Were ever glad as we,—
We're free on Carolina's shore,
We're all at home and free!"
Never has that pure Muse, which has sung only of truth and right, as the highest beauty and noblest art, been consecrated to a better service than to write the songs of praise for these little children, chattels no longer, whom the Saviour, were he now to walk on earth, would bless as his own.
The prevalent song, however, heard in every school, in church, and by the way-side, is that of "John Brown," which very much amuses our white soldiers, particularly when the singers roll out,—
"We'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree!"
The children also sang their own songs, as,—
"In de morning' when I rise,
Tell my Jesus. Huddy oh?[3]
In de mornin' when I rise,