Then the music changed its character, and the stirring replaced the sad.
“If you want to have a good time,
J’ine the cavalry!”
came in grand, uproarious strains; and this was succeeded by the jubilant—
“Farewell, forever to the star-spangled banner,
No longer shall she wave o’er the land of the free;
But we’ll unfurl to the broad breeze of heaven,
The thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!”
At that song—and those words, “the thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!”—you might have seen the eyes of the South Carolinians flash. Many other ditties followed, filling the moonlight night with song—“The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Katy Wells,” and “The Louisiana Colors.” This last was never printed. Here are a few of the gay verses of the “Irish Lad from Dixie:”—
“My sweetheart’s name is Kathleen,
For her I’ll do or die;
She has a striped straw mattress,
A shanty, pig, and sty.
Her cheeks are bright and beautiful,
Her hair is dark and curly,
She sent me with the secesh boys
To fight with General Early.
“She made our flag with her own hands,
My Kathleen fair and clever,
And twined its staff with shamrock green,
Old Ireland’s pride forever!
She gave it into our trust,
Among our weeping mothers;—
‘Remember, Irish men!’ she said,
‘You bear the Red Cross colors!’
“She told me I must never run;
The Rebel boys were brothers;—
To stand forever by our flag,
The Louisiana colors!
And then she said, ‘If you desert,
You’ll go to the Old Baily!’
Says I, ‘My love, when I can’t shoot,
I’ll use my old shillalah!’
“And many a bloody charge we made,
Nor mind the battle’s blaze;
God gave to us a hero bold,
Our bonny Harry Hays!
And on the heights of Gettysburg,
At twilight first was seen,
The stars of Louisiana bright,
And Katy’s shamrock green.
“And oh! if I get home again,
I swear I’ll never leave her;
I hope the straw mattress will keep,
The pig won’t have the fever!
For then, you know, I’ll marry Kate,
And never think of others.
Hurrah, then, for the shamrock green,
And the Louisiana colors!”
It was nearly midnight before the men separated, repairing to their tents. Their songs had charmed me, and made the long hours flit by like birds. Where are you, brave singers, in this year ‘68? I know not—you are all scattered. Your guns have ceased their thunder, your voices sound no more. But I think you sometimes remember, as you muse, in these dull years, those gay moonlight nights on the banks of the Rowanty.