We know that he is free;
Disturb him not, but let him rest
'Way down in Tennessee."
There were several favorite melodies which we had often sung in camp, when, as on a pleasant Sunday evening, we were met together in little knots, to mingle our emotions in plaintive song, thinking of dear friends at home. One of these was a simple ballad describing the following incident—one of the most touching of the war. A youthful soldier from the state of Maine died in New Orleans, with none but strangers—as has been the lot of many—to watch over him in his dying hours, or to perform the sad rites of burial. When the funeral service was over, and the coffin was about to be closed, an elderly lady present approached the remains, saying: "Let me kiss him for his mother."
"Let me kiss him for his mother,
Let me kiss his dear youthful brow;
I will love him for his mother,
And seek her blessing now.
Kind friends have sooth'd his pillow,
Have watched his ev'ry care;