudly the hero’s wild dirge!

ПОМНЮ ТОТ ЧАС, КОГДА МЫ СКОРБНО РАССТАЛИСЬ.

Песня-спутник к «Когда закончится эта жестокая война».

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.

НАШ ФЛАГ, ИЛИ ПРОИСХОЖДЕНИЕ «ЗВЕЗД И ПОЛОС».

Слова и музыка Гарри Макарти.

[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]

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.

НАВАСОТСКИЕ ДОБРОВОЛЬЦЫ.

Уильяма Нили из кавалерии Дюранта.

Мелодия — «Сюзанна, не плачь».

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.”

СОЛДАТСКИЙ СОН.

Сочинение Фр. Сульцнера.

С разрешения Анри Вермана, Нью-Орлеан, шт. Луизиана.

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.”

У БЕРЕГОВ КРАСНОЙ РЕКИ.

Слова Е. Е. Кидда. Музыка Ла Аша.

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.

ОФИЦЕРЫ ДИКСИ.

Ворчуна.

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.

СОН ЧАСОВОГО О ДОМЕ.

Полковника А. М. Хобби.

’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.

ЛАГЕРЬ ДУГЛАС У ОЗЕРА.

ТЮРЕМНАЯ ПЕСНЯ.

Мелодия — «Домик у моря».

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.

МИССИСИПИ.

Слова и музыка Гарри Макарти.

Исполнялось Гарри Макарти по всему пространству Штатов Конфедерации в его концертах-монологах.

[Ноты этой песни можно получить у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс.]

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.

О НЕТ! ОНИ ЕМУ БОЛЬШЕ НЕ ПОНАДОБЯТСЯ!

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.

ПАМЯТИ.

Лейтенанта Сидни А. Шермана, павшего в битве при Галвестоне 1 января 1863 года.

Мисс Молли Е. Мур.

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.

ВАНДАЛЫ-ЯНКИ.

Мелодия — «Беззаботные и счастливые».

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.

В КАВАЛЕРИЙСКОМ РЕЙДЕ.

Мелодия — «Бонни Данди».

’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.

«Скачи же вскачь средь скал и круч».

ТОСТ ЛЮДЕЙ МОРГАНА.

Капитана Торпа, Кентукки.

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.

ВЕРНЫЕ СЕРДЦЕМ ЮЖЯНЕ.

Мелодия — «Синие береты над границей».

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.

СОЛДАТСКОЕ АМИНЬ.

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!”

ГОНИ СВОЮ МУЛЮ.

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.

САБИН-ПАСС.

Посвящается гвардии Дэвиса (живым и павшим).

Миссис М. Дж. Янг.

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.

ПАКУЙСЯ В ПРОГОЛОДЬ, ИЛИ АРМИЯ НА КУКУРУЗНОМ ПАЙКЕ.

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 Lacedæmonian,

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.

ПРОЩАНИЕ СОЛДАТА.

Мелодия — «Смоли смычок».

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!

БИТВА ПРИ ШАЙЛО-ХИЛЛ.

М. Б. Смита из роты C 2-го техасского добровольческого полка.

Мелодия — «Странствующий матрос».

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.