Part 1

Transcriber's Note: Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_ in the original text. Equal signs "=" before and after a word or phrase indicate =bold= in the original text. Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals. Illustrations have been moved so they do not break up poems. Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved. Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.

Knickerbocker Nuggets

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_AMERICAN WAR BALLADS AND LYRICS_

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

_EDITED BY_

_GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON_

_VOLUME II._

_NEW YORK AND LONDON_ _G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS_ The Knickerbocker Press COPYRIGHT G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 1889

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

CONTENTS.

PAGE. THE CIVIL WAR--_Continued_ 1 LYON 3 MY MARYLAND 6 BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 10 THE PICKET GUARD 12 THE COUNTERSIGN 14 JONATHAN TO JOHN 19 THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET 26 NEVER OR NOW 28 BOY BRITTAN 30 THE “CUMBERLAND” 35 ON BOARD THE “CUMBERLAND” 38 THE SWORD-BEARER 45 THE OLD SERGEANT 48 THE “VARUNA” 56 THE RIVER FIGHT 58 SHERIDAN’S RIDE 72 KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES 75 STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY 77 MARCHING ALONG 80 THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ 82 TARDY GEORGE 85 WANTED--A MAN 88 OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND 91 BARBARA FRIETCHIE 95 MUSIC IN CAMP 99 FREDERICKSBURG 103 TREASON’S LAST DEVICE 106 IN LOUISIANA 109 JOHN PELHAM 113 THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR 116 RUNNING THE BATTERIES 120 KEENAN’S CHARGE 124 DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON 127 UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES 129 STONEWALL JACKSON 131 THE BLACK REGIMENT 132 LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE 136 GETTYSBURG 138 AT GETTYSBURG 147 JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 150 WOMAN’S WAR MISSION 156 THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE 160 LEE TO THE REAR 162 “KEARSARGE” AND “ALABAMA” 167 THE BAY FIGHT 170 THE LOYAL FISHER 193 SHERMAN’S MARCH TO THE SEA 195 SHERMAN’S MARCH 198 THE YEAR OF JUBILEE 200 THE CONQUERED BANNER 203 SOMEBODY’S DARLING 207 LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD 209 DRIVING HOME THE COWS 211 AFTER ALL 214 “HE’LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES” 216 THE RÉVEILLE 218 RÉVEILLE 220 THE WHITE ROSE 222 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 230 READY 233 A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER 235 “HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?” 239 THE MEN 243 THE GUERILLAS 245 WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER 249 CAVALRY SONG (Stedman) 252 CAVALRY SONG (Raymond) 254 THE CAVALRY CHARGE (Taylor) 256 THE CAVALRY CHARGE (Durivage) 258 ROLL-CALL 261 READING THE LIST 263 A WOMAN OF THE WAR 265 GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR, JOHN BROWN’S BODY 270 MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA 273 THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM 275 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP 277

ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE. RUNNING THE BATTERIES _Frontispiece_ THE CIVIL WAR 1 THE COUNTERSIGN 15 THE “CUMBERLAND” 35 SHERIDAN’S RIDE 72 BARBARA FRIETCHIE 95 FREDERICKSBURG 103 IN LOUISIANA 109 JOHN PELHAM 113 RUNNING THE BATTERIES 120 KEENAN’S CHARGE 124 THE BLACK REGIMENT 132 GETTYSBURG 138 JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 150 THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE 160 “KEARSARGE” AND “ALABAMA” 167 THE BAY FIGHT 170 THE CONQUERED BANNER 204 DRIVING HOME THE COWS 211 AFTER ALL 214 CAVALRY SONG 252

_Typogravures by W. Kurtz._

THE _CIVIL_ WAR

PART II.

LYON.

BY HENRY PETERSON.

Sing, bird, on green Missouri’s plain, Thy saddest song of sorrow; Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain Ye from the winds can borrow; Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh, Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, For him who knew well how to die, But never to surrender!

Up rose serene the August sun Upon that day of glory; Up curled from musket and from gun The war-cloud gray and hoary. It gathered like a funeral pall Now broken and now blended, Where rang the bugle’s angry call, And rank with rank contended.

Four thousand men, as brave and true As e’er went forth in daring, Upon the foe that morning threw The strength of their despairing. They feared not death--men bless the field That patriot soldiers die on-- Fair Freedom’s cause was sword and shield, And at their head was Lyon!

The leader’s troubled soul looked forth From eyes of troubled brightness; Sad soul! the burden of the North Had pressed out all its lightness. He gazed upon the unequal fight, His ranks all rent and gory, And felt the shadows close like night Round his career of glory.

“General, come lead us!” loud the cry From a brave band was ringing-- “Lead us, and we will stop, or die, That battery’s awful singing.” He spurred to where his heroes stood, Twice wounded--no wound knowing-- The fire of battle in his blood And on his forehead glowing.

Oh, cursed for aye that traitor’s hand, And cursed that aim so deadly, Which smote the bravest of the land, And dyed his bosom redly! Serene he lay, while past him prest The battle’s furious billow, As calmly as a babe may rest Upon its mother’s pillow.

So Lyon died! and well may flowers His place of burial cover, For never had this land of ours A more devoted lover. Living, his country was his pride, His life he gave her dying; Life, fortune, love--he naught denied To her and to her sighing.

Rest, patriot, in thy hill-side grave, Beside her form who bore thee! Long may the land thou diedst to save Her bannered stars wave o’er thee! Upon her history’s brightest page, And on Fame’s glowing portal, She’ll write thy grand, heroic rage And grave thy name immortal.

MY MARYLAND.

BY JAMES R. RANDALL.

The despot’s heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son’s appeal, Maryland! My Mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life or death, for woe or weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred trust, Remember Howard’s warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come with thy panoplied array. Maryland! With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray, With Watson’s blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland, my Maryland!

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain, “_Sic semper!_” ’tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng Stalking with liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder-hum Maryland! The “Old Line’s” bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum-- She breathes! She burns! She’ll come! She’ll come! Maryland, my Maryland!

[Southern.]

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

BY JULIA WARD HOWE.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish’d rows of steel; “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal”; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

November, 1861.

THE PICKET GUARD.

BY ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say, “Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. ’Tis nothing--a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost--only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard--for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack--his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep-- For their mother--may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken-- Leaped up to his lips--when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree-- The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looks like a rifle--ah! “Mary, good-bye!” And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-- The picket’s off duty forever.

THE COUNTERSIGN.

[In his admirably edited collection of poems of the civil war, entitled “Bugle Echoes,” Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this poem with the following note:

“There has been no little dispute as to the authorship of this poem. The _Philadelphia Press_, in 1861, said it was ‘written by a private in Company G, Stuart’s engineer regiment, at Camp Lesley, near Washington.’ But it may now be stated positively that it was written by a Confederate soldier, still living. The poem is usually printed in a very imperfect form, with the fourth, fifth, and sixth stanzas omitted. The third line of the fifth stanza affords internal evidence of Southern origin.”--EDITOR.]

THE COUNTERSIGN.

Alas! the weary hours pass slow, The night is very dark and still; And in the marshes far below I hear the bearded whippoorwill; I scarce can see a yard ahead, My ears are strained to catch each sound; I hear the leaves about me shed, And the spring’s bubbling through the ground.

Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rays mark my sentry’s track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace The foeman’s form with bending back, I think I see him crouching low; I stop and list--I stoop and peer, Until the neighboring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers far and near.

With ready piece I wait and watch, Until my eyes, familiar grown, Detect each harmless earthen notch, And turn guerrillas into stone; And then, amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, My silent marches I resume, And think of other times than these.

Sweet visions through the silent night! The deep bay windows fringed with vine, The room within, in softened light, The tender, milk-white hand in mine; The timid pressure, and the pause That often overcame our speech-- The time when by mysterious laws We each felt all in all to each.

And then that bitter, bitter day, When came the final hour to part; When, clad in soldier’s honest gray, I pressed her weeping to my heart; Too proud of me to bid me stay, Too fond of me to let me go, I had to tear myself away, And left her, stolid in my woe.

So rose the dream, so passed the night-- When, distant in the darksome glen, Approaching up the sombre height I heard the solid march of men; Till over stubble, over sward, And fields where lay the golden sheaf, I saw the lantern of the guard Advancing with the night relief.

“Halt! Who goes there?” my challenge cry, It rings along the watchful line; “Relief!” I hear a voice reply; “Advance, and give the countersign!” With bayonet at the charge I wait-- The corporal gives the mystic spell; With arms aport I charge my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well.

But in the tent that night awake, I ask, if in the fray I fall, Can I the mystic answer make When the angelic sentries call? And pray that Heaven may so ordain, Whene’er I go, what fate be mine, Whether in pleasure or in pain, I still may have the countersign.

[Southern.]

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[This poem is a part of the second series of “The Bigelow Papers,” a work wholly unmatched in the literature of humor, that has an earnest purpose and well matured thought for its sources of inspiration. The poem was called forth by what is known as “the _Trent_ affair.” Captain Wilkes, commanding the United States man-of-war, _San Jacinto_, boarded the British mail steamer _Trent_ on the 8th of November, 1861, and took from her the Confederate commissioners Mason and Slidell. Great Britain resented the act, and for a time there was serious apprehension of war between that country and the United States; but as the seizure of the commissioners on board a neutral vessel was deemed to be an act in violation of international law, the Government at Washington, after inquiry into the facts, surrendered the prisoners. The version of the poem here given is a correct one, taken from the collected edition of Mr. Lowell’s poems. An abridged and otherwise imperfect version is given in many collections.--EDITOR.]

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

It don’t seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John,-- Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess We know it now,” sez he, “The Lion’s paw is all the law, Accordin’ to J. B., Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”

You wonder why we’re hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an’ our sons: Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess There’s human blood,” sez he, “By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts, Though ’t may surprise J. B. More ’n it would you an’ me.”

Ef _I_ turned mad dogs loose, John, On _your_ front parlor stairs, Would it just meet your views, John, To wait an’ sue their heirs? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, I on’y guess,” sez he, “Thet ef Vattel on _his_ toes fell, ’Twould kind o’ rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Who made the law thet hurts, John, _Heads I win--ditto tails?_ “J. B.” was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess (I’m good at thet),” sez he, “Thet sauce for goose ain’t _jest_ the juice For ganders with J. B., No more’n with you or me!”

When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn’t stop for fuss,-- Brittany’s trident prongs, John, Was good ’nough law for us. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Though physic’s good,” sez he, “It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed ‘_J. B._’ Put up by you an’ me.”

We own the ocean, tu, John, You mus’ n’ take it hard, Ef we can’t think with you, John, It’s just your own back yard, Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess Ef _thet’s_ his claim,” sez he, “The fencin’ stuff’ll cost enough To bust up friend J. B. Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor when it meant You didn’t care a fig, John, But jest for _ten per cent_? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess He’s like the rest,” sez he; “When all is done, it’s number one Thet’s nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez t’ you an’ me!”

We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought ’twas right; It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John, Provokin’ us to fight. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess We’ve a hard row,” sez he, “To hoe just now; but thet, somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John, With twenty million people, An’ close to every door, John, A school house an’ a steeple. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess It is a fact,” sez he, “The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me!”

Our folks believe in Law, John; An’ it’s fer her sake, now, They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John, The anvil an’ the plow. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Ef ’t warn’t fer law,” sez he, “There ’d be one shindy from here to Indy; An’ _thet_ don’t suit J. B. (When ’t ain’t ’twixt you an’ me!)”

We know we ’ve got a cause, John, Thet ’s honest, just, an’ true; We thought ’t would win applause, John, Ef nowhere else, from you, Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess His love of right,” sez he, “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton; There ’s natur’ in J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

The South says, “_Poor folks down!_” John, An’ “_All men up!_” say we,-- White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John; Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess John preaches wal,” sez he; “But, sermon thru, an’ come to _du_, Why there’s the old J. B. A-crowdin’ you an’ me!”