Part 3

Of collections and criticisms of the songs and poetry of the civil war in this country there is no lack. Newspaper files and popular song-books have been ransacked, as well as more pretentious volumes, and whatever possessed a modicum of what is termed "poetic merit" has been gathered with pious care. The standard in most cases has, naturally enough, been that of "polite literature," that of which the writers were persons of education, and who endeavored to express with more or less force a dominant sentiment in logical as well as grammatical form, and to embody their meaning in intelligent words. If popular songs, which did not fulfil these conditions, have been included, it has usually been with an apology for their uncouthness, or a contemptuous reference to their banality, and an intimation that they were forced into the pages of the collection, or upon the attention of the critic, because they could not be ignored in any representative collection of the poetry of the war. Nevertheless, it may be doubted if these uncouth rhymes, without sense or consecutive meaning, like Dixie's Land and John Brown's Body, or the cheap sentimentality of Just before the Battle, Mother, and When this Cruel War is over, do not have something of the indefinable fascination on the printed page which they had to the ears of the men who sung them, and do not take a stronger hold upon the mind than the much more elegant and refined verses by which they are surrounded. Something of this may be due to the memory of those who heard them, and in whose minds they were the voice of the war, as the flags, the arms, and the uniforms were its visible insignia, but this does not entirely account for their fascination and permanence. There was something about them which endowed them with vital life, which gave them a hold upon every tongue and upon every heart, a quality distinct from obvious meaning, to say nothing of literary excellence, and which can only be described as the singing element. It was to accomplish this purpose, to relieve the heart through the lungs, without reference to the mind, to emphasize and lighten the buoyant or weary march, and give voice to the pervading impulse, which kept these songs alive and made them a practical part of the war, as the sailor's "shanties" were a part of the life of the sea, and the negro choruses of the life of the plantation. This fascination may fade when the civil war becomes a matter of distant history, and John Brown's Body be no more than a set of unmeaning jingles to future generations, as Lillibullero, which "sung King James out of three kingdoms," is to our own; but with their death will come a loss of a vital element of the war, as representing its living and human sentiment, and history will miss its function if it exclude them. How vital they were at the time may be seen from the fact that the attempts to supersede the unmeaning rhymes by words of substance and definite poetry had no effect, so far as their popular use was concerned, even when this was done with such magnificent success as in Mrs. Julia Ward Howe's Battle Hymn of the Republic, or General Albert Pike's powerful lines to Dixie. The people and the soldiers clung to the old choruses, and passed by with cold respect or indifference the deliberate and purely literary appeals to their feelings. There is, perhaps, a reason for this, which may be accounted for under the canons of literary criticism. A song is something different from a poem, and includes a dominant appeal to the ear, which may be even obstructed by elaborate meaning, and the simple and taking air is the essential thing. It is not always the case that a popular or national song is meaningless, as is shown in the Marseillaise and Der Wacht am Rhein; and, in our own war, Mr. James R. Randall's My Maryland was as popular in the Southern army as a song as it is vigorous and spirited as a piece of pure literature. But as a whole, songs which have been sung by large bodies of men, under stress of high excitement, have depended more upon their sound than their meaning for their vogue, and this would doubtless apply to the chants of the Crusaders as to the choruses of the Northern and Southern soldiers during the civil war. God save the King does not compare with Ye Mariners of England in any element of poetry, yet the one is always sung and the latter never; and Marching through Georgia depends upon its air rather than its commonplace words for its hold upon the martial heart. There was some good poetry written during the late civil war, although not much; and in the collections, as I have said, it is doubtful if the respectable verses, in which the incidents and feelings of the war were expressed with deliberate art, have the vitality, as they have not now the effect, of the rude rhymes and commonplace sentimentality of those songs which took hold of the hearts of the people, and were the living voices of the war. Too often they had the contortions of patriotism without its inspiration, and were forcible-feeble in appeal, or, when they attempted to interpret the spirit of battle, rang false to the real feeling and knowledge of the soldier. To this there were brilliant exceptions, like Mr. Gibbons's We are coming, Father Abraham, Mr. Henry Howard Brownell's naval poems, and Read's Sheridan's Ride, but as a whole it must be confessed that the polite poetry of the civil war is rather dreary reading.

There was an immense amount of song-writing as well as of song-singing during the war, and under the stress of excitement and the gathering together of immense bodies of young and exuberant spirits the enthusiasm inevitably found a vent through the lungs. The illiterate poets were as busy as those of higher education; and those who did not seek their public through the pages of the fashionable magazine, or even the poet's corner of the country newspaper, but through the badly printed sheet of the penny street ballad, or through the mouth of the negro minstrel, contributed almost as largely to the poetry of the war as their brothers. Dime song-books containing a curious admixture of the common and the polite, the appropriate and the incongruous, were innumerable, and the poetry which is below literary criticism was equal in bulk to that which is within its scope. Actual soldiers and sailors also sometimes wrote of their battles and experiences, or expressed their feelings in more or less finished verse, and these found their way into print either in the ballad sheet or the newspaper. Most of those which were good in themselves, from their native force and vigor or from their power as songs, have been preserved, but there is an immense amount of this uncollected and unedited verse which has a very great value as illustrating the sentiments and condition of the people, the waves of popular feeling during various phases of the war, the impressions of notable incidents and the estimates of prominent personages, and which tell, oftentimes more than the leading articles in the newspapers, how the common people were affected by the tremendous struggle. They have the interest, if no other, of the relics of arms and uniforms, and the tokens of the familiar life of a bygone age, and will one day be as valuable to the historian as the ballads of the civil war in England, which have been collected with so much care. In modern times and in civilized societies, the newspaper has taken the place of the street ballad as the record of historical events and the expression of political feeling, and Ireland is almost the only country where it now lingers in any quantity and force; but during such times of popular excitement, and the occurrence of great events involving the most intimate interests of the people, as during the civil war, the popular ballads resumed something of their former value as the expressions of popular feeling. It would be a mistake to omit from consideration even those which were provided as a matter of professional business by the minstrels of the popular stage, who reflected the pervading sentiments of the time, and colored their rude comedy and cheap pathos with the thoughts and feelings aroused by the war.

Thousands of these street songs were issued, to have their temporary vogue and disappear. The principal publisher of the penny sheets was H. de Marsan, 34 Chatham Street, New York, and he appears to have had almost a monopoly of the trade. They were printed on coarse paper, with an emblematic border in colors representing the American flag, and with a soldier and sailor under arms. Some of the more successful songs were copyrighted and published with their music, but this appears to have made little difference to the enterprising Chatham Street publisher, for he included almost everything that was singable, old Revolutionary ballads, English naval songs, and some of the more finished American poems of the war, as well as Ethiopian melodies, and ballads obviously of original contribution. It would be interesting to know whether he kept a staff of poets, like Jemmy Catnach of Seven Dials, or whether, as is most probable, he simply took what he could find, and conferred the honors of print, without remuneration, upon voluntary contributors. The most numerous contributors who bear the stamp of originality naturally came from the Irish element in New York, who were familiar with the street ballad at home, and reproduced its form and sentiment for a similar audience. There are dozens of ballads relating to the exploits of the Sixty-Ninth Regiment, an Irish organization in the New York State Guard, of which Michael Corcoran, an ex-member of the Irish constabulary, was colonel, and Thomas Francis Meagher, the Irish revolutionist, and afterward a brigadier-general of volunteers, a captain. The regiment took part in the battle of Bull Run, during which Colonel Corcoran was taken prisoner and carried South. The bards were instantly inspired to sing the praises of the regiment and its commander, and ballads were written exactly reproducing the style and language of the Irish "Come, all yez," as thus:--

Come, all ye Gallant Heroes, along with me combine;

I 'll sing to you a ditty about the Glorious Sixty-Ninth.

They are a band of Brothers, from Ireland they came;

They had a bold Commander, Michael Corcoran was his

name.

In one or two of them there is an improvement on this very primitive verse, gleams of humor and ebullitions of vigorous spirit. A song entitled The Jolly Sixty-Ninth has a rollicking rhythm and rude humor, of which the following is a specimen:--

It happened one fine day,

Down by the rajin say,

Quite convenient to the boilin' Gulf of Mexico,

That some chaps hauled down our flag,

And it through the dust did drag,

Swearin' it should never float on Fort Sumpter, O.

The author of a song entitled Freedom's Guide had a force and vigor which, with a little more polish and form, would have entitled him to a place in polite literature, and the real singable quality, which was, perhaps, of more importance:--

FREEDOM'S GUIDE.

Our country now is great and free,

And this forever it shall be.

We know the way--we know the way.

Though Southern foes may gather here,

We will protect what we hold dear.

We know the way.

Chorus. We know the way--we know the way.

Through Baltimore, hooray.

For our guide is Freedom's banner.

Hooray, hooray.

The way is through Baltimore.

The South shall see that we are true,

And that we know a thing or two.

We know the way--we know the way.

As Yankee boys we are at hand,

Our countless throngs shall fill the land.

We know the way.

From east to west, from south to north,

We 'll send our mighty legions forth.

We know the way--we know the way.

The freedom that our fathers won

Shall be defended by each son.

We know the way.

Then shout, then shout o'er hill and plain,

We will our country's rights maintain.

We know the way--we know the way.

We will always guard it with our might,

And keep steadfast in the right.

We know the way.

Old Jeff has now begun to lag,

He knows that we 'll stand by the flag.

We know the way--we know the way.

With Scott to guide us in the right,

We 'll show them how the Sixty-Ninth can fight.

We know the way.

An organization almost equally popular with the New York ballad singers, in the early days of the war, was the "Fire Zouaves," recruited among the firemen of the metropolis, and which was expected to perform wonderful feats of daring and energy, from the character of its material. Its leader, Colonel Elmer E. Ellsworth, was killed by the landlord of a hotel in Alexandria, Va., while hauling down the rebel flag from the roof, and his death created a deep sensation from its dramatic character, and from the fact that it was among the earliest in the war. The elegies upon his death were numerous, as well as those in praise of the regiment itself. One of the latter, by Archibald Scott, whose name, contrary to the usual custom, was prefixed to the ballad, had a good deal of rude vigor, of which the following is a specimen:--

Shall ugly plugs of Baltimore,

Who come out with stones and staves,

Get leave our patriots' blood to pour,

And drive our soldiers from their shore?

No, no! by Hell, in flames shall roar

Their city first by York Zouaves!

Another phase of life in the cities, from that of the enthusiasm of the young men in marching to the war and the fervent appeals for enlistment, was that of the feelings of the women whose sons and husbands left their workshops to join the army. The grief was as bitter and the patriotism as sincere among the inmates of the crowded tenement houses and the narrow and barren homes of the families of the workingmen of New York as among their sisters in the farmhouses in the country, whose surroundings better lent themselves to the illumination of poetry, and it cost as much to put down the tin pail of the city laborer as for the farmer to

Lay down the axe, fling by the spade,

and even more in pinching poverty and lack of resource. But the griefs and sacrifices of these women of the city tenement and noisome alley have found no place in the genteel poetry of the war, and have only been expressed in the rude verse of the street ballad. Says one of them:--

It was in the month of April,

As I walked out one day,

I met a woman weeping

As I walked down Broadway.

She was weeping for her Johnny,

Her dear and only son,

Who joined the Northern army

To fight in Washington.

O Johnny! I gave you a schoolin',

I gave you a trade likewise,

And when you joined the Volunteers,

You know't was my advice."

The New York ballad writers were not entirely confined to the English language, the large foreign population furnishing recruits of all nations. There is not, so far as I have seen, any original German song devoted to the Union cause, but The Red, White, and Blue, and other patriotic songs, were published in German text; and of Germanized English songs, most if not all the product of variety theatre performers, there were a great many, including the extremely popular I'm going to fight mit Siegel.

Ven I comes from de Deutsche Countree,

I vorks somedimes at baking.

Den I keeps a lager bier saloon,

And den I goes shoemaking.

But now I vas a sojer man

To save the Yankee eagle,

To Schlauch dem dam Southern folks,

I'm going to fight mit Siegel.

But this was no more representative of German sentiments than the "Whack-row-de-dow" Pats of the stage were of the Irish; and the German soldiers, when they sang in the vernacular, enlivened their foreign patriotism with the songs of the Fatherland. There was at least one French poet who appealed to his countrymen in their own language to rally to the cause of the Union. His production was as follows:--

VENGEONS LA PATRIE.

Hymne Patriotique, Pah Gustave Dime, Ouvrier-Estam

Peur: Air, "Gloire Aux Martyrs Victoriaux."

Appel Aux Armes.

Debout fils de l'Union

Pour venges l'infamie

Faite à la nation,

Pour venger la Patrie,

La Constitution!

A bas Rébellion!

Debout, debout Américains,

Debout les armes à main.

l'outrage.

De Baltimore à Charleston,

De Richmont à Montgomery,

Le grand drapeau de Washington

Partout il fut souillie, flétri,

Du Fort Sumpter vengeons l'outrage

Et en la sol de Virginie

Sachions montrer notre courage

En digne fils de la Patrie.

l'assassinat.

Le Sud in horrible furie

Du Poignard de la Trahison

Perçant le cour de la Patrie,

Proclame à la Secession.

Mais le President héroïque

Et l'Autorité, le Sénat,

Sauront sauver la République

Et cet infâme Assassinat.

le triomphe.

Gloire à ton nom, libre Amérique,

Gloire à tes vaillant défenseurs

Ils sauveront la République,

Terrasseront tes oppresseurs.

Ils volent tous à la victoire,

Pour l'Union des Etats Unis.

Ils reviendront couverts de gloire

Et les traîtres Seront Punis.

The "ouvrier-estampeur" was sufficiently energetic, but his song never became the Franco-American Marseillaise.

As the war dragged its slow length along, demanding greater and greater sacrifices, and with its days of repulse and defeat for the Union armies, the feeling of universal enthusiasm gave way to discouragement, and there were not wanting in New York, among its heterogeneous population, elements of bitterness which culminated in the deadly and shameful outbreak of the draft riots. This feeling manifested itself in the street ballads, not so conspicuously as the previous enthusiasm, but enough to have attracted the attention of those who were watching the signs of popular feeling. "Copperheadism" had its bards as well as loyalty, although they were much fewer in number, and they cannot be omitted in an account of the folksongs of the civil war. A rude jingle entitled Johnny, fill up the Bowl, gave the popular expression to this feeling:--

Abram Lincoln, what yer 'bout?

Hurrah, hurrah.

Stop this war, for it's played out,

Hurrah, hurrah.

Abram Lincoln, what yer 'bout?

Stop this war, for it's played out.

We 'll all drink stone-blind,

Johnny fill up the bowl.

The pages of the dime song-books at this time contained a number of songs in opposition to the draft, expressing hatred to the negro, and a demand for the stoppage of the war, of which the following is an example:--

THE BEAUTIES OF CONSCRIPTION.

And this the "people's sovereignty,

Before a despot humbled,

Lies in the dust 'neath power unjust,

With crown and sceptre crumbled.

Their brows distained--like felons chained

To negroes called "their betters,"

Their whinings drowned in "Old John Brown,"

Poor sovereigns wearing fetters.

Hurrah for the Conscription,

American Conscription!

Well have they cashed old Lincoln's drafts,

Hurrah for the Conscription!

Some think the hideous spectacle

Should move the heart to sadness,

That fetters ought--oh silly thought!--

Sting freemen's hearts to madness.

When has the stock of Plymouth rock

Been melted to compunction?

As for Provos, the wide world knows

That chaining is their function.

Hurrah for the Conscription,

American Conscription,

And for the stock of Plymouth rock,

Whence sprung this new Conscription!

What matter if you 're _sandwiched_ in

A host of sable fellows,

Well flavored men, your kith and kin,

As Abe and Sumner tell us?

Is not the war--this _murder_--for

The negro, _nolens volens?_

For every three now killed of ye

There's just a negro stolen.

And then ye have Conscription,

American Conscription,

Your blood must flow for this, you know.

Hurrah for the Conscription!

The songs written by the soldiers and sailors themselves, descriptive of their engagements, or incidents of camp and march, or expressing their feelings, were not many, either in folk-ballads or finished poetry. Major J. W. De Forrest's powerful verses, In Louisiana, are almost the only specimen of the latter, and there are but few of the ruder ballads. It may have been because the soldiers and sailors were too much occupied, and that the life in camp and on shipboard was not favorable to poetical reverie, although there were many hours on picket or watch which might have been thus employed; but the fact remains that there was more carving of bone rings than of verses, and more singing than writing in the army and navy. There was not an absolute dearth, however, and the soldiers and sailors sometimes told their own stories or expressed their own feelings in verse. One of the best of these was written during the early days of the war by H. Millard, a member of Company A, Seventy-first Regiment, concerning the march from Annapolis to the Junction, and has the genuine flavor of soldiership as well as a fine spirit of _camaraderie_.

It is entitled Only Nine Miles to the Junction:--

The Rhode Island boys were posted along

On the road from Annapolis station,

As the Seventy-first Regiment, one thousand strong,

Went on in defense of the nation.

We'd been marching all day in the sun's scorching ray,

With two biscuits each as a ration,

When we asked Gov. Sprague to show us the way,

And "How many miles to the Junction?"

How many miles--how many miles,

And how many miles to the Junction;

When we asked Gov. Sprague to show us the way,

And "How many miles to the Junction?"

The Rhode Island boys cheered us on out of sight,

After giving the following injunction:

"Just keep up your courage, you 'll come out all right,

For it's only nine miles to the Junction."

They gave us hot coffee, a grasp of the hand,

Which cheered and refreshed our exhaustion;

We reached in six hours the long-promised land,

For't was only nine miles to the Junction.

There were not many attempts to describe the battles in which the soldiers took part, and they were left to the poets, who did not see them, and had to depend, not very successfully, upon their imagination. There was, however, a ballad of the Seven Days' Fight before Richmond, evidently written by a soldier, and of some force and vigor. It begins: --

Away down in old Yirginny many months ago,

McClellan made a movement and made it very slow.

The Rebel Generals found it out and pitched into our rear;

They caught the very devil, for they found old Kearney

there.

In the old Yirginny low-lands, low-lands,

The old Yirginny low-lands, low.

The bard details the fights as though they were a succession of Union victories, and concludes with a defense of General McClellan:--

Now all you politicians, a word I have for you,

Just let our little Mac alone, for he is tried and true;

For you have found out lately that he is our only hope,

For twice he saved the Capitol, likewise McDowell and

Pope.

The enthusiasm aroused by General McClellan among the rank and file of the Army of the Potomac had no counterpart in regard to any other commander, was proof against failure and defeat, and lingered, to a certain extent, even to the close of the war. His removal caused a great deal of indignation, and called out a good many protests and appeals for his restoration. A song, Give us back our old Commander, was a good deal sung at the time:--

Give us back our old Commander,

Little Mac, the people's pride;

Let the army and the nation

In their choice be satisfied.

With McClellan as our leader,

Let us strike the blow anew;

Give us back our old Commander,

He will see the battle through.

Give us back our old Commander,

Let him manage, let him plan;

With McClellan as our leader,

We can wish no better man.

The very rollicking and nonsensical chorus of Bummers, come and meet Us, belongs to this period, and was almost as popular as John Brown's Body, fulfilling amply and simply the conditions for relieving the lungs. Like the sailors' "shanties" and the plantation choruses, it was capable of indefinite extension and improvisation. The following is a specimen of its construction:--

McClellan is our leader, we've had our last retreat,

McClellan is our leader, we've had our last retreat,