BAYOU CITY GUARDS’ SONG.

IN THE CHICKAHOMINY SWAMP.

Fighting for our rights now, feasting when they’re won,
By that Cross and Stars, boys, fluttering in the sun—
The girls at home will hear, boys, of our banquet of hard corn,
And they’ll think and pray for us, boys, at night and dewy morn,
Then hand around the corn, boys, and pass the full canteen;
Corn and water, and a fight, boys, are enough for us, I ween.
Sleeping in the swamps now, without shelter or a bed;
The heaven’s green sky above us, green turf beneath our head;
But at home when we arrive, boys, tender arms shall us enfold;
Our pillows shall be the hearts, boys, that now our image hold.
Shells are flying over us, the bullets ’round us fly;
But we’ll lie upon the grass, boys, and munch our corn away!
We’re driven to their gunboats the base, invading foe;
In quick time, such as Texans can, we’ll make the Federals go.

Our mothers are praying for us, our darling sisters too;
Our sweethearts—ah! God bless them! what can’t we dare or do?
With our country’s rights and darling ones emblazon’d on our shields,
We’ll fight with God’s protection, till each base invader yields.
In thinking of our cause, boys, and all we love at home,
These hard grains to heavenly manna have miraculously turn’d;
And from this battered old canteen I’ve drained a nectar sweet;
’Tis the heart that makes the banquet, and not what we have to eat.
Soon will we hail brave “Stonewall!” in Maryland set free!
And our “Old Line” Chief[4] with his Texas boys shall shout for his victory.
With the Cross and Stars then wreathed in flowers, we’ll turn our steps again,
To the hearts and homes that sigh for us, on our proud prairie plain;
Then with gentle hands to tend us, and the chalice for canteen,
With our rights all won, we’ll rest us, boys, in peace and joy serene.

THE COUNTERSIGN.

Alas! the rolling hours pass slow—
The night is very dark and still—
And in the marshes, far below,
Is heard the lonely whippoorwill:
I scarce can see a foot ahead—
My ears are strained to catch each sound—
I feel the leaves beneath me spread—
And the springs bubbling thro’ the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rays mark my sentry’s track;
In formless things I seem to trace
The foeman’s form, with bended back—
I think I see him crouching low!
I stop and list—I stop and peer—
Until the neighb’ring hillocks grow
To groups of soldiers, far and near.
With ready piece I wait, and watch,
Until my eyes—familiar grown—
Detect each harmless earthern notch,
And turn “Guerrillas” into stone;
And then amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall magnolia trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think of other times than these.

“Halt! who goes there?” my challenge cry—
It rings along the watchful line—
“Relief!” I hear a voice reply—
“Advance and give the countersign!”
With bayonet at the charge, I wait—
The corporal gives the mystic word—
With “arms aport” I change my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well!
But in my tent, that night, awake,
I ask, “If in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make,
When the angelic sentries call?”
And pray that Heaven so ordain,
Where’er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain
I still may have the “Countersign!”

THE DARLINGS AT HOME.