WAR SONGS.
t is probable that war songs are the oldest human compositions. In every nation they have sprung into existence at the very dawning of national life. The first Grecian poems of which we have any record are war songs, chanted to inspire or maintain warlike enthusiasm. Not only did they sing martial melodies as they attacked their enemies, but when the conflict was over, and the victory won, they also sang triumphal odes as they returned to camp. Martial odes that were sung in Gaul by the conquering legions of Julius Cæsar have been handed down to the present time. The student of the history and the literature of Spain finds many traces of the war songs that the all-conquering Romans sang as they marched over the mountains or across the valleys of that then dependent nationality. And long before the time of Cæsar, Servius Tullius ordered that two whole centuriæ should consist of trumpeters, horn-blowers, etc., to sound the charge. In these and subsequent ages, war songs were sung in chorus by a whole army in advancing to the attack. If further proof of the antiquity of military music were needed, a conclusive one is to be found in 2 Chronicles, xx. 21, where it is said that when Jehoshaphat went to battle against the hosts of Ammon "he placed a choir of singers in front of his army."
Wonderful indeed is the war song when studied as to its influence in early times on history. By the power of arms, by the spirit of conquest, did nations arise and continue to exist. The warrior made the nation, and the poet sang and immortalized the warrior's fame; and thus it came to pass that great honor was bestowed upon the poets. Among old Arab tribes, fires were lighted and great rejoicings made by their warriors when a poet had manifested himself among them, for in his songs they anticipated their own glory. In many ancient countries, the bards that sang of battles were regarded as really inspired, and their poetic productions were considered as the language of the gods. Centuries passed before that admiration bestowed upon the singer of war songs was impaired. The ancient literature of many European countries presents numerous indications that the warrior-poets were treated with great consideration; were forgiven by their sovereigns for serious offences on condition that they write a new war song, and were paid what would seem at this day enormous prices for their compositions. It is related that on one occasion King Athelstane, of the Anglo-Saxons, paid a poet sixteen ounces of pure gold for a laudatory song. When the greater value of gold in that distant age is considered, it is probable that no living poet is better paid for his productions than was this old singer whose ballads breathed of bloodshed and slaughter.
The marvellous influence of war songs over the ancient Norsemen is difficult to understand. They were aroused to a high degree of military enthusiasm, almost to madness, by the mere words of certain songs. That it was this influence which frequently drove them onward to great deeds, appears in every chapter of their life history. It was the courage and frenzy aroused by Teutonic war songs that led to the destruction of Rome, and shattered the civilization of southern Europe.
That the influence of the war song over the minds and the hearts of men did not terminate with the long ago past, is apparent to every student of modern history. Garibaldi's warlike Hymn of the Italians, the stirring "Marseillaise" of the light-hearted French, the vigorous "Britannia" of the sturdy English, have inspired determination and aroused courage on many a bloody battlefield. How frequently during our own civil war was retreat checked, and the tide of battle turned, by the singing of "We'll Rally round the Flag, Boys," started at the opportune moment by some brave soldier with a vigorous and melodious voice. It has been said that the Portuguese soldiers in Ceylon, at the siege of Colombo, when pressed with misery and the pangs of hunger, during their marches, derived not only consolation but also encouragement from singing stanzas of their national song.
It is a singular fact that no great national hymn, and no war song that arouses and cheers, was ever written by a distinguished poet. It would seem that a National Hymn is the sort of material that cannot be made to order. Not one of the best-known songs of our own civil war—in the North or in the South—was written by an eminent poet. Five of the greatest American poets were living during the great conflict, and four of them gave expression to its military ardor, determinate zeal, or pathos, but none of them so sung as to touch the popular heart; that is to say, so as to secure the attention of those who do not read poetry. The same is true of the composers of the national anthems and great martial ballads of nearly every other country. The thunder roar of the "Marseillaise," before which all the other military songs of France are dull and weak, was produced by De l'Isle, who lives in the memory of his countrymen and of the world for this alone. The noble measures of "God Save the King" are not the work of any one of the great British poets, but were probably written by Henry Carey; but this is in dispute, and innumerable Englishmen sing the anthem without even attempting to learn the name of the composer.
The Prussian National Anthem was not written by a Goethe, a Schiller, or even a Köner. The name of the writer, Schneckenburger, would not be found in books of reference had he not written "The Watch on the Rhine." The favorite national song of the Italians, known as the "Garibaldian Hymn," is the composition of Mercantini, of whom little is known.
Our own country is especially fortunate in the quality of its great national songs. "The Star Spangled Banner" breathes the loftiest and purest patriotism. The English National Hymn is but a prayer for blessings on the head of the king—the ruler. The "Marseillaise" is calculated to arouse only the spirit of slaughter and bloodshed. Truer than any of these to pure, lofty, and patriotic zeal is our own "Star Spangled Banner."
From our Civil War we have received at least two war songs which, simply as such, are fit to rank with the best of any country—"John Brown's Body" and "Marching through Georgia." The greatest of the Southern war lyrics—"My Maryland"—is equal to these as a powerful lyric. It is said that fully two thousand poems and songs pertaining to the war, both North and South, were written during the first year of this conflict. But most of them are now wholly unknown, except to the special student. Perhaps a score of compositions, the result of the poetic outburst inspired by the Civil War, possess such merit that they will survive through centuries as part of the literary heritage of the nation. Of such we give in this collection about twenty that seem to us the best and most popular.
NORTHERN SONGS.
TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP, THE BOYS ARE MARCHING.
This is one of the numerous war songs written by Mr. George F. Root. Among his others are "Just before the Battle, Mother," and the "Battle-Cry of Freedom." It is difficult to say which of these three was the most popular. There was a touch of pathos in "Just before the Battle, Mother," which made the words impressive and thrilling to the hearts of men away from home and fireside. Many a brave soldier considered death itself preferable to captivity and incarceration in prison pens. How sad, then, must have been the lot of the soldiers who sat in prison cells and heard the "tramp, tramp, tramp," of the marching boys! Mr. Root was the composer as well as the author of the three great songs mentioned above.
| In the prison cell I sit, Thinking, mother dear, of you, And our bright and happy home so far away; And the tears they fill my eyes, Spite of all that I can do, Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay. CHORUS: Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; Cheer up, comrades, they will come, And beneath the starry flag We shall breathe the air again Of the free-land in our own beloved home. In the battle front we stood When their fiercest charge they made, And they swept us off a hundred men or more; But before we reached their lines They were beaten back dismayed, And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and o'er. So within the prison cell We are waiting for the day That shall come to open wide the iron door; And the hollow eye grows bright, And the poor heart almost gay, As we think of seeing home and friends once more. |
ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC TO-NIGHT.
One cool September morning in 1861, a young woman living in Goshen, Orange County, N. Y., read the familiar announcement from the seat of war near Washington, "All quiet on the Potomac," to which was added in smaller type, "A picket shot." These simple words were the inspiration of a celebrated war song, which is as popular now as when it first appeared. This song was first published in Harper's Weekly for November 30, 1861, and it has had many claimants; but after careful investigation, there appears to be no reason whatever for disputing the claim of Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers. She died in Orange, N. J., October 10, 1879.
| "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-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of 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, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle ... "Ha! Mary, good-by!" The red 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 BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.
Perhaps the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, may be considered the most lofty in sentiment and the most elevated in style of the martial songs of American patriotism. During the close of the year 1861, Mrs. Howe with a party of friends visited Washington. While there she attended a review of the Union troops on the Virginia side of the Potomac and not far from the city. During her stay in camp she witnessed a sudden and unexpected attack of the enemy. Thus she had a glimpse of genuine warfare. On the ride back to the city the party sang a number of war songs, including "John Brown's Body." One of the party remarked that the tune was a grand one, and altogether superior to the words of the song. Mrs. Howe responded to the effect that she would endeavor to write other words that might be sung to this stirring melody. That night, while she was lying in a dark room, line after line and verse after verse of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" was composed. In this way every verse of the song was carefully thought out. Then, springing from the bed, she found a pen and piece of paper and wrote out the words of this rousing patriotic hymn. It was often sung in the course of the war and under a great variety of circumstances.
| 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 has 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 have read His righteous sentence in the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished 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. |
WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER.
With the English soldiers a popular song in war times is the well known "Annie Laurie." It is said that during the Crimean War this sentimental ditty was sung by the English forces more frequently than any other melody. Several songs of similar sentimentality were famous on both sides during the civil war. The boys in gray sang "Lorena" at the very beginning of the war, and never stopped till the last musket was stacked, and the last campfire cold. The boys in blue sang "Mother, I've Come Home to Die," "Just before the Battle, Mother," "When this Cruel War is Over," and other songs of sentiment and affection. "When this Cruel War is Over" was written by Charles C. Sawyer, of Brooklyn, N. Y., and was published in the autumn of 1861. More than one million copies of the song have been sold. Some of the other compositions by Mr. Sawyer are "Swinging in the Lane" and "Peeping through the Bars."
| Dearest love, do you remember When we last did meet, How you told me that you loved me, Kneeling at my feet? Oh, how proud you stood before me, In your suit of blue, When you vowed to me and country Ever to be true! Weeping, sad and lonely, Hopes and fears, how vain; Yet praying When this cruel war is over, Praying that we meet again. When the summer breeze is sighing Mournfully along, Or when autumn leaves are falling, Sadly breathes the song. Oft in dreams I see you lying On the battle-plain, Lonely, wounded, even dying, Calling, but in vain. If, amid the din of battle, Nobly you should fall, Far away from those who love you, None to hear you call, Who would whisper words of comfort? Who would soothe your pain? Ah, the many cruel fancies Ever in my brain! But our country called you, darling, Angels cheer your way! While our nation's sons are fighting, We can only pray. Nobly strike for God and liberty, Let all nations see How we love the starry banner, Emblem of the free! |
WE ARE COMING, FATHER ABRAHAM.
In the dark days of 1862 President Lincoln issued a proclamation asking for three hundred thousand volunteers to fill the stricken ranks of the army, and to make the cry of "On to Richmond" an accomplished fact. Immediately after this call, Mr. James Sloane Gibbons, a native of Wilmington, Del., living in New York City, wrote:
"We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more."
This must have contributed largely to the accomplishment of the military uprising which it relates. The stanzas were first published anonymously in the New York Evening Post of July 16, 1862. Owing to this fact, perhaps, its authorship was at first attributed to William C. Bryant. Mr. Gibbons joined the abolition movement when only twenty years of age, and was for a time one of the editors of the Anti-Slavery Standard. When the Emancipation Proclamation was issued, he illuminated his residence in New York City. A short time afterward, during the draft riots, he was mobbed, and only by the assistance of friends was he able to save his life by escaping over the roofs of adjoining houses to another street, where a friend had a carriage waiting for him. He died October 17, 1892.
| We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride; And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast falling into line; And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow, against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide, To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside; Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! |
MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA.
All the great songs of the civil war, with one exception, were written during the first year of the conflict. This exception is "Marching through Georgia." It was written to commemorate one of the most remarkable campaigns of the war. Now that the war has been over for nearly thirty years, and the old soldier has no military duty more serious than fighting his battles o'er again, "Marching through Georgia" has become the song dearest to his heart. At the annual encampments of the Grand Army of the Republic, and at numerous meetings of the members of the Grand Army posts, the writer has heard this sung more frequently than any other. The words were composed by Mr. Henry C. Work, author of many well-known songs. Among the other best known of his patriotic lyrics are "Grafted into the Army" and "Kingdom Come." Mr. Work was born in Middletown, Conn., October 1, 1832. When he was very young his father removed to Illinois. He was an inventor as well as a song writer, and among his successful inventions are a knitting machine, a walking doll, and a rotary engine. He died in Hartford, June 8, 1884.
| Bring me the good old bugle, boys! we'll sing another song— Sing it with that spirit that will start the world along— Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong, While we were marching through Georgia. CHORUS: "Hurrah, hurrah! we bring the Jubilee! Hurrah, hurrah! the flag that makes you free!" So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea, While we were marching through Georgia. How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful sound! How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found! How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground! While we were marching through Georgia. Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears, When they saw the honored flag they hadn't seen for years; Hardly could they be restrained from breaking out in cheers, While we were marching through Georgia. "Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast!" So the saucy rebels said, and 'twas a handsome boast; Had they not forgotten, alas! to reckon with the host, While we were marching through Georgia? So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train, Sixty miles in latitude—three hundred to the main; Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, While we were marching through Georgia. |
| PRAYER IN "STONEWALL" JACKSON'S CAMP. |
SOUTHERN SONGS.
|
BRIGADIER-GENERAL ALBERT PIKE, C. S. A. |
DIXIE.
The tune "Dixie" was composed in 1859, by Mr. Dan D. Emmett, for Bryant's Minstrels, then performing in New York City. It hit the taste of the New York play-going public, and was adopted at once by various bands of wandering minstrels, who sang it in all parts of the Union. In 1860 it was first sung in New Orleans. In that city the tune was harmonized, set to new words, and, without the authority of the composer, was published. As from Boston "John Brown's Body" spread through the North, so from New Orleans "Dixie" spread through the South; and as Northern poets strove to find fitting words for the one, so Southern poets wrote fiery lines to fill the measures of the other. The only version possessing any literary merit is the one given in this collection. It was written by Gen. Albert Pike, a native of Massachusetts. In early life Mr. Pike moved to Little Rock, Ark., editing a paper and studying law in that city. He served in the Mexican war with distinction, and on the breaking out of the Rebellion enlisted on the Confederate side a force of Cherokee Indians, whom he led at the battle of Pea Ridge. It is said that President Lincoln requested a band in Washington to play "Dixie" in 1865, a short time after the surrender of Appomattox, remarking "that, as we had captured the rebel army, we had captured also the rebel tune."
| Southrons, hear your country call you! Up, lest worse than death befall you! To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted— Let hearts be now united. To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live or die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! Hear the Northern thunders mutter! Northern flags in South winds flutter. Send them back your fierce defiance; Stamp upon the accursed alliance. Fear no danger! Shun no labor! Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre. Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, Let the odds make each heart bolder. How the South's great heart rejoices At your cannons' ringing voices! For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken. Strong as lions, swift as eagles, Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! Cut the unequal bonds asunder; Let them hence each other plunder! Swear upon your country's altar Never to submit or falter, Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord's work is completed. Halt not till our Federation Secures among earth's powers its station. Then at peace, and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story. If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon shall bring them gladness, Exultant pride soon banish sorrow, Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. |
MY MARYLAND.
"My Maryland" is regarded by some as the greatest song inspired by the civil war, and if we consider these songs as poems it is the best. Its burning lines, written early in 1861, helped to fire the Southern heart. Its author, Mr. James Ryder Randall, is a native of Baltimore. He was professor of English literature in Poydras College in Louisiana, a short distance from New Orleans, and there in April, 1861, he read the news of the attack on the Massachusetts troops as they passed through Baltimore. Naturally he was greatly excited on reading this account, and it inspired the song, which was written within twenty-four hours of the time he read of the assault. "My Maryland" is one of a number of songs written by Mr. Randall, but none of the others attained popularity. His "John Pelham," commonly called "The Dead Cannonneer," is a much finer poem. After the war he became editor of the Constitutionalist, published in Augusta, Ga., in which city he still resides.
REBELS.
First published in the Atlanta Confederacy. The author is unknown.
| Rebels! 'tis a holy name! The name our fathers bore When battling in the cause of Right, Against the tyrant in his might, In the dark days of yore. Rebels! 'tis our family name! Our father, Washington, Was the arch-rebel in the fight, And gave the name to us—a right Of father unto son. Rebels! 'tis our given name! Our mother, Liberty, Received the title with her fame, In days of grief, of fear, and shame, When at her breast were we. Rebels! 'tis our sealed name! A baptism of blood! The war—ay, and the din of strife— The fearful contest, life for life— The mingled crimson flood. Rebels! 'tis a patriot's name! In struggles it was given; We bore it then when tyrants raved, And through their curses 'twas engraved On the doomsday-book of heaven. Rebels! 'tis our fighting name! For peace rules o'er the land Until they speak of craven woe, Until our rights receive a blow From foe's or brother's hand. Rebels! 'tis our dying name! For although life is dear, Yet, freemen born and freemen bred, We'd rather live as freemen dead, Than live in slavish fear. Then call us rebels, if you will— We glory in the name; For bending under unjust laws, And swearing faith to an unjust cause, We count a greater shame. |
CALL ALL.
This Southern war song, which was first published in the Rockingham, Va., Register in 1861, became quite popular with the boys in gray. It is published here because of its peculiarities rather than on account of its literary merit.
| Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose, Roaring round like the very deuce! Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack— After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back. Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice, Back to the beggarly land of ice; Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tear Everybody and everywhere. Old Kentucky is caved from under, Tennessee is split asunder, Alabama awaits attack, And Georgia bristles up her back. Old John Brown is dead and gone! Still his spirit is marching on— Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys, Long as an ape's from Illinois! Want a weapon? Gather a brick, Club or cudgel, or stone or stick; Anything with a blade or butt, Anything that can cleave or cut; Anything heavy, or hard, or keen— Any sort of slaying machine! Anything with a willing mind And the steady arm of a man behind. Want a weapon? Why, capture one! Every Doodle has got a gun, Belt, and bayonet, bright and new; Kill a Doodle, and capture two! Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire! All, call all! to the feast of fire! Mother and maiden, and child and slave, A common triumph or a single grave. |
THE BLACK FLAG.
The raising of the black flag means death without quarter. It means that prisoners taken should be slaughtered at once. It is contrary to the spirit of modern warfare. General Sherman, in his celebrated letter to the Mayor of Atlanta, says, "War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it." War arouses the fiercest, most tiger-like passions of mankind. Were it not so, the poet who wrote "The Mountain of the Lovers" could never have written "The Black Flag." Paul Hamilton Hayne was born in Charleston, S. C., in 1830. He abandoned the practice of law for literary pursuits. He contributed to the Southern Literary Messenger, and for a while edited the Charleston Literary Gazette. He entered the Southern army at the outbreak of the civil war, and served until obliged to resign by failing health. His house and all his personal property were destroyed at the bombardment of Charleston. He wrote extensively both in poetry and prose.
| Like the roar of the wintry surges on a wild, tempestuous strand, The voice of the maddened millions comes up from an outraged land; For the cup of our woe runs over, and the day of our grace is past, And Mercy has fled to the angels, and Hatred is king at last! CHORUS: Then up with the sable banner! Let it thrill to the War God's breath, For we march to the watchword—Vengeance! And we follow the captain—Death! In the gloom of the gory breaches, on the ramparts wrapped in flame, 'Mid the ruined homesteads, blackened by a hundred deeds of shame; Wheresoever the vandals rally, and the bands of the alien meet, We will crush the heads of the hydra with the stamp of our armed feet. They have taught us a fearful lesson! 'tis burned on our hearts in fire, And the souls of a host of heroes leap with a fierce desire; And we swear by all that is sacred, and we swear by all that is pure, That the crafty and cruel dastards shall ravage our homes no more. We will roll the billows of battle back, back on the braggart foe, Till his leaguered and stricken cities shall quake with a coward's throe; They shall compass the awful meaning or the conflict their lust begun, When the Northland rings with wailing, and the grand old cause hath won. |
LORENA.
This doleful and pathetic song of affection was very popular among the Confederate soldiers. It started at the start, and never stopped till the last musket was stacked and the last camp-fire cold. It was, without doubt, the song nearest the Confederate soldier's heart. It was the "Annie Laurie" of the Confederate trenches.
| "Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang 'Annie Laurie.'" |
| The years creep slowly by, Lorena, The snow is on the grass again; The sun's low down the sky, Lorena, And frost gleams where the flowers have been. But the heart throbs on as warmly now As when the summer days were nigh. Oh! the sun can never dip so low Adown affection's cloudless sky. One hundred months have passed, Lorena, Since last I held that hand in mine; I felt that pulse beat fast, Lorena, But mine beat faster still than thine. One hundred months! 'Twas flowery May, When up the mountain slope we climbed, To watch the dying of the day, And hear the merry church bells chime. We loved each other then, Lorena, More than we ever dared to tell; And what we might have been, Lorena, Had but our loving prospered well— But then, 'tis past, the years have flown; I'll not call up their shadowy forms; I'll say to them, "Lost years, sleep on— Sleep on, nor heed life's pelting storms." It matters little now, Lorena, The past is the eternal past; Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena, Life's tide is ebbing out so fast. But there's a future, oh! thank God— Of life this is so small a part, 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod; But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart. |
| STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. |
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
Mr. F. G. de Fontaine, a celebrated Southern war correspondent, writes that the most popular songs with the soldiers of the Confederate armies were negro melodies, such as "Old Folks at Home" and "My Old Kentucky Home." This is our reason for publishing the pacific and kindly words of the most celebrated negro melody, among songs that breathe threatening and slaughter. It is not difficult to understand why such songs were popular with men raised in the South. They would bring forcibly to mind the distant home, and the dear associations of early life on the old plantations. "Old Folks at Home" was written by Stephen Collins Foster. He wrote between two and three hundred popular songs—more than any other American. Among the most familiar of his compositions are "Old Uncle Ned," "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," "Old Dog Tray," and "My Old Kentucky Home." Mr. Foster was finely educated, was proficient in French and German, was an amateur painter of ability, and a talented musician. It is said that he received fifteen thousand dollars for "Old Folks at Home."
THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG.
The most popular war songs of the South were "Dixie" and "The Bonnie Blue Flag." Like "Dixie," the "Bonnie Blue Flag" began its popular career in New Orleans. The words were written by an Irish comedian, Mr. Harry McCarthy, and the song was first sung by his sister, Miss Marion McCarthy, at the Variety Theatre in New Orleans in 1861. The tune is an old and popular Irish melody, "The Irish Jaunting Car." It is said that General Butler, when he was commander of the National forces in New Orleans in 1862, made it very profitable by fining every man, woman, or child, who sang, whistled, or played this tune on any instrument, twenty-five dollars. It has also been said that he arrested the publisher, destroyed the stock of sheet music, and fined him five hundred dollars.
| We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil, Fighting for the property we gained by honest toil; And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far: Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star! Hurrah! hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! As long as the Union was faithful to her trust, Like friends and like brothers, kind were we and just; But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar, We hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star. First, gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand; Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand; Next, quickly Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida— All raised the flag, the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star. Ye men of valor, gather round the banner of the right; Texas and fair Louisiana join us in the fight. Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesmen are; Now rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star. And here's to brave Virginia! The Old Dominion State With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate. Impelled by her example, now other States prepare To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star. Then here's to our Confederacy! Strong we are and brave; Like patriots of old we'll fight, our heritage to save; And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer, So cheer for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star. Then cheer, boys, cheer, raise the joyous shout, For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out; And let another rousing cheer for Tennessee be given, The single star of the Bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be eleven. Hurrah! hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! |
NORTHERN SONGS.
JOHN BROWN'S BODY.
John Brown was hanged in December, 1859, and a little more than a year after this time the celebrated marching-tune, "John Brown's Body," came into being. It is a singular fact that the composer of the stirring and popular air of this song is unknown. Possibly it had no composer, but, like Topsy, "it was not born, but just growed." This seems to be the most reasonable theory of its origin. The words of the song, as given in this collection, with the exception of the first stanza, were written by Charles S. Hall, of Charlestown, Mass. "John Brown's Body" was the most popular war song among the Northern soldiers on the march and around the campfire. In fact, it became the marching song of the armies of the Nation. It was equally popular in the cities, villages, and homes of the North. The Pall Mall Gazette, of October 14, 1865, said: "The street boys of London have decided in favor of 'John Brown's Body' against 'My Maryland' and 'The Bonnie Blue Flag.' The somewhat lugubrious refrain has excited their admiration to a wonderful degree."
| John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave; John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave; John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave; His soul is marching on. Glory, halle—hallelujah! Glory, halle—hallelujah! Glory, halle—hallelujah! His soul is marching on! He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord! (thrice.) His soul is marching on! John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back! (thrice.) His soul is marching on! His pet lambs will meet him on the way; (thrice.) As they go marching on! They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple tree! (thrice.) As they march along! Now, three rousing cheers for the Union! (thrice.) As we are marching on! Glory; halle—hallelujah! Glory, halle—hallelujah! Glory, halle—hallelujah! Hip, hip, hip, hip, hurrah! |
WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME.
Another army song that became almost as popular in England as in this country is "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." It was written and composed by Mr. Patrick S. Gilmore, leader of the celebrated Gilmore's Band. The words do not amount to much, but the tune is of that rollicking order which is very catching. Without doubt the author built up the words of this song to suit the air, on the same principle that in Georgia they build a chimney first and erect the house against it. This rattling war song has kept its hold on the ears of the people to the present time. Mr. Gilmore afterward composed an ambitious national hymn which has never attained the popularity of his war song.
GRAFTED INTO THE ARMY.
BY HENRY C. WORK.
| Our Jimmy has gone to live in a tent, They have grafted him into the army; He finally puckered up courage and went, When they grafted him into the army. I told them the child was too young—alas! At the captain's forequarters they said he would pass— They'd train him up well in the infantry class— So they grafted him into the army. CHORUS: O Jimmy, farewell! Your brothers fell Way down in Alabarmy; I thought they would spare a lone widder's heir, But they grafted him into the army. Drest up in his unicorn—dear little chap! They have grafted him into the army; It seems but a day since he sot on my lap, But they have grafted him into the army. And these are the trousies he used to wear— Them very same buttons—the patch and the tear— But Uncle Sam gave him a bran new pair When they grafted him into the army. Now in my provisions I see him revealed— They have grafted him into the army; A picket beside the contented field, They have grafted him into the army. He looks kinder sickish—begins to cry— A big volunteer standing right in his eye! Oh, what if the duckie should up and die, Now they've grafted him into the army! |
THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM.
George F. Root was born in Sheffield, Mass., August 30, 1820, and he was the founder of the music-publishing firm of Root & Cady. His celebrated "Battle Cry of Freedom" was first sung by the Hutchinson family at a mass meeting in New York City. It is said that during the terrible fight in the Wilderness, on May 6, 1864, a brigade of the Ninth Corps, having broken the enemy's line by an assault, became exposed to a flank attack and was driven back in disorder with heavy loss. They retreated but a few hundred yards, however, re-formed, and again confronted the enemy. Just then some gallant fellows in the ranks of the Forty-fifth Pennsylvania began to sing:
| "We'll rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom." |
The refrain was caught up instantly by the entire regiment and by the Thirty-sixth Massachusetts, next in line. There the grim ranks stood at bay in the deadly conflict. The air was filled with the smoke and crackle of burning underbrush, the pitiful cries of the wounded, the rattle of musketry, and shouts of men; but above all, over the exultant yells of the enemy, rose the inspiring chorus:
| "The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star." |
This song was often ordered to be sung as the men marched into action. More than once its strains arose on the battlefield. With the humor which never deserts the American, even amid the hardships of camp life and the dangers of battle, the gentle lines of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" were fitted to the tune of the "Battle Cry of Freedom," and many a regiment shortened a weary march, or went gayly into action, singing:
| "Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom." |
| Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; We will rally from the hillside, we'll gather from the plain, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star; While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. We will welcome to our numbers the loyal true and brave, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star; While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom. |
TENTING ON THE OLD CAMP-GROUND.
The author of "Tenting on the Old Camp-Ground" is Walter Kittridge, who was born in the town of Merrimac, N. H., October 8, 1832. He was a public singer and a composer, as well as a writer of popular songs and ballads. In the first year of the civil war he published a small original "Union Song-Book." In 1862 he was drafted, and while preparing to go to the front he wrote in a few minutes both words and music of "Tenting on the Old Camp-Ground." Like many other good things in literature, this song was at first refused publication. But when it was published, its sale reached hundreds of thousands of copies.
| We're tenting to-night on the old camp-ground, Give us a song to cheer Our weary hearts, a song of home And friends we love so dear. CHORUS: Many are the hearts that are weary to-night, Wishing for the war to cease; Many are the hearts looking for the right, To see the dawn of peace; Tenting to-night, tenting to-night, Tenting on the old camp-ground. We've been tenting to-night on the old camp-ground, Thinking of the days gone by; Of the loved ones at home, that gave us the hand, And the tear that said, Good-by! We are tired of war on the old camp-ground; Many are dead and gone Of the brave and true who've left their homes; Others have been wounded long. We've been fighting to-day on the old camp-ground; Many are lying near; Some are dead, and some are dying, Many are in tears! |