“He faintly smiled and waved his hand.”

“Wear the sword well. The gift is small,
But with it goes my love,
Good-bye, boys! Heaven bless you all;
I’m ordered up above,
And there can be no countermand—
I know my fate is seal’d!”
He faintly smiled, and wav’d his hand—
We left him on the field.

MOTHER! IS THE BATTLE OVER?

Mother! is the battle over? thousands have been killed they say—
Is my father coming?—tell me, have the Southrons gain’d the day?
Is he well, or is he wounded? Mother, do you think he’s slain?
If you know, I pray you tell me—will my father come again?
Mother, dear, you’re always sighing since you last the paper read—
Tell me why you now are crying—why that cap is on your head?
Ah! I see you cannot tell me—father’s one among the slain!
Altho’ he lov’d us very dearly, he will never come again!

A NORTH CAROLINA CALL TO ARMS.