OUR CAMP POET.
"Dropping into poetry" has not been a peculiarity confined to that singular creation of Dickens' fancy, "Silag Wegg." While not a contagious disease, it is said that a majority of men suffer from it at some period in life. Like measles and whooping cough it usually comes early, is rarely fatal and complete recovery, as a rule, furnishes exemption from further attacks, without vaccination. Under these conditions it is but natural that the Oglethorpes should have had a poet in their ranks. In fact we had two, James E. Wilson and W. J. Steed, who has already figured somewhat in these memories, and who was called Phunie, for short. The latter was, however, only an ex-poet, not ex-officio, nor ex-cathedra, but ex-post facto. His attack had been light, very light, a sort of poetical varioloid. He had recovered and so far as the record shows, there had been no relapse. On the first appearance of the symptoms he had mounted his "Pegasus," which consisted of a stack of barrels in rear of his father's barn, and after an hour's mental labor, he rose and reported progress, but did not ask leave to sit again. The results are summed up in the following poetic gem:
"Here sits Phunie on a barrel,
With his feet on another barrel."
He has always claimed that while the superficial reader might find in these lines an apparent lack of artistic finish, with some possible defects as to metre and an unfortunate blending of anapestic and iambic verse, the rhyme was absolutely perfect. I have been unable to discover in them the rhythmic and liquid cadence that marks Buchannan Reade's "Drifting," or the perfection in measure attributed by Poe to Byron's "Ode" to his sister, yet my tender regard for my old comrade disinclines me to take issue with him as to the merits of this, the sole offspring of his poetic genius. My inability to find it in any collection of poetical quotations has induced me to insert it here with the hope of rescuing it from a fate of possibly undeserved oblivion.
Jim Wilson's case was different. His was a chronic attack. "He lisped in numbers for the numbers came." As a poet he was not only a daisy, but, as Tom Pilcher would say, he was a regular geranium. I regret that my memory has retained, with a single exception, only fragments of his many wooings of the muse.
A young lady friend, Miss Eve, of Nashville, asked from Jim a christening contribution to an album she had just purchased. He was equal to the occasion. The man and the hour had met. He was in it from start to finish. He filled every page in the book with original verse. I recall now only the following stanza:
"Newton, the man of meditation,
The searcher after hidden cause,
Who first discovered gravitation
And ciphered out attractions laws,
Could not, with all his cogitation,
Find rules to govern woman's jaws."
But his special forte was parody. A competitive examination was ordered at Thunderbolt in '63 to fill the position of second sergeant in the company. After studying Hardee's Tactics for a week Jim relieved his feelings in the following impromptu effort:
Tell me not the mournful numbers
From a "shoulder" to a "prime,"
For I murmur in my slumbers
Make two "motions in one time."
The Oglethorpes, though serving as infantry had clung tenaciously to their artillery organization and to the red stripes and chevrons which marked the heavier arm of the service. On our assignment to Gordon's regiment, the Colonel had made a very strong appeal to us to divide the company and to discard our artillery trimmings. At the next Sunday morning inspection Jim's tent bore a placard with this inscription, intended for the Colonel's eye:
"You may cheat or bamboozle us as much as you will,
But the sign of artillery will hang round us still."
Probably his masterpiece was a parody on "Maryland," written at Jacksonboro, Tenn., on the eve of our transfer from the 12th Ga. Battalion. That the reader may understand the personal allusion in the verses it is necessary to say that Edgar Derry, Jim Russell, Ed Clayton and Alph Rogers had been detailed by Col. Capers to fill certain staff positions with the battalion; that Miles Turpin was company drummer and Stowe—whose camp sobriquet was "Calline," was fifer; that in the skirmish at Huntsville, Tenn., W. W. Bussey, who was known in camp as "Busky," had been shot in the temple; that before the final charge on the fort, Col. Capers in crossing a ditch had mired in its bottom and had found some difficulty in extricating himself; that the war horse of the male persuasion ridden by Col. Gracie had been killed in the skirmish and that Randolph was Secretary of War. When the transfer had been effected it was uncertain whether the detailed men would retain their position or would return to the company, and the following verses were written by Jim as an appeal to them to go with us:
Come 'tis the red dawn of the day,
Here's your mule,
Come, details, join our proud array,
Here's your mule.
With Clayton panting for the fray,
With Rogers urging on that bay,
With Derry bold and Russell gay,
Here's your mule. Oh! Here's your mule.
Come for your limbs are stout and strong,
Here's your mule,
Come for your loafing does you wrong,
Here's your mule,
Come with your muskets light and long,
Rejoin the crowd where you belong,
And help us sing this merry song,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.
Dear fellows break your office chains,
Here's your mule,
The "Web-feet" should not call in vain,
Here's your mule,
But if it goes against the grain,
"Sick furlough" is the proud refrain,
By which you may get off again,
Here's your mule. Oh! Here's your mule.
We trust you will not from us scud,
Here's your mule,
And nip your glory in the bud,
Here's your mule,
Remember "Busky" bathed in blood,
Remember Capers stuck in mud,
And gallant Gracie's dying stud,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.
Ah, though you may awhile stay mum,
Here's your mule,
To "Calline's" fife and Turpin's drum,
Here's your mule,
When orders come from Randolph grum,
You will not then be deaf nor dumb,
Ah, then we know you'll come, you'll come,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.
And now in conclusion, I am unwilling that my friend, Jim Wilson should be judged solely by these rhymes. If any allusion in them sounds harshly to ears polite, it must be remembered that they were intended, only for soldiers eyes and ears. The son of a Presbyterian missionary to India, he was an educated Christian gentleman, one of the brightest and wittiest men I have ever known, as brave as Julius Caesar and as true to the flag for which he fought as any man who wore the grey.