Part 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

GALVESTON, TEXAS, Feb. 1, 1864.

CAMP DOUGLAS BY THE LAKE.

A PRISON SONG.

_Air--"Cottage by the Sea."_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MISSOURI.

Words and music by HARRY MCCARTHY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IN MEMORIAM.

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

By MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TYLER, TEXAS, 1863.

YANKEE VANDALS.

_Air--"Gay and Happy."_

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

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

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

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

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

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

RIDING A RAID.

_Air--"Bonny Dundee."_

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

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

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

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

THE TOAST OF MORGAN'S MEN.

By CAPT. THORPE, Kentucky.

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

TRUE HEART SOUTHRONS.

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

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

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

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

THE SOLDIER'S AMEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HERE'S YOUR MULE.

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

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

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

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

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

SABINE PASS.

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

By MRS. M. J. YOUNG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOUSTON, TEXAS.

SHORT RATIONS; OR, THE CORN-FED ARMY.

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

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

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

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

Tell me not of the 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.

THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL.

_Air--"Rosin the Bow."_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BATTLE OF SHILOH HILL.

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

_Air--"Wandering Sailor."_

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

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

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

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

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