WE'RE NOT TIRED OF FIGHTING YET!
Oh, we're not tired of fighting yet!
We're not the boys to frighten yet!
While drums are drumming we'll be coming,
With the ball and bayonet!
For we can hit while they can pound,
And so let's have another round!
Secesh is bound to lick the ground,
And we'll be in their pantry yet!
Oh, we're not tired of tramping yet—
Of soldier life or camping yet;
And rough or level, man or devil,
We are game for stamping yet.
We've lived through weather wet and dry,
Through hail and fire, without a cry;
We wouldn't freeze, and couldn't fry,
And haven't got through our ramping yet!
We haven't broke up the party yet;
We're rough, and tough, and hearty yet;
Who talks of going pays what's owing,
And there's a bill will smart ye yet!
So bang the doors, and lock 'em tight!
Secesh, you've got to make it right!
We'll have a little dance to-night;
You can't begin to travel yet!
Oh, we're not tired of fighting yet,
Nor ripe for disuniting yet!
Before they do it, or get through it,
There'll be some savage biting yet!
Then hip, hurrah for Uncle Sam!
And down with all secesh and sham!
From Davis to Vallandigham,
They all shall rue their treason yet!
We cannot close the present number of The Continental without a few words of fervid congratulation to our readers and countrymen. We may greet each other now with glad hearts and uplifted brows. What a glorious "Fourth" was ours, with our Eagle scattering the heavy war-clouds which hung around us, soaring to gaze once more undazzled at the sun of liberty; our stars again shining down clear upon us from their heaven of light! Joy sparkles in every eye, and high, strong words flash from every tongue. Grant victorious—Vicksburg ours—the army of the Potomac covered with glory—Meade everywhere triumphant, and in full pursuit of our flying and disheartened foe! Heroes and soldiers, your country blesses and thanks you!
Let us now resolve that with every day our Union shall grow closer. Let faction die; political intrigue cease to rear its serpent head; let doubt become trust; suspicion, faith! Countrymen, let us also learn to pity the unhappy race whom this war must free. You cannot now prevent it; its first tocsin of liberty pealed with the first gun fired at Fort Sumter. After long ages of barbaric night, of slavery, of misery, these beings cut in ebony begin to robe themselves as men; on the battle field they have at last put on the virile toga dyed in blood, not now drawn by the lash from the back of the wretched chattel, but from the heart of the man face to face with his oppressor on the field of righteous battle. Rude and uncultured, they hold up to you hands hard with labor, still bleeding from the scarcely fallen manacles, and implore aid and manly mercy. Let it be granted without stint, and let not the freedom God has given, become a curse to them! You cannot roll back the stately steppings of destiny—and let this great and magnanimous people show its magnanimity now!
And, oh, ye glorious dead, now resting in eternal peace, whom the drum and fife will rouse no more to superhuman effort in our behalf, sweet be your sleep in the heart of the country you died to save, and ever green the laurel above your grassy graves! We will not forget you, wrapped in your gory shrouds for the land ye loved! Never shall our national hymns again greet our ears without awakening tender thoughts of you! Hot, sad tears will mourn your loss in the homes your smiles shall light no more—but your names shall be an heirloom of glory to your mothers, wives, and children, and your country will weep with them! We greet you, holy graves! As the onward path of humanity passes over your new-made mounds, her children will veil their heads and honor the martyrs who lie below. And when the coming centuries shall have covered you with moss and flowers, they will never forget to throw the laurel as they pass, acknowledging that these tombs have made progress and happiness possible! Brothers, the Union shall be sacred which you died to save! In the more intense and glowing patriotism engendered by your sacrifice, we swear it on your blessed sepulchres, and this shall be your deathless epitaph!
M. W. C.