CHAPTER III
THE NORTH GETS ITS LESSON
On Wednesday, April 16, 1861, the Sixth Massachusetts left Boston for Washington. Three days later it reached Baltimore, and started to march to the Camden Street station to take train for its destination.
THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL
[1861]
This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light:
Thy truce-flag, friendly Nature, in clinging drifts of white,
Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen,
In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of green.
The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless trees,
To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating on the breeze.
There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter's snow-draped gloom,
The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into bloom.
Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed,
And garden-plat and meadow wear one generous flush of red;
But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true,
Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and blue.
Along the whole awakening North are those bright emblems spread;
A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead:
No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or clan;
But "Up for God and Union!" is the shout of every man.
Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard-earned homes more dear;
But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer;
And Freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it harm,
Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right arm!
A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word!
The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be heard?
Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and waited for;—
We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they would have it war.
Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lexington,
A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart has run.
Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have bled:
Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom shed.
To war,—and with our brethren, then,—if only this can be!
Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty!
Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will fight:
Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield the Right!
Lucy Larcom.
Baltimore was in a frenzy, the streets were crowded with Southern sympathizers, and an attack upon the troops soon began. A desperate fight followed, in which three soldiers were killed and about twenty wounded. Nine citizens of Baltimore were killed, and many wounded—how many is not known.
THROUGH BALTIMORE
[April 19, 1861]
'Twas Friday morn: the train drew near
The city and the shore.
Far through the sunshine, soft and clear,
We saw the dear old flag appear,
And in our hearts arose a cheer
For Baltimore.
Across the broad Patapsco's wave,
Old Fort McHenry bore
The starry banner of the brave,
As when our fathers went to save,
Or in the trenches find a grave
At Baltimore.
Before us, pillared in the sky,
We saw the statue soar
Of Washington, serene and high:—
Could traitors view that form, nor fly?
Could patriots see, nor gladly die
For Baltimore?
"O city of our country's song!
By that swift aid we bore
When sorely pressed, receive the throng
Who go to shield our flag from wrong,
And give us welcome, warm and strong,
In Baltimore!"
We had no arms; as friends we came,
As brothers evermore,
To rally round one sacred name—
The charter of our power and fame:
We never dreamed of guilt and shame
In Baltimore.
The coward mob upon us fell:
McHenry's flag they tore:
Surprised, borne backward by the swell,
Beat down with mad, inhuman yell,
Before us yawned a traitorous hell
In Baltimore!
The streets our soldier-fathers trod
Blushed with their children's gore;
We saw the craven rulers nod,
And dip in blood the civic rod—
Shall such things be, O righteous God,
In Baltimore?
No, never! By that outrage black,
A solemn oath we swore,
To bring the Keystone's thousands back,
Strike down the dastards who attack,
And leave a red and fiery track
Through Baltimore!
Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head!
God's wrath is swift and sore:
The sky with gathering bolts is red,—
Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter shed,
Or make thyself an ashen bed,
O Baltimore!
Bayard Taylor.
The secessionists of Maryland were wild with wrath; but a Federal force under General Butler soon occupied Annapolis and Baltimore, the Union spirit of the state asserted itself, and there was never any further danger of its joining the Confederacy.
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 and death, for woe and 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!
For 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!
James Ryder Randall.
On May 24, 1861, a Union force under Colonel Ephraim E. Ellsworth occupied Alexandria, Va. Over an inn called the Marshall House Ellsworth saw a Confederate flag flying and went in person to take it down. As he descended the stairs with the flag in his arms, the proprietor of the inn, a violent secessionist named Jackson, fired upon and killed him instantly. Jackson was shot a moment later by Francis E. Brownell, a New York Zouave.
ELLSWORTH
[May 24, 1861]
Who is this ye say is slain?
Whose voice answers not again?
Ellsworth, shall we call in vain
On thy name to-day?
No! from every vale and hill
Our response all hearts shall thrill,
"Ellsworth's fame is with us still,
Ne'er to pass away!"
Bring that rebel banner low,
Hoisted by a treacherous foe:
'Twas for that they dealt the blow,
Laid him in the dust.
Raise aloft, that all may see
His loved flag of Liberty.
Forward, then, to victory,
Or perish if we must!
Hark to what Columbia saith:
"Mourn not for his early death,
With each patriot's dying breath
Strength renewed is given
To the cause of truth and right,
To the land for which they fight.
After darkness cometh light,—
Such the law of Heaven."
So we name him not in vain,
Though he comes not back again!
For his country he was slain;
Ellsworth's blood shall rise
To our gracious Saviour—King:
'Tis a holy gift we bring;
Such a sacred offering
God will not despise.
COLONEL ELLSWORTH[8]
It fell upon us like a crushing woe,
Sudden and terrible. "Can it be?" we said,
"That he from whom we hoped so much, is dead,
Most foully murdered ere he met the foe?"
Why not? The men that would disrupt the State
By such base plots as theirs—frauds, thefts, and lies—
What code of honor do they recognize?
They thirst for blood to satisfy their hate,
Our blood: so be it; but for every blow
Woe shall befall them; not in their wild way,
But stern and pitiless, we will repay,
Until, like swollen streams, their blood shall flow;
And should we pause; the thought of Ellsworth slain,
Will steel our aching hearts to strike again!
Richard Henry Stoddard.
ON THE DEATH OF "JACKSON"
[May 24, 1861]
Not where the battle red
Covers with fame the dead,—
Not where the trumpet calls
Vengeance for each that falls,—
Not with his comrades dear,
Not there—he fell not there.
He grasps no brother's hand,
He sees no patriot band;
Daring alone the foe
He strikes—then waits the blow,
Counting his life not dear,
His was no heart to fear!
Shout! shout, his deed of glory!
Tell it in song and story;
Tell it where soldiers brave
Rush fearless to their grave;
Tell it—a magic spell
In that great deed shall dwell.
Yes! he hath won a name
Deathless for aye to fame;
Our flag baptized in blood,
Always, as with a flood,
Shall sweep the tyrant band
Whose feet pollute our land.
Then, freemen, raise the cry,
As freemen live or die!
Arm! arm you for the fight!
His banner in your sight;
And this your battle-cry,
"Jackson and victory!"
General Butler, meanwhile, had been sent with reinforcements to Fortress Monroe, and after making that important post secure, began various offensive measures against the Confederate posts in the neighborhood, manned largely by Virginians.
THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY
The knightliest of the knightly race
That, since the days of old,
Have kept the lamp of chivalry
Alight in hearts of gold;
The kindliest of the kindly band
That, rarely hating ease,
Yet rode with Spotswood round the land,
And Raleigh round the seas;
Who climbed the blue Virginian hills
Against embattled foes,
And planted there, in valleys fair,
The lily and the rose;
Whose fragrance lives in many lands,
Whose beauty stars the earth,
And lights the hearths of happy homes
With loveliness and worth.
We thought they slept!—the sons who kept
The names of noble sires,
And slumbered while the darkness crept
Around their vigil-fires;
But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" knights
Their old Dominion keep,
Whose foes have found enchanted ground,
But not a knight asleep!
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
On the night of June 9, 1861, Butler dispatched two expeditions against Great and Little Bethel, two churches on the Yorktown road, which had been strongly fortified. The columns got confused in the darkness, and fired upon each other. In the battle which followed, the same mistake was made, and the Union forces finally retreated, having suffered heavily.
BETHEL
[June 10, 1861]
We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed,
And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed;
But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard,
And no voice of command, but our colonel's low word—
"Column! Forward!"
And out, through the mist, and the murk of the morn,
From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne;
And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the oar,
Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore—
"Column! Forward!"
With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight,
As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night;
Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched,
Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we marched—
"Column! Forward!"
As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute,
So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their pursuit;
But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn,
As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving corn—
"Column! Forward!"
For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June,
And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune;
And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb,
That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a drum—
"Column! Forward!"
Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by the breeze,
And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees,
And the glintings of glory that slid from her track
By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back—
"Column! Forward!"
And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist,
And the blue-crested hill-tops with roselight were kissed,
And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes,
Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms—
"Column! Forward!"
Ay, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breath
Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death;
O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast,
And away to the forefront of battle we passed—
"Column! Forward!"
For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the glades,
And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades,
When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood,
From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood—
"Column! Forward!"
While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas,
With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the leas;
And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way,
Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day—
"Column! Forward!"
Through green tasselled cornfields our columns were thrown,
And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown;
While the cannon's fierce ploughings new-furrowed the plain,
That our blood might be planted for Liberty's grain—
"Column! Forward!"
Oh! the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers,
But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours;
And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn,
Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel's red morn—
"Column! Forward!"
When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath,
Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death;
And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute with his lyre,
When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire—
"Column! Forward!"
Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name,
And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame;
For the gold of the pen and the steel of the sword
Write his deeds—in his blood—on the land he adored—
"Column! Forward!"
And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air,
And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory upbear;
While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves,
With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves—
"Column! Forward!"
A. J. H. Duganne.
Among the Union dead was Major Theodore Winthrop. He had pressed eagerly forward, and as he sprang upon a log to get a view of the position, was shot through the head.
DIRGE
FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE
[June 10, 1861]
Room for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;
He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;
Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:
Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.
Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;
Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,
Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole perches:
Make his mound with sunshine on it,
Where the bee will dine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the rain will rain upon it.
Busy as the busy bee, his rest should be the clover;
Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;
Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:
Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.
Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often
Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften;
He never could look cold, till we saw him in his coffin:
Make his mound with sunshine on it,
Where the wind may sigh upon it,
Where the moon may stream upon it,
And Memory shall dream upon it.
"Captain or Colonel,"—whatever invocation
Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—
On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!
Long as the sun doth shine upon it
Shall grow the goodly pine upon it,
Long as the stars do gleam upon it
Shall Memory come to dream upon it.
Thomas William Parsons.
About fifty thousand Union troops had meanwhile been collected along the Potomac—a force which seemed to most people at the North quite sufficient to crush the rebellion. "On to Richmond!" was the cry, and popular clamor demanded that the advance be begun at once.
WAIT FOR THE WAGON
[July 1, 1861]
A hundred thousand Northmen,
In glittering war array,
Shout, "Onward now to Richmond!
We'll brook no more delay;
Why give the traitors time and means
To fortify the way
With stolen guns, in ambuscades?
Oh! answer us, we pray."
Chorus of Chieftains—
You must wait for the wagons,
The real army wagons,
The fat contract wagons,
Bought in the red-tape way.
Now, if for army wagons,
Not for compromise you wait,
Just ask them of the farmers
Of any Union state;
And if you need ten thousand,
Sound, sound, though second-hand,
You'll find upon the instant
A supply for your demand.
Chorus—
No! wait for the wagons,
The new army wagons,
The fat contract wagons,
Till the fifteenth of July.
No swindling fat contractors
Shall block the people's way,
Nor rebel compromisers—
'Tis treason's reckoning day.
Then shout again our war-cry,
To Richmond onward move!
We now can crush the traitors,
And that we mean to prove!
Chorus—
No! wait for the wagons,
The fat contract wagons;
If red-tape so wills it,
Wait till the Judgment-day.
During the months of June and July, the Confederate forces had been assembling at Manassas Junction, about thirty miles from Washington. General Beauregard was in command, and had distributed them along a little stream called Bull Run, where they had thrown up strong intrenchments. On July 15, 1861, yielding to the popular clamor, General Scott ordered the forward movement of the Union army. On July 17 the army reached Fairfax Court-House, and next day a division moved forward to Centreville and attacked the Confederates intrenched along Bull Run. A sharp engagement resulted, and the Federals fell back.
At two o'clock on the morning of Sunday, July 21, 1861, the Union Army again moved forward for a grand attack. Each army numbered about thirty thousand men. The skirmishers soon got into touch, and the Confederates were driven back, but were rallied by the example of General T. J. Jackson, who with his brigade was "standing like a stonewall," as General Bee exclaimed, giving him his immortal sobriquet. The Union advance was checked, heavy reinforcements came up for the Confederates, and the Union regiments were finally swept from the field.
UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE
[July 21, 1861]
I'll tell you what I heard that day:
I heard the great guns far away,
Boom after boom. Their sullen sound
Shook all the shuddering air around;
And shook, ah me! my shrinking ear,
And downward shook the hanging tear
That, in despite of manhood's pride,
Rolled o'er my face a scalding tide.
And then I prayed. O God! I prayed,
As never stricken saint, who laid
His hot cheek to the holy tomb
Of Jesus, in the midnight gloom.
"What saw I?" Little. Clouds of dust;
Great squares of men, with standards thrust
Against their course; dense columns crowned
With billowing steel. Then bound on bound,
The long black lines of cannon poured
Behind the horses, streaked and gored
With sweaty speed. Anon shot by,
Like a lone meteor of the sky,
A single horseman; and he shone
His bright face on me, and was gone.
All these with rolling drums, with cheers,
With songs familiar to my ears,
Passed under the far-hanging cloud,
And vanished, and my heart was proud!
For mile on mile the line of war
Extended; and a steady roar,
As of some distant stormy sea,
On the south wind came up to me.
And high in air, and over all,
Grew, like a fog, that murky pall,
Beneath whose gloom of dusty smoke
The cannon flamed, the bombshell broke.
And the sharp rattling volley rang,
And shrapnel roared, and bullets sang,
And fierce-eyed men, with panting breath,
Toiled onward at the work of death.
I could not see, but knew too well,
That underneath that cloud of hell,
Which still grew more by great degrees,
Man strove with man in deeds like these.
But when the sun had passed his stand
At noon, behold! on every hand
The dark brown vapor backward bore,
And fainter came the dreadful roar
From the huge sea of striving men.
Thus spoke my rising spirit then:
"Take comfort from that dying sound,
Faint heart, the foe is giving ground!"
And one, who taxed his horse's powers,
Flung at me, "Ho! the day is ours!"
And scoured along. So swift his pace,
I took no memory of his face.
Then turned I once again to Heaven;
All things appeared so just and even;
So clearly from the highest Cause
Traced I the downward-working laws—
Those moral springs, made evident,
In the grand, triumph-crowned event.
So half I shouted, and half sang,
Like Jephtha's daughter, to the clang
Of my spread, cymbal-striking palms,
Some fragments of thanksgiving psalms.
Meanwhile a solemn stillness fell
Upon the land. O'er hill and dell
Failed every sound. My heart stood still,
Waiting before some coming ill.
The silence was more sad and dread,
Under that canopy of lead,
Than the wild tumult of the war
That raged a little while before.
All Nature, in her work of death,
Paused for one last, despairing breath;
And, cowering to the earth, I drew
From her strong breast my strength anew.
When I arose, I wondering saw
Another dusty vapor draw,
From the far right, its sluggish way
Toward the main cloud, that frowning lay
Against the western sloping sun:
And all the war was re-begun,
Ere this fresh marvel of my sense
Caught from my mind significance.
And then—why ask me? O my God!
Would I had lain beneath the sod,
A patient clod, for many a day,
And from my bones and mouldering clay
The rank field grass and flowers had sprung,
Ere the base sight, that struck and stung
My very soul, confronted me,
Shamed at my own humanity.
O happy dead! who early fell,
Ye have no wretched tale to tell
Of causeless fear and coward flight,
Of victory snatched beneath your sight,
Of martial strength and honor lost,
Of mere life bought at any cost,
Of the deep, lingering mark of shame,
Forever scorched on brow and name,
That no new deeds, however bright,
Shall banish from men's loathful sight!
Ye perished in your conscious pride,
Ere this vile scandal opened wide
A wound that cannot close nor heal.
Ye perished steel to levelled steel,
Stern votaries of the god of war,
Filled with his godhead to the core!
Ye died to live, these lived to die,
Beneath the scorn of every eye!
How eloquent your voices sound
From the low chambers under ground!
How clear each separate title burns
From your high-set and laurelled urns!
While these, who walk about the earth,
Are blushing at their very birth!
And, though they talk, and go, and come,
Their moving lips are worse than dumb.
Ye sleep beneath the valley's dew,
And all the nation mourns for you;
So sleep till God shall wake the lands!
For angels, armed with fiery brands,
Await to take you by the hands.
The right-hand vapor broader grew;
It rose, and joined itself unto
The main cloud with a sudden dash.
Loud and more near the cannon's crash
Came toward me, and I heard a sound
As if all hell had broken bound—
A cry of agony and fear.
Still the dark vapor rolled more near,
Till at my very feet it tossed,
The vanward fragments of our host.
Can man, Thy image, sink so low,
Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bow
Across the storm and raging main;
Whose laws both loosen and restrain
The powers of earth, without whose will
No sparrow's little life is still?
Was fear of hell, or want of faith,
Or the brute's common dread of death
The passion that began a chase,
Whose goal was ruin and disgrace?
What tongue the fearful sight may tell?
What horrid nightmare ever fell
Upon the restless sleep of crime—
What history of another time—
What dismal vision, darkly seen
By the stern-featured Florentine,
Can give a hint to dimly draw
The likeness of the scene I saw?
I saw, yet saw not. In that sea,
That chaos of humanity,
No more the eye could catch and keep
A single point, than on the deep
The eye may mark a single wave,
Where hurrying myriads leap and rave.
Men of all arms, and all costumes,
Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes;
Soldiers and officers, and those
Who wore but civil-suited clothes;
On foot or mounted—some bestrode
Steeds severed from their harnessed load;
Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars,
Of wounded, red with bleeding scars;
The whole grim panoply of war
Surged on me with a deafening roar!
All shades of fear, disfiguring man,
Glared through their faces' brazen tan.
Not one a moment paused, or stood
To see what enemy pursued.
With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain,
With every muscle on the strain,
Onward the struggling masses bore.
Oh! had the foemen lain before,
They'd trampled them to dust and gore,
And swept their lines and batteries
As autumn sweeps the windy trees!
Here one cast forth his wounded friend,
And with his sword or musket-end
Urged on the horses; there one trod
Upon the likeness of his God,
As if 'twere dust; a coward here
Grew valiant with his very fear,
And struck his weaker comrade prone,
And struggled to the front alone.
All had one purpose, one sole aim,
That mocked the decency of shame,—
To fly, by any means to fly;
They cared not how, they asked not why.
I found a voice. My burning blood
Flamed up. Upon a mound I stood;
I could no more restrain my voice
Than could the prophet of God's choice.
"Back, animated dirt!" I cried,
"Back, on your wretched lives, and hide
Your shame beneath your native clay!
Or if the foe affrights you, slay
Your own base selves; and, dying, leave
Your children's tearful cheeks to grieve,
Not quail and blush, when you shall come,
Alive, to their degraded home!
Your wives will look askance with scorn;
Your boys, and infants yet unborn,
Will curse you to God's holy face!
Heaven holds no pardon in its grace
For cowards. Oh! are such as ye
The guardians of our liberty?
Back, if one trace of manhood still
May nerve your arm and brace your will!
You stain your country in the eyes
Of Europe and her monarchies!
The despots laugh, the peoples groan;
Man's cause is lost and overthrown!
I curse you, by the sacred blood
That freely poured its purple flood
Down Bunker's heights, on Monmouth's plain,
From Georgia to the rocks of Maine!
I curse you, by the patriot band
Whose bones are crumbling in the land!
By those who saved what these had won
In the high name of Washington!"
Then I remember little more.
As the tide's rising waves, that pour
Over some low and rounded rock,
The coming mass, with one great shock,
Flowed o'er the shelter of my mound,
And raised me helpless from the ground.
As the huge shouldering billows bear,
Half in the sea and half in air,
A swimmer on their foaming crest,
So the foul throng beneath me pressed,
Swept me along, with curse and blow,
And flung me—where, I ne'er shall know.
When I awoke, a steady rain
Made rivulets across the plain;
And it was dark—oh, very dark.
I was so stunned as scarce to mark
The ghostly figures of the trees,
Or hear the sobbing of the breeze
That flung the wet leaves to and fro.
Upon me lay a dismal woe,
A boundless, superhuman grief,
That drew no promise of relief
From any hope. Then I arose,
As one who struggles up from blows
By unseen hands; and as I stood
Alone, I thought that God was good,
To hide, in clouds and driving rain,
Our low world from the angel train,
Whose souls filled heroes when the earth
Was worthy of their noble birth.
By that dull instinct of the mind,
Which leads aright the helpless blind,
I struggled onward, till the dawn
Across the eastern clouds had drawn
A narrow line of watery gray;
And full before my vision lay
The great dome's gaunt and naked bones
Beneath whose crown the nation thrones
Her queenly person. On I stole,
With hanging head and abject soul,
Across the high embattled ridge,
And o'er the arches of the bridge.
So freshly pricked my sharp disgrace,
I feared to meet the human face,
Skulking, as any woman might,
Who'd lost her virtue in the night,
And sees the dreadful glare of day
Prepare to light her homeward way,
Alone, heart-broken, shamed, undone,
I staggered into Washington!
Since then long sluggish days have passed,
And on the wings of every blast
Have come the distant nations' sneers
To tingle in our blushing ears.
In woe and ashes, as was meet,
We wore the penitential sheet.
But now I breathe a purer air,
And from the depths of my despair
Awaken to a cheering morn,
Just breaking through the night forlorn,
A morn of hopeful victory.
Awake, my countrymen, with me!
Redeem the honor which you lost.
With any blood, at any cost!
I ask not how the war began,
Nor how the quarrel branched and ran
To this dread height. The wrong or right
Stands clear before God's faultless sight.
I only feel the shameful blow,
I only see the scornful foe,
And vengeance burns in every vein
To die, or wipe away the stain.
The war-wise hero of the west,
Wearing his glories as a crest,
Of trophies gathered in your sight,
Is arming for the coming fight.
Full well his wisdom apprehends
The duty and its mighty ends;
The great occasion of the hour,
That never lay in human power
Since over Yorktown's tented plain
The red cross fell, nor rose again.
My humble pledge of faith I lay,
Dear comrade of my school-boy day,
Before thee, in the nation's view,
And if thy prophet prove untrue,
And from our country's grasp be thrown
The sceptre and the starry crown.
And thou, and all thy marshalled host
Be baffled and in ruin lost;
Oh! let me not outlive the blow
That seals my country's overthrow!
And, lest this woful end come true,
Men of the North, I turn to you.
Display your vaunted flag once more,
Southward your eager columns pour!
Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum;
From every hill and valley come.
Old men, yield up your treasured gold!
Can liberty be priced and sold?
Fair matrons, maids, and tender brides
Gird weapons to your lovers' sides;
And though your hearts break at the deed,
Give them your blessing and God-speed;
Then point them to the field of flame,
With words like those of Sparta's dame;
And when the ranks are full and strong,
And the whole army moves along,
A vast result of care and skill,
Obedient to the master will;
And your young hero draws the sword,
And gives the last commanding word
That hurls your strength upon the foe—
Oh! let them need no second blow.
Strike, as your fathers struck of old;
Through summer's heat, and winter's cold;
Through pain, disaster, and defeat;
Through marches tracked with bloody feet;
Through every ill that could befall
The holy cause that bound them all!
Strike as they struck for liberty!
Strike as they struck to make you free!
Strike for the crown of victory!
George Henry Boker.
MANASSAS
[July 21, 1861]
They have met at last—as storm-clouds
Meet in heaven,
And the Northmen back and bleeding
Have been driven;
And their thunders have been stilled,
And their leaders crushed or killed,
And their ranks with terror thrilled,
Rent and riven!
Like the leaves of Vallambrosa
They are lying;
In the moonlight, in the midnight,
Dead and dying;
Like those leaves before the gale,
Swept their legions, wild and pale;
While the host that made them quail
Stood, defying.
When aloft in morning sunlight
Flags were flaunted,
And "swift vengeance on the rebel"
Proudly vaunted:
Little did they think that night
Should close upon their shameful flight,
And rebels, victors in the fight,
Stand undaunted.
But peace to those who perished
In our passes!
Light be the earth above them;
Green the grasses!
Long shall Northmen rue the day
When they met our stern array,
And shrunk from battle's wild affray
At Manassas.
Catherine M. Warfield.
A BATTLE BALLAD
A summer Sunday morning,
July the twenty-first,
In eighteen hundred sixty-one,
The storm of battle burst.
For many a year the thunder
Had muttered deep and low,
And many a year, through hope and fear,
The storm had gathered slow.
Now hope had fled the hopeful,
And fear was with the past;
And on Manassas' cornfields
The tempest broke at last.
A wreath above the pine-tops,
The booming of a gun;
A ripple on the cornfields,
And the battle was begun.
A feint upon our centre,
While the foeman massed his might,
For our swift and sure destruction,
With his overwhelming "right."
All the summer air was darkened
With the tramping of their host;
All the Sunday stillness broken
By the clamor of their boast.
With their lips of savage shouting,
And their eyes of sullen wrath,
Goliath, with the weaver-beam,
The champion of Gath.
Are they men who guard the passes,
On our "left" so far away?
In the cornfields, O Manassas!
Are they men who fought to-day?
Our boys are brave and gentle,
And their brows are smooth and white;
Have they grown to men, Manassas,
In the watches of a night?
Beyond the grassy hillocks
There are tents that glimmer white;
Beneath the leafy covert
There is steel that glistens bright.
There are eyes of watchful reapers
Beneath the summer leaves,
With a glitter as of sickles
Impatient for the sheaves.
They are men who guard the passes,
They are men who bar the ford;
Stands our David at Manassas,
The champion of the Lord.
They are men who guard our altars,
And beware, ye sons of Gath,
The deep and dreadful silence
Of the lion in your path.
Lo! the foe was mad for slaughter,
And the whirlwind hurtled on;
But our boys had grown to heroes,
They were lions, every one.
And they stood a wall of iron,
And they shone a wall of flame,
And they beat the baffled tempest
To the caverns whence it came.
And Manassas' sun descended
On their armies crushed and torn,
On a battle bravely ended,
On a nation grandly born.
The laurel and the cypress,
The glory and the grave,
We pledge to thee, O Liberty!
The life-blood of the brave.
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
Retreat soon turned to flight and flight to panic. A great crowd of officials and civilians, male and female, had driven out from Washington to the battlefield to witness a victory which they considered certain. They were furnished with passes, and picnicked and wined and jested and watched the distant conflict. Suddenly the Union army gave way, the Confederates dashed forward in pursuit, and soldiers and civilians were mixed together in one panic-stricken mob.
THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION
[July 21, 1861]
Yankee Doodle went to war,
On his little pony;
What did he go fighting for,
Everlasting goney!
Yankee Doodle was a chap
Who bragged and swore tarnation,
He stuck a feather in his cap,
And called it Federation.
Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle, dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.
Yankee Doodle, he went forth
To conquer the seceders,
All the journals of the North,
In most ferocious leaders,
Breathing slaughter, fire, and smoke,
Especially the latter,
His rage and fury to provoke,
And vanity to flatter.
Yankee Doodle, having floored
His separated brothers,
He reckoned his victorious sword
Would turn against us others;
Secession first he would put down,
Wholly and forever,
And afterward, from Britain's crown,
He Canada would sever.
England offering neutral sauce
To goose as well as gander,
Was what made Yankee Doodle cross,
And did inflame his dander.
As though with choler drunk he fumed,
And threatened vengeance martial,
Because Old England had presumed
To steer a course impartial.
Yankee Doodle bore in mind,
When warfare England harassed,
How he, unfriendly and unkind,
Beset her and embarrassed;
He put himself in England's place,
And thought this injured nation
Must view his trouble with a base
Vindictive exultation.
We for North and South alike
Entertain affection;
These for negro slavery strike;
Those for forced protection.
Yankee Doodle is the pot,
Southerner the kettle;
Equal morally, if not
Men of equal mettle.
Yankee Doodle, near Bull Run,
Met his adversary.
First he thought the fight he'd won,
Fact proved quite contrary.
Panic-struck he fled, with speed
Of lightning glib with unction,
Of slippery grease, in full stampede,
From famed Manassas Junction.
As he bolted, no ways slow,
Yankee Doodle hallooed,
"We are whipped!" and fled, although
No pursuer followed.
Sword and gun right slick he threw
Both away together,
In his cap, to public view,
Showing the white feather.
Yankee Doodle, Doodle, do,
Whither are you flying,
"A cocked hat we've been licked into,
And knocked to Hades," crying?
Well, to Canada, sir-ree,
Now that, by secession,
I am driven up a tree,
To seize that there possession.
Yankee Doodle, be content,
You've had a lenient whipping;
Court not further punishment
By enterprise of stripping
Those neighbors, whom if you assail,
They'll surely whip you hollow;
Moreover, when you've turned your tail,
Won't hesitate to follow.
The flight of the Union forces was watched with exultation by Jefferson Davis, who was at Confederate headquarters, and who at once wired news of the victory to the Confederate Congress at Richmond. Throughout the South, the news was naturally received with deep rejoicing.
ON TO RICHMOND
AFTER SOUTHEY'S "MARCH TO MOSCOW"
Major-General Scott
An order had got
To push on the column to Richmond;
For loudly went forth,
From all parts of the North,
The cry that an end of the war must be made
In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade:
Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay,
The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray;
The chivalrous Grow
Declared they were slow,—
And therefore the order
To march from the border
And make an excursion to Richmond.
Major-General Scott
Most likely was not
Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot;
In his private opinion
The Ancient Dominion
Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot,
And the reason is easily noted;
Though this part of the earth
Had given him birth,
And medals and swords,
Inscribed in fine words,
It never for Winfield had voted.
Besides, you must know, that our First of Commanders
Had sworn quite as hard as the army in Flanders,
With his finest of armies and proudest of navies,
To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis.
Then, "Forward the column," he said to McDowell;
And the Zouaves with a shout,
Most fiercely cried out,
"To Richmond or h-ll!" (I omit here the vowel)
And Winfield he ordered his carriage and four,
A dashing turnout, to be brought to the door,
For a pleasant excursion to Richmond.
Major-General Scott
Had there on the spot
A splendid array
To plunder and slay;
In the camp he might boast
Such a numerous host,
As he never had yet
In the battlefield set;
Every class and condition of Northern society
Were in for the trip, a most varied variety:
In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue,
"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue."
The buthiful boy
From the banks of the Shannon
Was there to employ
His excellent cannon;
And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery,
The Zouaves and Hussars,
All the children of Mars—
There were barbers and cooks,
And writers of books,—
The chef de cuisine with his French bill of fare,
And the artists to dress the young officers' hair.
And the scribblers were ready at once to prepare
An eloquent story
Of conquest and glory;
And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery,
Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train,
At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the Champagne!"
While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,
There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do,
On this pleasant excursion to Richmond.
In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action,
To crush out instanter the traitorous faction.
In the press, and the mess,
They would hear nothing less
Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason,
And at once put an end to the insolent treason.
There was Greeley,
And Ely,
And bloodthirsty Grow,
And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau),
And that terrible Baker
Who would seize of the South every acre,
And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or
Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur;
And with all this bold crew,
Nothing would do,
While the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,
But to march on directly to Richmond.
Then the gallant McDowell
Drove madly the rowel
Of spur that had never been "won" by him,
In the flank of his steed,
To accomplish a deed,
Such as never before had been done by him;
And the battery called Sherman's
Was wheeled into line
While the beer-drinking Germans
From Neckar and Rhine,
With minie and yager,
Come on with a swagger,
Full of fury and lager
(The day and the pageant were equally fine).
Oh! the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,
Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view,
As the column pushed onward to Richmond.
Ere the march was begun,
In a spirit of fun,
General Scott in a speech
Said the army should teach
The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey,
And just before dusk of the third or fourth day,
Should joyfully march into Richmond.
He spoke of their drill,
And their courage and skill,
And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave
O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave
In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air
At their morning parades on the Capitol Square.
But alack! and alas!
Mark what soon came to pass,
When this army, in spite of his flatteries,
Amid war's loudest thunder,
Must stupidly blunder
Upon those accursed "masked batteries."
Then Beauregard came,
Like a tempest of flame,
To consume them in wrath,
In their perilous path;
And Johnson bore down in a whirlwind to sweep
Their ranks from the field,
Where their doom had been sealed,
As the storm rushes over the face of the deep;
While swift on the centre our President pressed,
And the foe might descry,
In the glance of his eye,
The light that once blazed upon Diomede's crest.
McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day,
When the Southrons you met in their battle array;
To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel,
'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel.
Oh! the generals were green, and old Scott is now blue,
And a terrible business, McDowell, to you,
Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.
John R. Thompson.
At the North news of the defeat caused a bitter discouragement, which soon gave place to determination to push the war through. On July 22, 1861, Congress authorized the enlistment of five hundred thousand men. The term of enlistment was for three years, or during the war, and the North girded itself anew for the conflict.
CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED
Oh, Northern men—true hearts and bold—
Unflinching to the conflict press!
Firmly our country's flag uphold,
Till traitorous foes its sway confess!
Not lightly was our freedom bought,
By many a martyr's cross and grave;
Six weary years our fathers fought,
'Midst want and peril, sternly brave.
And thrice six years, with tightening coil,
Still closer wound by treacherous art,
Men—children of our common soil—
Have preyed upon the nation's heart!
Yet still it beats, responsive, deep,
Its strong pulse throbbing through the land,
Gathering a human flood, to sweep
Resistless, o'er the rebel band!
Firmly resolved to win success,
We'll tread the path our fathers trod,
Unflinching to the conflict press,
And, fearless, trust our cause to God!
New York Evening Post, July 26, 1861.
The North soon had another bitter pill to swallow. On May 13, 1861, Great Britain issued a proclamation of neutrality, recognizing the Confederacy as a belligerent power. England's sympathy, because of close trade relations, was with the South, and the Southern people counted on her eventually recognizing their independence.
SHOP AND FREEDOM
[May 13, 1861]
Though with the North we sympathize,
It must not be forgotten
That with the South we've stronger ties,
Which are composed of cotton,
Whereof our imports 'mount unto
A sum of many figures;
And where would be our calico,
Without the toil of niggers?
The South enslaves those fellow-men
Whom we love all so dearly;
The North keeps commerce bound again,
Which touches us more nearly.
Thus a divided duty we
Perceive in this hard matter—
Free trade, or sable brothers free?
Oh, will we choose the latter!
London Punch.
James M. Mason and John Slidell were appointed commissioners from the Confederacy to England and France; they reached Havana on a little steamer that had run the blockade, and took passage for Southampton in the British mail steamship Trent. On November 8, 1861, in the Bahama Channel, the Trent was overhauled by the American man-of-war San Jacinto, Captain Wilkes. She was compelled to stop, and Mason and Slidell and their secretaries were taken from her by force.
THE C. S. A. COMMISSIONERS
[November, 1861]
Ye jolly Yankee gentlemen, who live at home in ease,
How little do ye think upon the dangers of the seas!
The winds and waves, the whales and sharks, you've heard of long ago,
But there are things much worse than these, as presently I'll show.
If you're a true-bred Union man, go joyful where you please;
Beneath the glorious Stars and Stripes cross safe the stormy seas;
But look out for San Jacintos that may catch you on your way,
If you're acting as Commissioner for the noble C. S. A.
And now you'll guess my subject, and what my song's about;
But I'd not have put them into rhyme, if they hadn't first put out;
For they put out of Charleston, when the night was drear and dark,
And then they put out all the lights, that they might not be a mark;
And then they did put out to sea (though here there seems a hitch,
For what could they expect to see when the night was black as pitch?),
But they somehow 'scaped the Union ships, and hoped on some fine day
To land in Europe and to "blow" about the C. S. A.
They safely got to Cuba and landed in Havana;
Described the power and glory of New Orleans and Savannah;
Declared that running the blockade was a thing by no means hard,
And boasted of the vic'tries won by their valiant Beauregard;
Davis's skill in government could never be surpassed—
The amazing strokes of genius by which he cash amassed;
Foreign bankers would acknowledge, ere a month had passed away,
That the true financial paradise was in the C. S. A.
* * * * *
Some days are passed, and pleasantly, upon Bermuda's Isle,
The sun is shining bright and fair, and nature seems to smile;
The breezes moved the British flag that fluttered o'er the Trent,
And the ripples rose to lave her sides, as proudly on she went.
Mason and Slidell, on deck, thought all their dangers past,
And poked each other's ribs and laughed, as they leant against the mast:
"Haven't the Yankees just been done uncommonly nice, eh?
They've got most money, but the brains are in the C. S. A.!"
You have heard the ancient proverb, and, though old, it's very good,
Which hints "it's better not to crow until you've left the wood."
And so it proved with these two gents; for at that moment—souse!
A cannon-shot fell splash across the steamer's bows.
The San Jacinto came up close, and though rather rude, 'tis true,
Good Wilkes he hailed the Trent and said, "I'll thank you to heave to;
If you don't give up two rascals, I must blow you right away.
Mason and Slidell they're named, and they're from the C. S. A."
The British captain raged and swore; but then what could he do?
It scarcely would be worth his while to be blown up, he knew;
Wilkes's marines, with bayonets fixed, were standing on the Trent,
So he gave up the traitors, and o'er the side they went.
Wilkes, having got them, wished they'd feel pleasant and at home,
So offered his best cabins, if their ladies chose to come;
But they shook their heads and merely smiled, I'm sorry for to say,
Conjugality's at a discount down in the C. S. A.
They coolly said unto their lords, "Our dresses all are new;
What on earth would be the use of going back with you?
And though we're very sorry that your plans are undone,
We mean to pass the winter in Paris and in London.
'Stead of bothering you, and sharing your prison beds and fetters,
We'll write each mail from Europe the most delightful letters;
Tell you of all we've done and seen, at party, ball, or play,
To cheer your hearts, poor martyrs, to cotton and C. S. A."
So the two vessels parted; the San Jacinto went
To unload her precious cargo, while the captain of the Trent,
Having lost a (probable) douceur which had seemed within his grip,
We presume, for consolation, retired and took a nip.
The ladies talked of the affair less with a tear than smile;
Their lords and masters took their way to Warren's Fort the while;
And gratis lodged and boarded there, they may think for many a day
That brains are sometimes northward found as well's in C. S. A.
The prisoners were taken to Fort Warren, in Boston harbor, and the North went wild with delight. It was understood that Great Britain would have to be reckoned with, but no one seemed to care. Wilkes was complimented and banquetted and lionized, and the House of Representatives gave him a vote of thanks.
DEATH OF THE LINCOLN DESPOTISM
'Twas out upon mid ocean that the San Jacinto hailed
An English neutral vessel, while on her course she sailed;
They sent her traitor Fairfax, to board her with his crew,
And beard the "British lion" with his "Yankee-doodle-doo."
The Yankees took her passengers, and put them on their ship,
And swore that base secession could not give them the slip;
But England says she'll have them, if Washington must fall,
So Lincoln and his "nigger craft" must certainly feel small.
Of all the "Yankee notions" that ever had their birth,
The one of searching neutrals affords the greatest mirth—
To the Southrons; but the Yankees will ever hate the fame
Which gives to Wilkes and Fairfax their never-dying name.
Throughout the North their Captain Wilkes received his meed of praise,
For doing—in these civilized—the deeds of darker days;
But England's guns will thunder along the Yankee coast,
And show the abolitionists too soon they made their boast.
Then while Old England's cannon are booming on the sea,
Our Johnson, Smith, and Beauregard dear Maryland will free,
And Johnston in Kentucky will whip the Yankees too,
And start them to the lively tune of "Yankee-doodle-doo."
Then down at Pensacola, where the game is always "Bragg,"
The "Stars and Stripes" will be pulled down and in the dust be dragged;
For Pickens can't withstand us when Braxton is the cry,
And there you'll see the Yankees, with their usual speed, will fly.
On the coast of Dixie's kingdom there are batteries made by Lee,
And covered up with cotton, which the Yankees want to see;
But when they go to take it, they'll find it will not do,
And start upon the "double-quick" to "Yankee-doodle-doo."
Then Evans and his cavalry will follow in their track,
And drive them in the Atlantic, or safely bring them back,
And hold them till Abe Lincoln and all his Northern scum
Shall own our independence of "Yankee-Doodledom."
Richmond Dispatch.
News of the seizure reached England November 27, 1861. A cabinet meeting was at once held, the act of Captain Wilkes was declared to be "a clear violation of the law of nations," the release of Mason and Slidell was demanded, together with a suitable apology for the aggression. England began to make extensive naval preparations, and eight thousand troops were sent to Canada.
JONATHAN TO JOHN
[December, 1861]
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 jest 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,—
Britanny'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 jest 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 jest 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 plough.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Ef 'twarn'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 'twould win applause, John,
If nowheres 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 in 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!"
Shall it be love, or hate, John?
It's you thet's to decide;
Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the world's beside?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
Wise men forgive," sez he,
"But not forgit; an' some time yit
Thet truth may strike J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an' understand, John,
The wuth o' bein' free.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
God's price is high," sez he;
"But nothin' else than wut he sells
Wears long, an' thet J. B.
May larn, like you an' me!"
James Russell Lowell.
England was clearly in the right in her contention; Wilkes's act was disavowed, and Mason and Slidell were delivered to an English steamer at Provincetown. All danger of war with England was for the time being avoided.
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE
John Bull, Esquire, my jo John,
When we were first acquent,
You acted very much as now
You act about the Trent.
You stole my bonny sailors, John,
My bonny ships also,
You're aye the same fierce beast to me,
John Bull, Esquire, my jo!
John Bull, Esquire, my jo John,
Since we were linked together,
Full many a jolly fight, John,
We've had with one another.
Now must we fight again, John?
Then at it let us go!
And God will help the honest heart,
John Bull, Esquire, my jo.
John Bull, Esquire, my jo John,
A century has gone by,
Since you called me your slave, John,
Since I at you let fly.
You want to fight it out again—
That war of waste and woe;
You'll find me much the same old coon,
John Bull, Esquire, my jo.
John Bull, Esquire, my jo John,
If lying loons have told
That I have lost my pluck, John,
And fight not as of old;
You'd better not believe it, John,
Nor scorn your ancient foe;
For I've seen weaker days than this,
John Bull, Esquire, my jo.
John Bull, Esquire, my jo John,
Hear this my language plain:
I never smote you unprovoked,
I never smote in vain.
If you want peace, peace let it be!
If war, be pleased to know,
Shots in my locker yet remain,
John Bull, Esquire, my jo!