By Clarence Prentice.

Why can we not be brothers? the battle now is o’er;
We’ve laid our bruised arms on the field to take them up no more;
We who have fought you hard and long, now overpower’d, stand
As poor, defenseless prisoners in our own native land.
Chorus.—We know that we were rebels,
And we don’t deny the name,
We speak of that which we have done
With grief, but not with shame!
But we have rights most sacred, by solemn compact bound,
Seal’d by the blood that freely gush’d from many a ghastly wound;
When Lee gave up his trusty sword, and his men laid down their arms,
It was that they should live at home, secure from war’s dire harms.
Chorus.

And surely, since we’re now disarm’d, we are not to be dreaded;
Our old chiefs, who on many fields our trusty columns headed,
Are fast within an iron grasp, and manacled with chains,
Perchance, ’twixt dreary walls to stay as long as life remains!
Chorus.
O shame upon the coward band who, in the conflict dire,
Went not to battle for their cause, ’mid the ranks of steel and fire,
Yet now, since all the fighting’s done, are hourly heard to cry:
“Down with the traitors! hang them all! each rebel dog shall die!”
Chorus.
We know that we were rebels, we don’t deny the name,
We speak of that which we have done with grief, but not with shame!
And we never will acknowledge that the blood the South has spilt,
Was shed defending what we deemed a cause of wrong and guilt.
Chorus.

WEARING OF THE GRAY.

Our cannons’ mouths are dumb. No more our volleyed muskets peal,
Nor gleams, to mark where squadrons rush, the light from flashing steel;
No more our crossed and starry flags in gentle dalliance play
With battle breeze, as when we fought, a wearing of the gray.
Our cause is lost! No more we fight ’gainst overwhelming power;
All wearied are our limbs, and drenched with many a battle shower;
We fain would rest! For want of strength we yield them up the day,
And lower the flag so proudly borne while wearing of the gray.
Defeat is not dishonor! No! Of honor not bereft,
We should thank God that in our breasts this priceless boon is left;
And though we weep ’tis for those braves who stood in proud array
Beneath our flag, and nobly died while wearing of the gray.
When in the ranks of war we stood, and faced the deadly hail,
Our simple suits of gray composed our only coats of mail;
And of those awful hours that marked the bloody battle day,
In memory we’ll still be seen a wearing of the gray.
O, should we reach that glorious place where waits the sparkling crown,
For every one who for the right his soldier life lay down,
God grant to us the privilege, upon that happy day,
Of clasping hands with those who fell a wearing of the gray.

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE.

Words by Moina. Music by Armand.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]