And early the next morning, we were called to arms again,
Unmindful of the wounded and unmindful of the slain,
The struggle was renewed, and ten thousand men were killed;
This was the second conflict of the famous Shiloh Hill.
The battle it raged on, though dead and dying men,
Lay thick all o’er the ground, on the hill and in the glen,
And from their deadly wounds their blood ran like a rill;
Such were the mournful sights that I saw on Shiloh Hill.
Before the day was ended the battle ceased to roar,
And thousands of brave soldiers had fall’n to rise no more;
They left their vacant ranks for some other ones to fill,
And now their mouldering bodies all lie on Shiloh Hill.
And now my song is ended about those bloody plains,
I hope the sight by mortal man may ne’er be seen again;
But I pray to God, the Saviour, “if consistent with Thy will,”
To save the souls of all who fell on bloody Shiloh Hill.
РЕКВИЕМ СТОУНВОЛЛУ.
С разрешения Oliver Ditson Co. Музыка М. Дивза.
The muffled drum is beating,
There’s a sad and solemn tread,
Our banner’s draped in mourning,
As it shrouds the “illustrious dead,”
Proud forms are bent with sorrow,
And all Southern hearts are sore,
The hero now is sleeping—
Noble Stonewall is no more.
’Mid the rattling of the muskets,
And the cannons’ thund’rous roar,
He stained the field of glory,
With his brave life’s precious gore;
And though our flag waved proudly,
We were victors ere sunset—
The gallant deeds of Chancellorsville,
Will mingle with regret.
They’ve borne him to an honored grave,
The laurel crowns his brow,
By hallowed James’ silent wave
He’s sweetly sleeping now;
Virginia to the South is dear,
She holds a sacred trust,
Our fallen braves from far and near,
Are covered with her dust.
She shrines the spot where now is laid,
The bravest of them all,
The Martyr of our country’s cause,
Our idolized Stonewall;
But though his spirit’s wafted
To the happy realms above;
His name shall live forever linked,
With reverence and love.
МАЛЕНЬКИЙ ГИФФИН.
Доктора Фрэнсиса О. Тикнора.
«Баллада столь уникального и поистине превосходного достоинства, что, по нашему мнению, она должна стоять в одном ряду с редчайшими жемчужинами современной батальной поэзии». — П. Х. Хэйн.
Out of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire,
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!)
Specter such as we seldom see,
Little Giffin of Tennessee!
“Take him and welcome!” the surgeon said:
“Much your doctor can help the dead!”
And so we took him and brought him where,
The balm was sweet on the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed—
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!
Weary War with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death,
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint in the steel-blue eye,
Spoke of the spirit that wouldn’t die.
And didn’t! nay more! in death’s despite,
The crippled skeleton learned to write!
“Dear mother,” at first, of course, and then,
“Dear Captain” inquiring about the “men,”
Captain’s answer—“Of eighty and five,
Giffin and I are left alive!”
“Johnston’s pressed at the front, they say!”
Little Giffin was up and away.
A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye;
“I’ll write, if spared.” There was news of a fight,
But none of Giffin! he did not write!
I sometimes fancy that were I a king
Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I’d give the best on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,
For little Giffin of Tennessee!
Генерал Дж. Э. Б. Стюарт.
СТЮАРТ.
Миссис Генри Дж. Воуз. Музыка А. Э. Блэкмара.
[Ноты этой песни можно получить у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс.]
Oh! mother of States and of men,
Bend low thy queenly head,
On his shield is borne to thy arms again,
Thy youngest, fairest dead;
Drop tears like rain for that strong heart stilled,
For that dauntless spirit fled!
Sleep well, O stainless knight,
’Neath the folds of the starry cross,
For the day now breaks o’er the long, long night
Of our anguish, peril and loss;
But alas! for the eyes that smiled on death,
And the life that held life dross.
They say thine ancestral line,
Swayed the scepter, and wore the crown;
But none girded a nobler sword than thine,
Nor more stainless life laid down;
And we ask no gleam from their grand old past,
To brighten thy young renown.
On the field thy life was giv’n,
Where our best blood has been poured;
At the feet of our country’s God, in heaven,
Thou hast laid another sword,
When Jackson’s head was so lately bowed,
The tried soldier of the Lord.
Oh, swords of the South! like flame,
Leap forth for this life-blood shed,
Strike the foe till he flies from the field in shame,
Sheathe not till the hilt is red!
And redeem the land that enshrines in her heart,
The graves of her glorious dead!
ВСЕГО ЛИШЬ СОЛДАТ.
Майора Ламара Фонтейна.
“Only a soldier!” I heard them say,
With a heavy heart I turned away,
And heaved a sigh.
Then watched the tramp of the horses’ feet,
As the hearse moved slowly down the street,
And hot tears dimmed my eye.
“Only a soldier!” confined in there—
A father’s joy and a mother’s care,
Torn from his home.
Now a maiden sighs for his return,
On his sister’s cheek the teardrops burn,
For her soldier-brother’s gone.
“Only a soldier!” I thought anew,
As fancy came, and I quickly drew
“The parting hour,”
That hour he left at his country’s call,
To place himself as a living wall,
Where sterner men might cower.
In dreams he’d seen friends kneeling down
To raise his head from the battle-ground,
And thus he’d say:
“Tell my father that fighting I fell,
’Mid hammering shot and screaming shell,
When the South had won the day.”
Alas! he never had dreamed of death,
But as borne on whistling bullets’ breath,
’Mid muskets flashing;
And where the war-dogs howling loud,
Breathe with sulphur-smoke a battle cloud—
The shells with thunders crashing!
But a fevered cot is his battle-ground,
And slowly, calmly in death he’s bound
To the “Far-off-Land.”
No gentle sister’s spirit is there,
E’en in stranger’s form with tender care,
To bathe his dry burning hand.
The dark sod hides the form of the dead,
Dew-drops kiss no more that pale forehead,
Nor gleam on his hair.
Life’s hope is gone! Life’s sorrowing o’er,
His spirit is on the “echoless shore,”
Dwelling with angels up there.
Thus unwept, unmourned, he sank to rest,
E’en by human sympathy unblest,
To an unknown grave!
God, who notes e’en the sparrow’s fall,
Shall, in the dread resurrection, call
To Heaven the soldier brave!
КОГДА ПАРНИ ВОЗВРАЩАЮТСЯ ДОМОЙ.
The boys are coming home again,
This war will soon be o’er,
The Southern land again will stand,
As happy as of yore;
Yes, hand in hand, and arm in arm,
Together we will roam,
Oh! won’t we have a happy time,
When all the boys come home.
Chorus.—We’ll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom’s lofty dome;
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
We’ll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom’s lofty dome;
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
We’ll have no more false hopes and fears,
No more heartrending sighs—
The messengers of peace will dry
The weary mourner’s eyes,
We’ll laugh and sing, we’ll dance and play,
Oh! wait until they come,
And joy will crown the happy day,
When all the boys come home.
Chorus.
How proud our nation then will stand!
United evermore,
We’ll bid defiance to the foe,
That dare approach our shore,
We’ll hoist the starry cross again,
On freedom’s lofty dome,
And live in peace and happiness,
When all the boys come home.
Chorus.
БАРАБАНЩИК ИЗ ШАЙЛО.
On Shiloh’s dark and bloody ground the dead and wounded lay,
Amongst them was a drummer boy that beat the drum that day;
A wounded soldier raised him up—his drum was by his side—
He clasped his hands, and raised his eyes, and prayed before he died.
“Look down upon the battlefield, O Thou our heavenly Friend,
Have mercy on our sinful souls”—the soldiers cried, “Amen!”
For gathered ’round, a little group, each brave man knelt and cried—
They listened to the drummer boy who prayed before he died.
“Oh, Mother,” said the dying boy, “Look down from Heaven on me!
Receive me to thy fond embrace! Oh, take me home to thee!
I’ve loved my country as my God, to serve them both I’ve tried,”
He smiled, shook hands, death seized the boy who prayed before he died.
Each soldier wept then like a child—stout hearts were they and brave—
The Flag his winding-sheet! God’s Book the key unto his grave;
They wrote upon a simple board these words, “This is a guide,
To those who mourn the drummer boy who prayed before he died.”
Алабамский добровольческий корпус.
СТАРЫЙ СТОУНВОЛЛ.
К. Д. Дашера. Музыка Ф. Юнкера.
[Ноты этой песни можно получить у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс.]
Oh, don’t you remember old Stonewall, my boys,
Old Stonewall on charger so gray,
Whose memory is dear to the sons of the South,
The heroes that once wore the gray.
He was true to the cause of the men that he led,
Heroic in death as in life,
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife—
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife.
The harvest waves over the battlefield, boys,
And where bullets once pattered like rain,
The peach blooms are drifting like snow in the air,
And the hillocks are springing in grain,
Oh! green in our hearts may the memories be,
Of those heroes, in blue or in grey,
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array—
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array.
ЮГ;
ИЛИ Я ЛЮБЛЮ ТЕБЯ ЕЩЕ СИЛЬНЕЕ.
[Ноты этой песни можно приобрести у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс, владельцев авторских прав.]
My heart in its sadness turns fondly to thee,
Dear land where our lov’d ones fought hard to be free;
I loved thee when struggling, and bleeding and sore,
But now thou art conquered, I love thee the more!
Gallant South! when the noble, the gifted, the brave,
Dashed onward to battle, like wave after wave,
Determin’d to die for the land they adore,
Though vain were their efforts, I love thee the more.
Bright South! though the winter is closing around,
And dead leaves of autumn now carpet the ground,
Thy beauties of woodland, of river and shore,
Still charm the beholder, I love thee the more.
Dear South! though thy beautiful forests and hills,
Thy emerald valleys and silvery rills,
Are subject to strangers—not free as of yore—
Thus changed, and in sorrow, I love thee the more.
Sweet South! lovely land of beautiful flowers,
Though cool now the zephyrs, and faded thy bowers,
Oh, soon shall the springtime thy beauties restore,
And bloom o’er our lost ones—I love thee the more.
Darling South! when I think every forest and grove,
And valley have pillow’d the heads that we love,
Have echoed their war cry and drank of their gore,
I feel thou art sacred, and love thee the more.
БЕДНЫЙ СОЛДАТ!
Популярная песня у костра 62-го алабамского полка (полка мальчишек).
Little do rich people know,
What we poor soldiers undergo—
Called upon to take up arms,
To guard our country from all harm.
Break of day—the morning gun,
Wakes the rebels—the fife and drum,
Breaks a soldier’s sweet repose—
He tumbles out—puts on his clothes.
First sergeant rushes in and out:
“Hurrah! hurrah, boys! do turn out;”
Front and rear he forms his line—
His ’coutrements and sword must shine.
“Eyes right!—steady!” is the word;
Our captain then presents his sword—
The sergeant jerks out his roll—
Names are called—the absent told.
Our surgeon is a man of skill,
Gives the sick each day bread pills;
If his pills do not act well—
He swears and damns our souls to hell.
Would you know who wrote this song,
I will tell—it won’t take long;
It was composed by A. T. Height,
While walking post one rainy night.
БЕЛЫЙ ФЛАГ С ВОСХОДЯЩИМ СОЛНЦЕМ;
ИЛИ ВЗЫВАНИЕ ПЛЕННОГО К МИРУ.
Полковника У. С. Хокинза. В Camp Chase Ventilator, 1864 г.
Мелодия — «Синий флаг со звездой».
Though we’re a band of prisoners,
Let each be firm and true,
For noble souls and hearts of oak,
The foe can ne’er subdue.
We then will turn us homeward,
To those we love so dear;
For peace and happiness, my boys,
Oh, give a hearty cheer!
Chorus.—Hurrah! Hurrah! for peace
And home, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie White Flag,
That ends this cruel war!
The sword into the scabbard,
The musket on the wall,
The cannon from its blazing throat,
No more shall hurl the ball;
From wives and babes and sweethearts,
No longer will we roam,
For ev’ry gallant soldier boy,
Shall seek his cherished home.
Chorus.
Our battle banners furled away,
No more shall greet the eye,
Nor beat of angry drums be heard,
Nor bugle’s hostile cry.
The blade no more be raised aloft,
In conflict fierce and wild.
The bomb shall roll across the sward,
The plaything of a child.
Chorus.
No pale-faced captive then shall stand,
Behind his rusted bars,
Nor from the prison window bleak,
Look sadly to the stars;
But out amid the woodland’s green,
On bounding steed he’ll be,
And proudly from his heart shall rise,
The anthem of the free.
Chorus.
The plow into the furrow then,
The fields shall wave with grain,
And smiling children to their schools,
All gladly go again.
The church invites its grateful throng,
And man’s rude striving cease,
While all across our noble land,
Shall glow the light of Peace.
Chorus.
БОМБАРДИРОВКА ВИКСБЕРГА.
С уважением и восхищением посвящается генерал-майору Эрлу Ван Дорну.
For sixty days and upward a storm of shell and shot,
Rained ’round as in a flaming shower, but still we faltered not!
“If the noble city perish,” our grand young leader said,
“Let the only walls the foe shall scale be ramparts of the dead!”
For sixty days and upward the eye of heaven waxed dim,
And even throughout God’s holy morn, o’er Christian’s prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult, as if the fiends of air,
Strove to engulf the voice of faith in shriekings of despair.
There was wailing in the houses, there was trembling on the marts,
While the tempest raged and thundered ’midst the silent thrill of hearts;
But the Lord, our shield, was with us—and ere a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets, with scarce one throb of dread.
And the little children gambolled—their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment as the huge bombs whirled and blazed!
Then turning with silv’ry laughter to the sports which children love,
Thrice mailed in the sweet instinctive thought that the good God watched above.[18]
Yet the hailing bolts fell faster from scores of flame-clad ships,
And above us, denser, darker, grew the conflict’s wide eclipse,
’Till a solid cloud closed o’er like a type of doom and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quiv’ring tongues of forked and vengeful fire.
But the unseen hands of angels, these death shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy, ruled o’er the battle tide;
In the houses ceased the wailing, and through the war-scarred marts,
The people strode with the step of hope to the music in their hearts.
СМЕРТЬ СТОУНВОЛЛА ДЖЕКСОНА.
Музыка К. Бламфина.
On a bright May morn in ’Sixty-three,
And eager for the action,
On a battlefield for Liberty,
Stood gallant Stonewall Jackson.
Both flesh and blood alike the same,
They strove to gain each other’s fame,
And long may hist’ry pen the name,
Of gallant Stonewall Jackson.
Chorus.—Who was his soldiers’ pride,
And for his country died,
On a bright May day in ’Sixty-three,
And ready for the action,
On a battlefield for Liberty
Stood gallant Stonewall Jackson.
A man more kind was never born,
In battle no one bolder;
His loss all noble hearts will mourn,
This gallant faithful soldier;
For when the word was duty,
He was first to fight for victory;
Oh! may he live in history,
The gallant Stonewall Jackson.
Chorus.
But alas! his time was come,
To see our promised land;
His comrade’s fatal gun,
Shot through his arm and hand;
The Almighty’s will was read,
Upon his noble brow;
“My race is run,” he said.
Death has its victim now.
Chorus.
ЮЖНАЯ УЗНИЦА.
Капитана Сэма Хьюстона.
[Ноты этой песни можно получить у Оливера Дитсона и Ко., Бостон, шт. Массачусетс.]
Softly comes the twilight stealing gently through my prison bars,
While from out the vault of heaven, faintly glimmering come the stars;
Well I know my mother’s weeping for her long-lost wandering boy—
Does she know that still I’m living? even that would give her joy.
No, they tell her that I’m sleeping ’neath the turf on Shiloh’s plain;
That she ne’er will see her wanderer—never on this earth again;
Oh, my poor heart sinks within me, as the months roll slowly by,
And it seems in this cold Northland a lone captive I must die!
Yes, far away from friends and kindred, without a hand to mark my grave—
And not upon a field of glory I’ll sleep amid the Southern brave;
Mother! yes, your boy is dying! soon he’ll pass through death’s dark wave,
And the wintry wind be sighing o’er a captive’s lonely grave.
ДОБРОВОЛЕЦ, ИЛИ ЗОВЕТ МОЯ РОДИНА.
Гарри Макарти.
I leave my home and thee, dear, with sorrow at my heart,
It is my country’s call, dear, to aid her, I depart;
And on the blood-red battle plain, we’ll conquer or we’ll die;
’Tis for our honor and our name, we raise the battle-cry.
Chorus.—Then weep not, dearest, weep not, if in the cause I fall;
Oh, weep not, dearest, weep not, it is my country’s call.
And yet, my heart is sore, love, to see thee weeping thus;
But mark me, there’s no fear, love, for in Heaven is our trust;
And if the heavy drooping tear swells in my mournful eye,
It is that Northmen of our land should cause the battle-cry.
Chorus.
Our rights have been usurp’d, dear, by Northmen of land;
Fanatics rais’d the cry, dear, politicians fired the brand;
The Southrons spurn the galling yoke, the tyrants’ threats defy;
They find we’ve sons like sturdy oaks to raise the battle-cry.
Chorus.
I knew you’d let me go, pet, I saw it in that tear,
To join the gallant men, pet, who never yet knew fear;
With Beauregard and Davis, we’ll gain our cause or die;
Win battles like Manassas, and raise the battle-cry.
Chorus.
ДОРОГАЯ МАТЬ, Я ВЕРНУЛСЯ ДОМОЙ УМИРАТЬ.
Э. Бауэрса. Музыка Генри Таккера.
Dear mother, I remember well
The parting kiss you gave me,
When merry rang the village bell—
My heart was full of joy and glee:
I did not dream that one short year,
Would crush the hopes that soared so high!
Oh, mother dear, draw near to me;