PART THREE 



Bf^f^^^GTRAXSCIiirT. SATUliOAY. NOV IO.M liKK 'it, L9W 



Poems and Songs of the Civil War 



'Not 



es an 



a q 



ueries 



Saturday, Nov. £4. 1017. 



(36S8.) Please publish "Dixio" in tt|l 

 Civil War songs number. What is its lug* 

 tory? K. R. S. | 



|"I Wish I Was in Dixie's Land" waj 

 written and composed expreBsly for Rry> 

 ant's Minstrels by Daniel D. Kmmett. It 

 was a "walk-round" at minstrel shows 

 nearly two years before the Civil War. 

 full history of "Dixie" appeared in this col- 

 umn on July 17, 1015. This is one versii 

 of the song : 



Dixie's Land 



I wish I was in de land oh cotton. 

 Old times dar am not forgotten, 

 Look away 1 look away', look away! Dix 

 lami. 



In Dixie land, whar I was born in, 

 Early on om frosty mornin'. 

 Look away! look away! look aw:n I Dix 

 land 



Chorus : 

 Den I wish I was in Dixie, 

 Hooray ! hooray ! 

 In Dixie land Til take my stand, 

 To lib and die in Dixie! 

 Away, awry, away down South in Dixit i 

 Away, owcy, away down South in Dixie ! 



Old Missus marry Will de weaber, 

 William was a gay deeeaber. 

 I Look away! look away! look away! Dix 

 land. 



But when Vie put his arm around 'er 

 He smiled as fierce as a forty -pounder, 

 1 Look away! look away! look away! Dixia 



His face was sharp as a huteher's cleaber, 

 But dat did not seem to greab 'er, , 

 Look away! look away! look away! Dixie 

 land. 



Old Missus acted the foolish part, 

 And died for a man dat broke her heart. 

 Look awav ! look away ! look away ! Dixie 

 land. 



Mow here's a health to the next old Missus, 

 And all de gals dat want to kiss us, 

 Look away ! look away ! look away I Dixie 

 land. 



But if you want to drive 'way sorrow, 

 Come and hear dis song tomorrow, 

 Look awav ! look away ' look away ! Dixie 

 land.. 



Dar's buckwheat cakes an' Ingen batter, 

 Makes you fat, or a little fatter. 

 Look away! look away! look away! Dixie 



Den hoe it down an' scratch your grabble. 

 To Dixie's land I'm bound to trabble. . 

 | Look away!" look away! look away! Dixie 

 land. 



Fanny Crosby, Albert Pike and others 

 have fitted words to the music] 



ANSWERS 



3597. 



Twilight on Sumter 



By Richard Henry Stoddard 

 Still and dark along the sea 



Sumter lay ; 

 A light was overhead, 

 As from burning cities shed. 

 And the clouds were battle-red. 



Far away. 

 Not a solitary gun 

 Left to tell the fort had won 



Or lost the day ! 

 Nothing but the tattered rag 

 ■ Of the drooping rebel flag. 

 I And the sea-birds screaming round it in 

 their play. 



How it woke one April morn. 



Fame shall tell; 

 As from Moultrie, close at hand, 

 And the hatteries on the land. 

 Hound its faint but fearless band 



Shot and shell 

 Raining hid the doubtful light ; 

 But they fought the hopeless fight 



Long and weli 

 (Theirs the glory, ours the shame!) 

 _ Till the walls were wrapt in flame, 

 iThen their flag- was proudly struck, and 

 Sumter fell I 



Now — oh, look at Sumter now, 



In the gloom ! 

 Mark its scarred and shattered walls, 

 (Hark! the ruined ramnart falls!) 

 There's a justice that appalls 



In its doom ; 

 For this blasted spot of earth 

 Where rebellion had its birth 



Is its tomb! 

 And when Sumter sinks at last 

 From the heavens, that shrink aghast. 

 Hell shall rise in grim derision and make 



room ! 



3602. 



Tenting on the Old Camp Ground j 



By Witter Kittredge 

 Walter Kittredge, the author of "Teilt- 

 in«t on the Old Camp Grt „„ 

 Merrimac. N. H.. Oct. 8. 1633. Rev. Lo#is 



Of the loved ones at. home, that gave u» 

 the hand. 

 And the tear that said "Good-by !" 



We are tired of war on the old camp 



ground. 

 Many are dead and gone. 

 Of the brave and true who've left their 



homes 



Others been wounded long. 



We've been fighting today on the old camp 

 ground. 

 Many are lying near; 

 Some are dead and some are dying, 

 Many are in tears. 

 The refrain for the final verse is : 

 "Many are the hearts that are weary to- 

 night. 



Wishing for the war to cease. 

 Many are the hearts, looking for the right. 



To see the dawn of peace. 

 Dying tonight, dying tonight, 



Dying on the old camp ground. 



Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 



By George F. Root 

 In the prison cell I sit. 

 Thinking, mother dear, of you, 

 And our bright and happy home so far 

 away. 



And the tears they fill my eyes. 

 Spite of all that I can do, 

 Though I try to cheer my comrades and be 



gay. 



Chorus : 



Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are march- 

 ing, 



Oh, cheer up, comrades, they will come, 

 And beneath the starry flag we shall 

 breathe the air again 

 Of freedom in our own beloved home. 



In the battle front we stood 

 When the fiercest charge they made, 

 And they swept us off a hundred men or 



But before we reached their lines 

 They were beaten back, dismayed. 

 And we heard the cry of vict'ry o'er and 



So within the prison cell 

 We are waiting for the day 

 That shall come to open wide the iron door, 

 And the hollow eye grows bright, 

 And the poor heart almost gay, 

 When we think of seeing home and friends 

 once more. 



Three Hundred Thousand More 



(July 2, 1S62.) 

 By James Sloan Gibbons 

 We are coming, Father Abraham, three 



hundred thousand more, 

 From Mississippi's winding stream and 



from New England's shore ; 

 We leave our ploughs and workshops, our 



wives and children dear, 

 With hearts too full for utterance, with 



hut a silent tear : 

 We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly 



before : 



We are coming, Father Abraham, three 

 hundred thousand more ! 



If you look across the hill-tops that meet 



the northern sky. 

 Long moving lines of rising dust your 



"Iin; 



.al Sor gs 



riters 



attending m 

 teacher. . 



"Tenting 

 more than a 



troubled 5 



began' to 

 and bega 



a was received at 

 Uke most other v 

 tredge had an ear l__ 

 'ever, he V^- Ws - k - nr ,' w . le 3f 

 ever had an opportunity 1 < 

 sic schools, or being undei 



GrounJ, 



\y de: 



a y . 



And now the wind, an instant, tears the 



cloudv veil aside. 

 And floats aloft our starry flag in glory 



and in pride, . 

 And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and 



bands brave music pour ; 

 We are coming. Father Abraham, three 

 hundred thousand more ! 



If you look all up our valleys, where the 



growing harvests shine, 

 You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast 



forming into line; 

 And children from their mother's knees 



are pulling at the weeds, 

 And learning how to reap and sow against 



their country's needs : 

 And a farewell group stands weeping at 



every cottage door : 

 We are coming. Father Abraham, three 

 hundred thousand more ! 



Tou have called us. and we're coming, by 



Richmond's bloody tide 

 To lay us down, for Freedom's sake our 



brothers' bones beside, 

 Or from foul treason's savage grasp to 



wrench the murderous blade. 

 And in the face of foreign foes its frag- 

 ments to parade. 

 Six hundred thousand loyal men and true 



have gone before : 

 We are coming. Father Abraham, three 

 hundred thousand 

 This song, set 



Some ye 





the depart 



ment a 



in the 



vear 1. 



ment was 



march 





s feet" 



1 James S 





themsely 







surname is thought to have come from a 

 Scottish aftstle, "Auld Wark Upon the 

 Tweed," famed In the days of the border 

 wars. When he was quite young his people 

 moved to Illinois. His boyhood was passed 

 near Quinev in that State, and was one of 

 abject poverty, for his father was taken 

 from his family and Imprisoned because of 

 hi" strong anti-slavery views and activity 

 In this cause. In 184"'. however, he was 

 pardoned on condition he left the State of 

 Illinois. The family returned to Connecti- 

 cut, and after a short attendance at school 

 in Middletown. Henry was apprenticed to 

 Elisha Greer, a Hartford printer. Like 

 Franklin, he learned to write over the 

 printer's ease. Beyond a short term of in- 

 struction in a church singing school he had 

 no musical education. A poetic tempera- 

 ment and a gift for music were his in- 

 heritance and many of his unambitious 

 little poems found their way into the news- 

 papers before he had finished hia ap- 

 prenticeship. His first song, "We're Com- 

 ing. Sister Mary," written at Hartford and 

 sold to George Christie, of Christie's Min- 

 strels, H as the beginning of his successful 

 career as a song writer. In 1S55 he went 

 to Chicago, where he continued his trade 

 as a printer. In 1856 he married Miss 

 Sarah Parker of Hubbardston, Mass., and 

 settled at Hyfle Park. "Kingdom Coming," 

 hit first war song, was written in 1861; It 

 was difficult to find a publisher for It, but 

 once published its success was assured. 

 Another slave song of his, which had a 

 tremendous sale, was "Wake. Nioodemus." 



Mr Work realized a considerable fortune 

 from his songs and after the war took an 

 extended tour through Europe. While at 

 sea he wrote a song, "The Ship That Never 

 Returned,'' which Became tamous. X,afer 

 he wrote two temperance songs, "Come 

 Home, Father," and "King Bibbler's 

 Army." He was an inventor as well as 

 song-writer and patented several machines. 



On his return from Europe he invested 



they asked Mr. Hall to write the additional 

 stanzas." 



Glory Hallelujak! or, John Brown's Body 



By Cbirl's Sprague Hall 

 John Brown's body lies a-mould'rlng In the 

 grave, 



John Brown's hoiy lies a-mould'ring in th 



John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in the 

 grave, 



His soul is mnrching on! 

 'Chorus : 

 Glory ! glory hallelujah ! 

 Glory! glory hallelujah ! 

 Glory! glory hallelujah! 

 His soul is marching on. 



He's gone to he * soldier in the army 

 the Lord ! 

 His soul is marching on. 



John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon 

 his back. 

 His soul is marching on. 



His pet lambs will meet him on the way. 

 And they'll go marching on. 



They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple 

 tree, 



As they go marching on. 



New for the Union let's give three rousing 

 cheers, 

 As we go marching on— 

 Hip, hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! 



John Brown 



By Ednah Dean Proctor 

 John Brown died on the scaffold for the 

 slave; . . . . . 



Dark was the hour when we dug his hal- 

 lowed grave; 

 Now God avenges the life he gladly gave. 

 Freedom reigns today ! 

 Glory, glory hallelujah, 

 Glorv. gl"' y hallelujah. 

 Glorv. glory hallelujah. 

 Freedom reigns today ! 



John Brown sowed and the harvesters are 



Honor To him who has made the bondsman 

 free: 



IIMlllllllllll IIIIIII11I1II1IIIII1H1IIIU 



0 CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 



By Walt Whitman 



0 CAPTAIN! My Captain! our fearful trip is done; 

 The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is 

 The port is near, the hells I hear, the people all exulting, 

 While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; 

 But O heart! heart! heart! 



O the bleeding drops of red, 



Where on the deck my Captain lies, 

 Fallen cold and dead! 



O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 

 Rise up— for you the flag is flung— for you the bugle trills; 

 For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crow( 

 For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 

 Here, Captain! dear father! 



This arm beneath your head; 



It is some dream that on the deck 

 You've fallen cold and dead. 



My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; 

 My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will: 

 The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and do 

 From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; 

 Exult, O shores, and ring, O hells! 

 But I, with mournful tread, 



Walk the deck my Captain lies, 

 Fallen cold and dead. 



largely in a fruit-growing enterprise in 

 Vineland, N. J., but met with heavy finan- 

 cial losses. His last years were saddened 

 by his wife's insanity. He died suddenly 

 in Hartford, Conn., June 8, 18S4, and was 

 buried in Spring Grove Cemetery of that 

 city. 



several versions of John 

 > Body," a song about whose origin 

 been much discussion. Ednah 

 . -itor wrote a "John Brown" song, 

 01 gh it possessed some literary merit 

 n<: t gain popularity. Dr. Louis Albert 

 s ,ys the beginning of the song dates 

 en the Massachusetts vol- 

 i of the islands in Boston 

 • lamused themselves by adapting the 



Loved evermore shall our noble ruler be, 

 Freedom reigns today ! 



John Brown's body lies mouldering in the 

 grave ; 



Bright o'er the sod let the starry banner 



Lo! for the millions he perilled all to save. 

 Freedom reigns today! 



Right shall be victor whatever may oppose ; 

 Fresh; through thp darkness, the wind of 

 morning MoVvs— 



Freedom ' reigns today ! 



Hi 



lived 

 tock. i 

 ier thev 



abundant 

 rt of this 

 fact the : 



iolo, 



dren joined in the chorus. Kittredge at 

 once made a contract with Asa Hutch- 

 inson to properly arrange and publish the 

 song for one-half the profits. 



The Hutchinson family were just then 

 giving a series of torchlight concerts on 

 the crest of old High Rock, with the tick- 

 ets at the exceedingly popular price of live 

 cents. . . . During the day they would 

 wind balls of old cloth and soak them In 

 oils. These, placed in pans on the tops of 

 posts at intervals, would burn steadily lor 

 an hour or more, and boys stood ready to 

 replace them when they burned out. The 

 audience gathered in thousands every night 

 during this remarkable series of concerts, 

 and on the very night of the day Kittredge 

 had brought his new hymn, "Tenting 01 

 the Old Camp Ground" was sung for th 

 first time from the crest of High Rock. 



Dr. Banks's estimate of the song is large- 

 ly sentimental, for while it has always been 

 a great favorite, the military instructor 

 at one of the great technical schools 

 warned the students against ever trying the 

 experiment of tenting on an old ca 

 ground. He said that the old ca 

 ground was beautiful from a poetic stand- 

 po'nt, but exactly the opposite from the 

 point of view of sanitation. ' 

 We're tenting tonight on the old camp 

 ground : 



Give us a ;;ong to cheer 

 Our weary hearts, a song of home, 



And friends we love so dear. 



Chorus : 



Many are the hearts that are weary to- 

 night, 



Wishing for the war to cease; 

 Many are the hearts, looking for the right. 

 ( To see the dawn of peace. 

 I Tenting tonight, tenting tonight. 



Tenting on the old camp ground 



w 



been tenting tonight on the old camp 

 ground. 



Thinking of the days gone by, 



hout dis- 

 pose the 

 ed Not 



ig was pub 

 ng Post for 



disclaimed th- 

 a daughter of 



Sloan Gibbons, 

 authorship. Hi 

 Isaac T. Hoppei 



Marching Through Georgia 



By Henry Cla^r Work 

 Bring the good old bug/e, boys ! we'll sing 



another song — 

 Sing it with a spirit that will start the 



world along* — ■ 

 Sing it as we used to sing it, fiftv thousand 



strong. 



While we were marching through Georgia. 

 I Chorus : 



Hurrah, hurrah! we bring the jubilee! 

 Hurrah, hurrah ! the flag that makes vou 

 free ! 



So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the 

 While we were marching through Georgia. 



How the darkies shouted when thev heard 

 the joyful sound ! 



How the turkevs gohbled which our com- 

 missary found ! 



How the sweet potatoes even started from 

 the ground, 

 While we were marching through Georgia. 



Yes, and there were Union men who wept 



with joyful tears 

 When they saw the honored flag they had 



not seen for years; 

 Hardly could they be restrained from 



breaking forth in cheers 

 While we were marching through Georgia. 



"Sherman's dashing Yankee hovs will never 

 reach the coast !" 



So the saucy rebels said — and 'twas a hand- 

 some boast, 



Had they not forgot, alas ! to reckon on a 

 host. 



While we were marching through Georgia. 



we made a thoroughfare for Freedom 

 and her train. 

 Sixty miles in latitude three hundred to 

 the main: 



Treason fled before us, for resistance was 

 in vain, 



While we were marching through Georgia, 

 Though It ig said (hat General Sherman's 

 preference was Adjutant Byers's song, 

 "When Sherman Marched Down to the 

 Sea," yet. "Marching Through Georgia" is 

 the general favorite of the songs describing 

 that famous historical event. Its author 

 born in Middletown. Conn., Oct. 1, 

 18.12. He was o£ Scotch descent and his 



.-a„_i.-.,. , ™„M..im».in tho 



soul is marching on. 

 _ 'y, glory hallelujah, 

 His| soul is marching on — 

 to a certain air ; and adds : "The way was 

 opened for this song through a campaign 

 song heard from the lips of the Douglas 

 and Bell and Everett campaign clubs, 

 who, in order to spite Governor John A. 

 Andrew, sang the following lines as they 

 were marching through the streets of Bos- 

 ton, with their torches in hand : 

 Tell John Andrew, 

 Tell John Andrew, 

 Tell John Andrew 

 John Brown's dead. 



Salt won't save him, 

 John Brown's dead. 

 These lines are supposed to have been 

 imitation of the doggerel : 

 Tell Aunt Rhody, 

 Tell Aunt Rhody, 

 Tell Aunt Rhody 

 The old goose is dead. 



Salt won't save him. 

 The old goose is dead. 

 Great stress being laid by the opponents of 

 Governor Andrew upon the fact that John 

 Brown was dead, the authors of the song 

 spoken of took good care to assert that 

 while 



John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the 

 grave, 



His soul is marching on 

 Thi6 was the answer of the men that 

 sympathized with John Brown, a song 

 which they flung at those who seemed to 

 take delight in the fact that he was dead. 



Thane Miller of Cincinnati heard the 

 melody in a colored Presbyterian church 

 in Charleston, S. C, about 1859, and soon 

 after introduced it at a convention of the 

 Young Men's Christian Association in Al- 

 bany, N. Y., with the words : 



Say, brothers, will you meet us, 

 Say, brothers, will you meet us, 

 Sav, brothers, will you meet us, 

 On Canaan's happy shore? 

 By the grace of God we'll meet you, 

 Bv the grace of God we'll meet you, 

 By the grace of God we'll meet you, 



Where parting is no more. 

 "Professor James E. Greenleaf, organist 

 of the Harvard Church in Charlestown, 

 found the music in the archives of that 

 church, and fitted it to the first stanza of 

 the present song," says Dr. Banks. "It 

 has since been claimed that the Millerites, 

 n 1S43, used the same tune to a hymn, one 

 -erse of which is as follows : 



We'll see the angels coming 

 ' Through the old church-yards. 

 Shouting through the air 

 Glory, glory hallelujah ! 

 Whatever, may have been the origin of 

 he melody, when fitted by Greenleaf to 

 the first stanza of 'John Brown's Body,' it 

 became so great a favorite with the Glee 

 Club of the Boston Light Infantry that 



John Brown 



march:_. = 



Hail to the hou 

 gone ; 



All men will sin, 

 Freedo: 



John Brnwn d 

 is o'er, 

 Hate cannot han 



soijil through the world ts 

 oppression shall be 



Earth will 

 bore, 



Freedom I reigns 



* 



□m \ reigi 



We will rally from the WlUide, we'll gather 

 from the plain, 

 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 

 Chorus; 



The Union forever! hurra*' boys, hurrah! 

 Down with the traitor, up with the star'. 

 While we rally 'round the Rag. boys, rally 



Shouting the 'battle-cry of freedom, 



We are springing to the call of our brothers 

 gone before. _ „ 



Shouting the battle-cry of treedom, 

 And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a mil- 

 lion freemen mors. 

 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 



We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, 

 true and brave, 

 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, 

 And although he may be poor, not a man 

 shall be a slave. 

 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 



So we're springing to the call from the East 

 ftnd from the West, 

 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, 

 And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land 

 we love the best. 

 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom, 



31503. "My Maryland" was written by 

 James Ryder Randall, professor of English 

 literature at Poydras College, La. Read- 

 ing of the coming of the Massachusetts 

 Sixth to Baltimore, his native city, he 

 found that he could not Bleep, and, rising 

 from his bed about midnight, he lighted a 

 candle and went to his flesk, where, ac- 

 cording to his own words, "Some powerful 

 spirit appeared to possess me and almost 

 involuntarily I wrote the song. . . . 

 The whole poem of nine stanzas, as origi- 

 nally written, was dashed off rapidly when 

 once begun." Though Mr. Randall says 

 of the poem, "The idea appeared to take 

 shape first as music In tho brain— some 

 wild air that I cannot now recall," the 

 poem was not mated with music till some 

 weeks later. A glee club was to meet at 

 tha Cary residence in Baltimore, one even- 

 ing of the June following the writing of 

 the poem, and Miss Jennie Cary, who had 

 the programme in charge, wishing that tho 

 affair might be a success and thinking 

 some song expressive of the state of the 

 times would tend thereto, searched closely 

 her collection of music but found nothing 

 intense enough. Her sister, Hattie, later 

 the wife of Professor II. M. Murlin of 

 Johns Hopkins University, proposed they 

 should adapt the words of "My Maryland," 

 which since its publication a few days be- 

 fore had been constantly upon her lips. 

 She began to repeat the poem. "Lariger 

 Horatius," quickly exclaimed Jennie, and, 

 that night the refrain rang out without 

 pause or preparation. The air was origi- 

 nally an old German student melody used 

 for the lyric, "Tannenbaum, O Tannen- 

 baum." 



Maryland 



The despot's heel is on thy shore, 



Maryland ! 

 His torch is at thy temple door, 



Maryland ! 

 Avenge the patriotic gore 

 That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 

 And be the battle-queen of yore, 



Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



Hark to the wandering son's appeal, 



Maryland ! 

 My mother State ! to thee I kneel, 



Maryland ! 

 For life and death, for woe and weal, 

 Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 

 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 



Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 



Maryland ! 

 Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 



Maryland ! 

 Remember Carroll's sacred trust ; 

 Remember Howard's warlike thrust ; 

 And all thy slumberers with the just, 



Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 



Maryland ! 

 Ccme with thy panoplied array, 



Maryland ! 

 With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 

 With Watson's blood at Monterey, 

 With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 



Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

 Maryland ! 



Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong 



Maryland ! 

 Ccme to thine own heroic throng, 

 That stalks with Liberty along, 

 And give a new key to thy song, 



Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain, 



Maryland ! 

 Virginia should not call in vain, 



Maryland ! 

 She meets her sisters on the plain : 

 "Sie semper," 'tis the proud refrain 

 That baffles minions back a-main, 



Maryland ! 

 Arise in majesty again, 



Maryland ! my Maryland !j 



I see the blush upon thy che 



Maryland ! 

 But thou wast ever bravely m 



Maryland ! 

 But lo ! there surges forth a 1 

 From hill to hill, from creek 

 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

 tba w.tle^^tcife 1 Vnrvland! mv MarvlarAJ 



ik. 



1, nor sorrow stir him 

 the martyrdom he 



oday ! 



John Brown's bod,- lies mouldering in the 

 grave ; 



John Brown lives in the triumphs of the 



John Brown's soul not a higher joy can 



Freedom reigns today ! 

 The above is sometimes called "The Presi- 

 dent's Proclamation." It was read at a 

 meeting at Cooper Institute to indorse the 

 President, Jan. 21, 1863. 



The following song of the colored troops 

 was printed in the Missouri Democrat, a 

 strong Union paper of St. Louis, in 1863 : 

 Song of the First Arkansas Regiment 

 O! we're the bully soldiers of the First of 



Arkansaw. 

 We are fighting for the Union, we 



ing for the law ; 

 We can hit a rebel further tha 



; fight- 

 white 



! go marching 1 



See, there above the centre, where the flag 



is waving bright, 

 We are coming out of slavery, we're bound 



for freedom's light. 

 We are going to show Jeff Davis how the 



African can fight. 

 As we go marching on. 



We are done with hoeing cotton, we are 



done with hoeing corn; 

 We are colored Yankee soldiers now, as 



sure as you are born. 

 When the massas hear us yelling they will 



5 wages, the wages 



think it's 



They will have to pay 



•' of their sin ; 

 They will have to bow the forehead to their 



colored kith and kin : 

 They will have to give us house-room or 

 the roof shall tumble in. 

 As we go marching on. 



We have heard the proclamation, massp. 



hush it as he will; 

 The bird he sing it to us hopping on the 



cotton hill, 



And the 'possum up the gum tree, he 



They said. "Now, my colored brethren, you 

 shall be forever free. 



From the first of January, eighteen hun- 

 dred sixty-three." 



We heard it in the river going rushing to 

 the sea, 



As it went sounding on. 



Father Abraham has spoken, and the mes- 

 sage he has sent ; 



The prison doors he opened, and out the 

 prisoners went, 



To join the sable army of the African de- 

 scent. 



As it goes marching on. 



Then fall in. colored brethren, you had bet- 

 ter do it soon ; 



Don't you hear the drum a-beating the 

 "Yankee Doodle," tune? 



We. are with you now this morning, we'll 

 be far away at noon, 

 As we go marching on. 



The Battle-Cry of Freedom 



By George F. Root 

 Yes, we'll rally 'round the flag, hoys, we'll 

 rally once again, 

 Shouting the battle-cry of freedo 



Their choicest treasures then display, 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

 And let each one perform some part, 

 To fill with joy the warrior's heart; 



And we'll all feel gay, 

 When Johnny comes marching home. 



3626. 



Just Before the Battle, Mother 



By George F. Root 

 Just before the battle, mother, 



I am thinking most of you. 

 While upon the field we're watching, 



With the enemy in view — 

 Comrades brave are round me lying, 



Filled with thought of home and God ; 

 For well they know that on the morrow 



Some will sleep beneath the sod. 

 Refrain ; 

 Farewell, mother, you may never 



Press me to your heart again ; 

 But oh. you'll not forget me, mother, 



If I'm numbered with the slain. 



Oh, I long to see you, mother, 



And the loving ones at home, 

 But I'll never leave our banner 



Till in honor I can come. 

 Tell the traitors all around you 



That their cruel words, we know, 

 In ev'rv battle kill our soldiers 



By the help they give the foe. 



Hark ! I hear the bugle sounding, 



'Tis the signal for the fight. 

 Now tm.--. Gr,.., ,,r,^l us. mother 



1 18! 



Maryland. April 4, 1S25; early In life I 

 ised medicine in San Francisco; later ha 

 sd in New York eity, devoting himself. 



1S70, to general licerature. ' Stonewall 

 ;o:t : s Way" was written at Oakland, Mary- 

 on the 17th of September, 1862, while the 

 was in progress. Dr. Palmer 



Come, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails, 



Stir up the camp-fire bright ; 

 No growling if the canteen fails, 



We'll make a roaring night. 

 Hare Shenandoah brawls along, 

 There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong. 

 To swell the Brigade's rousing song 

 Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." 



We see him now — the queer slouched hat 



Cocked o'er his eye askew; 

 The shrewd, dry smile ; the speech so pat, 



So calm, so blunt, so true, 

 The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well ; 

 Says he "That's Banks— he's fond of shell j 

 Lord save his soul ! we'll give him — " well! 



That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 



Silence ! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off '. 



Old Massa's goin' to pray. 

 Strangle the fool that dares to scoff ! 



Attention ! it's his way. 

 Appealing from his native sod, 

 In forma pauperis to God : 

 'Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy 

 rod '. 



Amen '." That's "Stonewall Jackson s 

 way." 



Thou wilt not yield the vanda 1 toll, 



Maryland I 

 Thou wilt not crook to his c jntrol. 



Maryland ! 

 Better the fire upon thee roll 

 Better the blade, the shot, tie bowl, 

 Than crucifixion of the soul. 



Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



I hear the distant thunder hum, 



Maryland ! 

 The old line's bugle, fife and drum, 



Maryland ! 

 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 

 Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 

 &he breathes — she burns ! she'll come, she'll 



Maryland !. my Maryland ! 

 The above version is from Epes Sargent's 

 "Cyclopedia of British and American Po- 

 etry." Stedman's "American Anthology" 

 gives a slightly different version, in which 

 the stanza beginning : 

 Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain 

 comes fifth instead of sixth, and that be- 

 ginning 



Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

 is the sixth instead of fifth stanza, whose 

 sixth line reads : 



And chant thy deathless slogan-song. 

 3613. 



When Johnny Comes Marching Home 



By Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore 

 When Johnny comes marching home again 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

 We'll give him a hearty welcome then, 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

 The men will cheer, the boys will shout, 

 The ladies, they will all turn out, 



And we'll all feel gay, 

 When Johnny comes marching home. 



The old church-bell will peal with joy. 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

 To welcome home our darling boy, 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

 The village lads and lassies say, 

 With roses they will strew the way ; 



And we'll all feel gay, 

 When Johnny comes marching home. 



Get ready for the jubilee. 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

 W T e'U give the hero three times three, 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

 The laurel-wreath is ready now 

 To place upon his loyal brow. 



And we'll all feel gay, 

 When Johnny comes marching home. 



1 that day, 



1 



As he ever does the right 

 Hear the "Battle Cry of Freedom"* 



How it swells upon the air. 

 Oh, yes. we'll rally round the standard, 

 Or we'll perish nobly there. 



• In some divisions of the army "The Battle 

 Cry of Freedom" was sung, when going into 

 action, by order of commanding officers. 



"Just Before the Battle, Mother," ap- 

 peared in 1863, and attained great popu- 

 larity; its sequel was also popular. 



Just After the Battle 



By George F. Root 

 Still upon the field of battle 



I am lying, mother dear, 

 With my wounded comrades, waiting 



For the morning to appear. 

 Many sleep to waken never, 



In this world of strife and death. 

 And many more are faintly calling, 



With their feeble, dying breath. 

 Refrain : 



Mother, dear, your boy ts wounded. 

 And the night is drear with pain, 



But still I feel that I shall see you, 

 And the dear old home again. 



Oh, the first great charge was fearful, 



And a thousand brave men fell, 

 Still, amid the dreadful carnage, 



I was safe from shot and shell. 

 So. amid the fatal shower, 



I had nearly pass'd the day, 

 When here the dreaded minie struck me. 



And I sunk amid the fray. 



Oh. the glorious cheer of triumph, 



When the foemen turn'd and fled, 

 Leaving us the field of battle, 



Strewn with dying and with dead. 

 Oh, the torture and the anguish. 



That I could not follow on. 

 But here amid mv fallen comrades, 



I must wait till morning's dawn. 

 The author of the above songs has, per- 

 haps, written more popular war songs than 

 anv other American, He was born in Shef- 

 field, Mass., in 1S20, and was a musician 

 from childhood. At the age of eighteen 

 he left home and came to Boston to gain 

 instruction in music, which he had already 

 decided should be his life-work. A music 

 teacher, A. B Johnson, not only gave him 

 employment, but took him into his own 

 home. He soon became a partner in Mr. 

 Johnson's school and the leader of several 

 church choirs. Later on he went to New 

 York and became principal of the Abbott 

 Institute. In 1850 he spent a year in 

 Europe in special musical improvement. 

 It was about this time that he began to 

 write songs. In this he was successful from 

 the first, and soon won such wide recogni- 

 tion that Mason and Bradbury, then the 

 great music publishers of the day, secured 

 in the making of church music 

 books. He left off teaching to devote him- 

 self to composition and holding great musi- 

 cal conventions. At the breaking out of the 

 war Dr. Root was in Chicago, and from 

 that city he sent the many songs that 

 thrilled and still thrill the hearts 

 the people. "The Battle Cry of FreedOM" 

 is the most famous of his songs, but the 

 prison song of "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp," Is 

 almost as popular. 



3628. 



Stonewall Jackson's Way 



By John Wllllatnwn Palmer 

 uthor of thie poem was born In Main 



Hill's at the ford, cut off ; we'll win 



His way out. ball and blade! 

 What matter if our shoes are worn? 

 What matter if our feet i-re torn? 

 "Quick step ! we're with him before morn !" 

 That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 



The sun's bright lances rout the mists 



Of morning, and, by George ! 

 Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, 



Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 

 Pope and his Dutchmen whipped before ; 

 "Bay'nets and grape !" hear Stonewall 



Ah ! Maiden, wait and watch and yean 

 For news of Stonewall's band ! 



Ah ! Widow, read with eyes that burn, 

 That ring upon thy hand. 



Ah ! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on ; 



Thy life shall not be all forlorn; 



The foe had better ne'er been born 

 That gets in "Stonewall's way." 



Babylon Is Fallen! 



SEQUEL TO "KINGDOM COMING" 

 By Henry Clay Work 

 Don't you see de black clouds 

 Risin' ober yonder. 

 Whar de massa's ole plantation am? 

 Nebber you be frightened, 

 Dem is only darkeys, 

 Come to jine an' fight for Uncle Sam. 



Chorus : 



Lok out dar, now ! 



We's a gwine to shoot, 

 Look out dar, don't you understand? 



O don't you know dat 



Babylon is fallen! 



Babylon Is fallen ! 

 And we's gwine to occupy de land. 



Don't you see de lightnln' 



Flashin' in de canebrake, 

 Like as if we're gwine to hab a storm? 



No ! you is mistaken, 

 'Tis de darkles' bay'nets. 

 An' de buttons on dar uniform. 



Way up in de cornfield, 



Whar you hear de tunder, 

 Dat is our ole forty-pounder gun ; 



When de shells are missin', 



Dan we load wid punklns, 

 All de same to make de cowards run. 



Massa was de kernel 



In de rebel army, 

 Ebber sence he went an' run away ; 



But his lubly darkeys, , 



Dey has been a-watchin", 

 An' dey take him pris'ner tudder day. 



We will be de massa, 



He will be de sarvaut — 

 Try him how he like it for a spell; 



So we crack de Butt 'nuts. 



So we take de Kernel. 

 So de cannon carry back de shell, 



Several songs requested will appear In t!i 

 department lai?r. Thanks are due "Fall River, 

 M. L. D., and other readers, tor sending man 

 . r ' r.^ pr.pms. ^^—^—^ 



