Room for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole perches:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the bee will dine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the rain will rain upon it.Busy as the busy bee, his rest should be the clover;Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full oftenOut of those tender eyes which evermore did soften;He never could look cold, till we saw him in his coffin:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the wind may sigh upon it,Where the moon may stream upon it,And Memory shall dream upon it."Captain or Colonel,"—whatever invocationSuit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!Long as the sun doth shine upon itShall grow the goodly pine upon it,Long as the stars do gleam upon itShall Memory come to dream upon it.Thomas William Parsons.
Room for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole perches:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the bee will dine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the rain will rain upon it.Busy as the busy bee, his rest should be the clover;Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full oftenOut of those tender eyes which evermore did soften;He never could look cold, till we saw him in his coffin:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the wind may sigh upon it,Where the moon may stream upon it,And Memory shall dream upon it."Captain or Colonel,"—whatever invocationSuit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!Long as the sun doth shine upon itShall grow the goodly pine upon it,Long as the stars do gleam upon itShall Memory come to dream upon it.Thomas William Parsons.
Room for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.
Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole perches:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the bee will dine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the rain will rain upon it.
Busy as the busy bee, his rest should be the clover;Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.
Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full oftenOut of those tender eyes which evermore did soften;He never could look cold, till we saw him in his coffin:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the wind may sigh upon it,Where the moon may stream upon it,And Memory shall dream upon it.
"Captain or Colonel,"—whatever invocationSuit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!Long as the sun doth shine upon itShall grow the goodly pine upon it,Long as the stars do gleam upon itShall Memory come to dream upon it.
Thomas William Parsons.
About fifty thousand Union troops had meanwhile been collected along the Potomac—a force which seemed to most people at the North quite sufficient to crush the rebellion. "On to Richmond!" was the cry, and popular clamor demanded that the advance be begun at once.
About fifty thousand Union troops had meanwhile been collected along the Potomac—a force which seemed to most people at the North quite sufficient to crush the rebellion. "On to Richmond!" was the cry, and popular clamor demanded that the advance be begun at once.
WAIT FOR THE WAGON
[July 1, 1861]
A hundred thousand Northmen,In glittering war array,Shout, "Onward now to Richmond!We'll brook no more delay;Why give the traitors time and meansTo fortify the wayWith stolen guns, in ambuscades?Oh! answer us, we pray."Chorus of Chieftains—You must wait for the wagons,The real army wagons,The fat contract wagons,Bought in the red-tape way.Now, if for army wagons,Not for compromise you wait,Just ask them of the farmersOf any Union state;And if you need ten thousand,Sound, sound, though second-hand,You'll find upon the instantA supply for your demand.Chorus—No! wait for the wagons,The new army wagons,The fat contract wagons,Till the fifteenth of July.No swindling fat contractorsShall block the people's way,Nor rebel compromisers—'Tis treason's reckoning day.Then shout again our war-cry,To Richmond onward move!We now can crush the traitors,And that we mean to prove!Chorus—No! wait for the wagons,The fat contract wagons;If red-tape so wills it,Wait till the Judgment-day.
A hundred thousand Northmen,In glittering war array,Shout, "Onward now to Richmond!We'll brook no more delay;Why give the traitors time and meansTo fortify the wayWith stolen guns, in ambuscades?Oh! answer us, we pray."Chorus of Chieftains—You must wait for the wagons,The real army wagons,The fat contract wagons,Bought in the red-tape way.Now, if for army wagons,Not for compromise you wait,Just ask them of the farmersOf any Union state;And if you need ten thousand,Sound, sound, though second-hand,You'll find upon the instantA supply for your demand.Chorus—No! wait for the wagons,The new army wagons,The fat contract wagons,Till the fifteenth of July.No swindling fat contractorsShall block the people's way,Nor rebel compromisers—'Tis treason's reckoning day.Then shout again our war-cry,To Richmond onward move!We now can crush the traitors,And that we mean to prove!Chorus—No! wait for the wagons,The fat contract wagons;If red-tape so wills it,Wait till the Judgment-day.
A hundred thousand Northmen,In glittering war array,Shout, "Onward now to Richmond!We'll brook no more delay;Why give the traitors time and meansTo fortify the wayWith stolen guns, in ambuscades?Oh! answer us, we pray."Chorus of Chieftains—You must wait for the wagons,The real army wagons,The fat contract wagons,Bought in the red-tape way.
Now, if for army wagons,Not for compromise you wait,Just ask them of the farmersOf any Union state;And if you need ten thousand,Sound, sound, though second-hand,You'll find upon the instantA supply for your demand.Chorus—No! wait for the wagons,The new army wagons,The fat contract wagons,Till the fifteenth of July.
No swindling fat contractorsShall block the people's way,Nor rebel compromisers—'Tis treason's reckoning day.Then shout again our war-cry,To Richmond onward move!We now can crush the traitors,And that we mean to prove!Chorus—No! wait for the wagons,The fat contract wagons;If red-tape so wills it,Wait till the Judgment-day.
During the months of June and July, the Confederate forces had been assembling at Manassas Junction, about thirty miles from Washington. General Beauregard was in command, and had distributed them along a little stream called Bull Run, where they had thrown up strong intrenchments. On July 15, 1861, yielding to the popular clamor, General Scott ordered the forward movement of the Union army. On July 17 the army reached Fairfax Court-House, and next day a division moved forward to Centreville and attacked the Confederates intrenched along Bull Run. A sharp engagement resulted, and the Federals fell back.At two o'clock on the morning of Sunday, July 21, 1861, the Union Army again moved forward for a grand attack. Each army numbered about thirty thousand men. The skirmishers soon got into touch, and the Confederates were driven back, but were rallied by the example of General T. J. Jackson, who with his brigade was "standing like a stonewall," as General Bee exclaimed, giving him his immortal sobriquet. The Union advance was checked, heavy reinforcements came up for the Confederates, and the Union regiments were finally swept from the field.
During the months of June and July, the Confederate forces had been assembling at Manassas Junction, about thirty miles from Washington. General Beauregard was in command, and had distributed them along a little stream called Bull Run, where they had thrown up strong intrenchments. On July 15, 1861, yielding to the popular clamor, General Scott ordered the forward movement of the Union army. On July 17 the army reached Fairfax Court-House, and next day a division moved forward to Centreville and attacked the Confederates intrenched along Bull Run. A sharp engagement resulted, and the Federals fell back.
At two o'clock on the morning of Sunday, July 21, 1861, the Union Army again moved forward for a grand attack. Each army numbered about thirty thousand men. The skirmishers soon got into touch, and the Confederates were driven back, but were rallied by the example of General T. J. Jackson, who with his brigade was "standing like a stonewall," as General Bee exclaimed, giving him his immortal sobriquet. The Union advance was checked, heavy reinforcements came up for the Confederates, and the Union regiments were finally swept from the field.
UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE
[July 21, 1861]
I'll tell you what I heard that day:I heard the great guns far away,Boom after boom. Their sullen soundShook all the shuddering air around;And shook, ah me! my shrinking ear,And downward shook the hanging tearThat, in despite of manhood's pride,Rolled o'er my face a scalding tide.And then I prayed. O God! I prayed,As never stricken saint, who laidHis hot cheek to the holy tombOf Jesus, in the midnight gloom."What saw I?" Little. Clouds of dust;Great squares of men, with standards thrustAgainst their course; dense columns crownedWith billowing steel. Then bound on bound,The long black lines of cannon pouredBehind the horses, streaked and goredWith sweaty speed. Anon shot by,Like a lone meteor of the sky,A single horseman; and he shoneHis bright face on me, and was gone.All these with rolling drums, with cheers,With songs familiar to my ears,Passed under the far-hanging cloud,And vanished, and my heart was proud!For mile on mile the line of warExtended; and a steady roar,As of some distant stormy sea,On the south wind came up to me.And high in air, and over all,Grew, like a fog, that murky pall,Beneath whose gloom of dusty smokeThe cannon flamed, the bombshell broke.And the sharp rattling volley rang,And shrapnel roared, and bullets sang,And fierce-eyed men, with panting breath,Toiled onward at the work of death.I could not see, but knew too well,That underneath that cloud of hell,Which still grew more by great degrees,Man strove with man in deeds like these.But when the sun had passed his standAt noon, behold! on every handThe dark brown vapor backward bore,And fainter came the dreadful roarFrom the huge sea of striving men.Thus spoke my rising spirit then:"Take comfort from that dying sound,Faint heart, the foe is giving ground!"And one, who taxed his horse's powers,Flung at me, "Ho! the day is ours!"And scoured along. So swift his pace,I took no memory of his face.Then turned I once again to Heaven;All things appeared so just and even;So clearly from the highest CauseTraced I the downward-working laws—Those moral springs, made evident,In the grand, triumph-crowned event.So half I shouted, and half sang,Like Jephtha's daughter, to the clangOf my spread, cymbal-striking palms,Some fragments of thanksgiving psalms.Meanwhile a solemn stillness fellUpon the land. O'er hill and dellFailed every sound. My heart stood still,Waiting before some coming ill.The silence was more sad and dread,Under that canopy of lead,Than the wild tumult of the warThat raged a little while before.All Nature, in her work of death,Paused for one last, despairing breath;And, cowering to the earth, I drewFrom her strong breast my strength anew.When I arose, I wondering sawAnother dusty vapor draw,From the far right, its sluggish wayToward the main cloud, that frowning layAgainst the western sloping sun:And all the war was re-begun,Ere this fresh marvel of my senseCaught from my mind significance.And then—why ask me? O my God!Would I had lain beneath the sod,A patient clod, for many a day,And from my bones and mouldering clayThe rank field grass and flowers had sprung,Ere the base sight, that struck and stungMy very soul, confronted me,Shamed at my own humanity.O happy dead! who early fell,Ye have no wretched tale to tellOf causeless fear and coward flight,Of victory snatched beneath your sight,Of martial strength and honor lost,Of mere life bought at any cost,Of the deep, lingering mark of shame,Forever scorched on brow and name,That no new deeds, however bright,Shall banish from men's loathful sight!Ye perished in your conscious pride,Ere this vile scandal opened wideA wound that cannot close nor heal.Ye perished steel to levelled steel,Stern votaries of the god of war,Filled with his godhead to the core!Ye died to live, these lived to die,Beneath the scorn of every eye!How eloquent your voices soundFrom the low chambers under ground!How clear each separate title burnsFrom your high-set and laurelled urns!While these, who walk about the earth,Are blushing at their very birth!And, though they talk, and go, and come,Their moving lips are worse than dumb.Ye sleep beneath the valley's dew,And all the nation mourns for you;So sleep till God shall wake the lands!For angels, armed with fiery brands,Await to take you by the hands.The right-hand vapor broader grew;It rose, and joined itself untoThe main cloud with a sudden dash.Loud and more near the cannon's crashCame toward me, and I heard a soundAs if all hell had broken bound—A cry of agony and fear.Still the dark vapor rolled more near,Till at my very feet it tossed,The vanward fragments of our host.Can man, Thy image, sink so low,Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bowAcross the storm and raging main;Whose laws both loosen and restrainThe powers of earth, without whose willNo sparrow's little life is still?Was fear of hell, or want of faith,Or the brute's common dread of deathThe passion that began a chase,Whose goal was ruin and disgrace?What tongue the fearful sight may tell?What horrid nightmare ever fellUpon the restless sleep of crime—What history of another time—What dismal vision, darkly seenBy the stern-featured Florentine,Can give a hint to dimly drawThe likeness of the scene I saw?I saw, yet saw not. In that sea,That chaos of humanity,No more the eye could catch and keepA single point, than on the deepThe eye may mark a single wave,Where hurrying myriads leap and rave.Men of all arms, and all costumes,Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes;Soldiers and officers, and thoseWho wore but civil-suited clothes;On foot or mounted—some bestrodeSteeds severed from their harnessed load;Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars,Of wounded, red with bleeding scars;The whole grim panoply of warSurged on me with a deafening roar!All shades of fear, disfiguring man,Glared through their faces' brazen tan.Not one a moment paused, or stoodTo see what enemy pursued.With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain,With every muscle on the strain,Onward the struggling masses bore.Oh! had the foemen lain before,They'd trampled them to dust and gore,And swept their lines and batteriesAs autumn sweeps the windy trees!Here one cast forth his wounded friend,And with his sword or musket-endUrged on the horses; there one trodUpon the likeness of his God,As if 'twere dust; a coward hereGrew valiant with his very fear,And struck his weaker comrade prone,And struggled to the front alone.All had one purpose, one sole aim,That mocked the decency of shame,—To fly, by any means to fly;They cared not how, they asked not why.I found a voice. My burning bloodFlamed up. Upon a mound I stood;I could no more restrain my voiceThan could the prophet of God's choice."Back, animated dirt!" I cried,"Back, on your wretched lives, and hideYour shame beneath your native clay!Or if the foe affrights you, slayYour own base selves; and, dying, leaveYour children's tearful cheeks to grieve,Not quail and blush, when you shall come,Alive, to their degraded home!Your wives will look askance with scorn;Your boys, and infants yet unborn,Will curse you to God's holy face!Heaven holds no pardon in its graceFor cowards. Oh! are such as yeThe guardians of our liberty?Back, if one trace of manhood stillMay nerve your arm and brace your will!You stain your country in the eyesOf Europe and her monarchies!The despots laugh, the peoples groan;Man's cause is lost and overthrown!I curse you, by the sacred bloodThat freely poured its purple floodDown Bunker's heights, on Monmouth's plain,From Georgia to the rocks of Maine!I curse you, by the patriot bandWhose bones are crumbling in the land!By those who saved what these had wonIn the high name of Washington!"Then I remember little more.As the tide's rising waves, that pourOver some low and rounded rock,The coming mass, with one great shock,Flowed o'er the shelter of my mound,And raised me helpless from the ground.As the huge shouldering billows bear,Half in the sea and half in air,A swimmer on their foaming crest,So the foul throng beneath me pressed,Swept me along, with curse and blow,And flung me—where, I ne'er shall know.When I awoke, a steady rainMade rivulets across the plain;And it was dark—oh, very dark.I was so stunned as scarce to markThe ghostly figures of the trees,Or hear the sobbing of the breezeThat flung the wet leaves to and fro.Upon me lay a dismal woe,A boundless, superhuman grief,That drew no promise of reliefFrom any hope. Then I arose,As one who struggles up from blowsBy unseen hands; and as I stoodAlone, I thought that God was good,To hide, in clouds and driving rain,Our low world from the angel train,Whose souls filled heroes when the earthWas worthy of their noble birth.By that dull instinct of the mind,Which leads aright the helpless blind,I struggled onward, till the dawnAcross the eastern clouds had drawnA narrow line of watery gray;And full before my vision layThe great dome's gaunt and naked bonesBeneath whose crown the nation thronesHer queenly person. On I stole,With hanging head and abject soul,Across the high embattled ridge,And o'er the arches of the bridge.So freshly pricked my sharp disgrace,I feared to meet the human face,Skulking, as any woman might,Who'd lost her virtue in the night,And sees the dreadful glare of dayPrepare to light her homeward way,Alone, heart-broken, shamed, undone,I staggered into Washington!Since then long sluggish days have passed,And on the wings of every blastHave come the distant nations' sneersTo tingle in our blushing ears.In woe and ashes, as was meet,We wore the penitential sheet.But now I breathe a purer air,And from the depths of my despairAwaken to a cheering morn,Just breaking through the night forlorn,A morn of hopeful victory.Awake, my countrymen, with me!Redeem the honor which you lost.With any blood, at any cost!I ask not how the war began,Nor how the quarrel branched and ranTo this dread height. The wrong or rightStands clear before God's faultless sight.I only feel the shameful blow,I only see the scornful foe,And vengeance burns in every veinTo die, or wipe away the stain.The war-wise hero of the west,Wearing his glories as a crest,Of trophies gathered in your sight,Is arming for the coming fight.Full well his wisdom apprehendsThe duty and its mighty ends;The great occasion of the hour,That never lay in human powerSince over Yorktown's tented plainThe red cross fell, nor rose again.My humble pledge of faith I lay,Dear comrade of my school-boy day,Before thee, in the nation's view,And if thy prophet prove untrue,And from our country's grasp be thrownThe sceptre and the starry crown.And thou, and all thy marshalled hostBe baffled and in ruin lost;Oh! let me not outlive the blowThat seals my country's overthrow!And, lest this woful end come true,Men of the North, I turn to you.Display your vaunted flag once more,Southward your eager columns pour!Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum;From every hill and valley come.Old men, yield up your treasured gold!Can liberty be priced and sold?Fair matrons, maids, and tender bridesGird weapons to your lovers' sides;And though your hearts break at the deed,Give them your blessing and God-speed;Then point them to the field of flame,With words like those of Sparta's dame;And when the ranks are full and strong,And the whole army moves along,A vast result of care and skill,Obedient to the master will;And your young hero draws the sword,And gives the last commanding wordThat hurls your strength upon the foe—Oh! let them need no second blow.Strike, as your fathers struck of old;Through summer's heat, and winter's cold;Through pain, disaster, and defeat;Through marches tracked with bloody feet;Through every ill that could befallThe holy cause that bound them all!Strike as they struck for liberty!Strike as they struck to make you free!Strike for the crown of victory!George Henry Boker.
I'll tell you what I heard that day:I heard the great guns far away,Boom after boom. Their sullen soundShook all the shuddering air around;And shook, ah me! my shrinking ear,And downward shook the hanging tearThat, in despite of manhood's pride,Rolled o'er my face a scalding tide.And then I prayed. O God! I prayed,As never stricken saint, who laidHis hot cheek to the holy tombOf Jesus, in the midnight gloom."What saw I?" Little. Clouds of dust;Great squares of men, with standards thrustAgainst their course; dense columns crownedWith billowing steel. Then bound on bound,The long black lines of cannon pouredBehind the horses, streaked and goredWith sweaty speed. Anon shot by,Like a lone meteor of the sky,A single horseman; and he shoneHis bright face on me, and was gone.All these with rolling drums, with cheers,With songs familiar to my ears,Passed under the far-hanging cloud,And vanished, and my heart was proud!For mile on mile the line of warExtended; and a steady roar,As of some distant stormy sea,On the south wind came up to me.And high in air, and over all,Grew, like a fog, that murky pall,Beneath whose gloom of dusty smokeThe cannon flamed, the bombshell broke.And the sharp rattling volley rang,And shrapnel roared, and bullets sang,And fierce-eyed men, with panting breath,Toiled onward at the work of death.I could not see, but knew too well,That underneath that cloud of hell,Which still grew more by great degrees,Man strove with man in deeds like these.But when the sun had passed his standAt noon, behold! on every handThe dark brown vapor backward bore,And fainter came the dreadful roarFrom the huge sea of striving men.Thus spoke my rising spirit then:"Take comfort from that dying sound,Faint heart, the foe is giving ground!"And one, who taxed his horse's powers,Flung at me, "Ho! the day is ours!"And scoured along. So swift his pace,I took no memory of his face.Then turned I once again to Heaven;All things appeared so just and even;So clearly from the highest CauseTraced I the downward-working laws—Those moral springs, made evident,In the grand, triumph-crowned event.So half I shouted, and half sang,Like Jephtha's daughter, to the clangOf my spread, cymbal-striking palms,Some fragments of thanksgiving psalms.Meanwhile a solemn stillness fellUpon the land. O'er hill and dellFailed every sound. My heart stood still,Waiting before some coming ill.The silence was more sad and dread,Under that canopy of lead,Than the wild tumult of the warThat raged a little while before.All Nature, in her work of death,Paused for one last, despairing breath;And, cowering to the earth, I drewFrom her strong breast my strength anew.When I arose, I wondering sawAnother dusty vapor draw,From the far right, its sluggish wayToward the main cloud, that frowning layAgainst the western sloping sun:And all the war was re-begun,Ere this fresh marvel of my senseCaught from my mind significance.And then—why ask me? O my God!Would I had lain beneath the sod,A patient clod, for many a day,And from my bones and mouldering clayThe rank field grass and flowers had sprung,Ere the base sight, that struck and stungMy very soul, confronted me,Shamed at my own humanity.O happy dead! who early fell,Ye have no wretched tale to tellOf causeless fear and coward flight,Of victory snatched beneath your sight,Of martial strength and honor lost,Of mere life bought at any cost,Of the deep, lingering mark of shame,Forever scorched on brow and name,That no new deeds, however bright,Shall banish from men's loathful sight!Ye perished in your conscious pride,Ere this vile scandal opened wideA wound that cannot close nor heal.Ye perished steel to levelled steel,Stern votaries of the god of war,Filled with his godhead to the core!Ye died to live, these lived to die,Beneath the scorn of every eye!How eloquent your voices soundFrom the low chambers under ground!How clear each separate title burnsFrom your high-set and laurelled urns!While these, who walk about the earth,Are blushing at their very birth!And, though they talk, and go, and come,Their moving lips are worse than dumb.Ye sleep beneath the valley's dew,And all the nation mourns for you;So sleep till God shall wake the lands!For angels, armed with fiery brands,Await to take you by the hands.The right-hand vapor broader grew;It rose, and joined itself untoThe main cloud with a sudden dash.Loud and more near the cannon's crashCame toward me, and I heard a soundAs if all hell had broken bound—A cry of agony and fear.Still the dark vapor rolled more near,Till at my very feet it tossed,The vanward fragments of our host.Can man, Thy image, sink so low,Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bowAcross the storm and raging main;Whose laws both loosen and restrainThe powers of earth, without whose willNo sparrow's little life is still?Was fear of hell, or want of faith,Or the brute's common dread of deathThe passion that began a chase,Whose goal was ruin and disgrace?What tongue the fearful sight may tell?What horrid nightmare ever fellUpon the restless sleep of crime—What history of another time—What dismal vision, darkly seenBy the stern-featured Florentine,Can give a hint to dimly drawThe likeness of the scene I saw?I saw, yet saw not. In that sea,That chaos of humanity,No more the eye could catch and keepA single point, than on the deepThe eye may mark a single wave,Where hurrying myriads leap and rave.Men of all arms, and all costumes,Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes;Soldiers and officers, and thoseWho wore but civil-suited clothes;On foot or mounted—some bestrodeSteeds severed from their harnessed load;Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars,Of wounded, red with bleeding scars;The whole grim panoply of warSurged on me with a deafening roar!All shades of fear, disfiguring man,Glared through their faces' brazen tan.Not one a moment paused, or stoodTo see what enemy pursued.With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain,With every muscle on the strain,Onward the struggling masses bore.Oh! had the foemen lain before,They'd trampled them to dust and gore,And swept their lines and batteriesAs autumn sweeps the windy trees!Here one cast forth his wounded friend,And with his sword or musket-endUrged on the horses; there one trodUpon the likeness of his God,As if 'twere dust; a coward hereGrew valiant with his very fear,And struck his weaker comrade prone,And struggled to the front alone.All had one purpose, one sole aim,That mocked the decency of shame,—To fly, by any means to fly;They cared not how, they asked not why.I found a voice. My burning bloodFlamed up. Upon a mound I stood;I could no more restrain my voiceThan could the prophet of God's choice."Back, animated dirt!" I cried,"Back, on your wretched lives, and hideYour shame beneath your native clay!Or if the foe affrights you, slayYour own base selves; and, dying, leaveYour children's tearful cheeks to grieve,Not quail and blush, when you shall come,Alive, to their degraded home!Your wives will look askance with scorn;Your boys, and infants yet unborn,Will curse you to God's holy face!Heaven holds no pardon in its graceFor cowards. Oh! are such as yeThe guardians of our liberty?Back, if one trace of manhood stillMay nerve your arm and brace your will!You stain your country in the eyesOf Europe and her monarchies!The despots laugh, the peoples groan;Man's cause is lost and overthrown!I curse you, by the sacred bloodThat freely poured its purple floodDown Bunker's heights, on Monmouth's plain,From Georgia to the rocks of Maine!I curse you, by the patriot bandWhose bones are crumbling in the land!By those who saved what these had wonIn the high name of Washington!"Then I remember little more.As the tide's rising waves, that pourOver some low and rounded rock,The coming mass, with one great shock,Flowed o'er the shelter of my mound,And raised me helpless from the ground.As the huge shouldering billows bear,Half in the sea and half in air,A swimmer on their foaming crest,So the foul throng beneath me pressed,Swept me along, with curse and blow,And flung me—where, I ne'er shall know.When I awoke, a steady rainMade rivulets across the plain;And it was dark—oh, very dark.I was so stunned as scarce to markThe ghostly figures of the trees,Or hear the sobbing of the breezeThat flung the wet leaves to and fro.Upon me lay a dismal woe,A boundless, superhuman grief,That drew no promise of reliefFrom any hope. Then I arose,As one who struggles up from blowsBy unseen hands; and as I stoodAlone, I thought that God was good,To hide, in clouds and driving rain,Our low world from the angel train,Whose souls filled heroes when the earthWas worthy of their noble birth.By that dull instinct of the mind,Which leads aright the helpless blind,I struggled onward, till the dawnAcross the eastern clouds had drawnA narrow line of watery gray;And full before my vision layThe great dome's gaunt and naked bonesBeneath whose crown the nation thronesHer queenly person. On I stole,With hanging head and abject soul,Across the high embattled ridge,And o'er the arches of the bridge.So freshly pricked my sharp disgrace,I feared to meet the human face,Skulking, as any woman might,Who'd lost her virtue in the night,And sees the dreadful glare of dayPrepare to light her homeward way,Alone, heart-broken, shamed, undone,I staggered into Washington!Since then long sluggish days have passed,And on the wings of every blastHave come the distant nations' sneersTo tingle in our blushing ears.In woe and ashes, as was meet,We wore the penitential sheet.But now I breathe a purer air,And from the depths of my despairAwaken to a cheering morn,Just breaking through the night forlorn,A morn of hopeful victory.Awake, my countrymen, with me!Redeem the honor which you lost.With any blood, at any cost!I ask not how the war began,Nor how the quarrel branched and ranTo this dread height. The wrong or rightStands clear before God's faultless sight.I only feel the shameful blow,I only see the scornful foe,And vengeance burns in every veinTo die, or wipe away the stain.The war-wise hero of the west,Wearing his glories as a crest,Of trophies gathered in your sight,Is arming for the coming fight.Full well his wisdom apprehendsThe duty and its mighty ends;The great occasion of the hour,That never lay in human powerSince over Yorktown's tented plainThe red cross fell, nor rose again.My humble pledge of faith I lay,Dear comrade of my school-boy day,Before thee, in the nation's view,And if thy prophet prove untrue,And from our country's grasp be thrownThe sceptre and the starry crown.And thou, and all thy marshalled hostBe baffled and in ruin lost;Oh! let me not outlive the blowThat seals my country's overthrow!And, lest this woful end come true,Men of the North, I turn to you.Display your vaunted flag once more,Southward your eager columns pour!Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum;From every hill and valley come.Old men, yield up your treasured gold!Can liberty be priced and sold?Fair matrons, maids, and tender bridesGird weapons to your lovers' sides;And though your hearts break at the deed,Give them your blessing and God-speed;Then point them to the field of flame,With words like those of Sparta's dame;And when the ranks are full and strong,And the whole army moves along,A vast result of care and skill,Obedient to the master will;And your young hero draws the sword,And gives the last commanding wordThat hurls your strength upon the foe—Oh! let them need no second blow.Strike, as your fathers struck of old;Through summer's heat, and winter's cold;Through pain, disaster, and defeat;Through marches tracked with bloody feet;Through every ill that could befallThe holy cause that bound them all!Strike as they struck for liberty!Strike as they struck to make you free!Strike for the crown of victory!George Henry Boker.
I'll tell you what I heard that day:I heard the great guns far away,Boom after boom. Their sullen soundShook all the shuddering air around;And shook, ah me! my shrinking ear,And downward shook the hanging tearThat, in despite of manhood's pride,Rolled o'er my face a scalding tide.And then I prayed. O God! I prayed,As never stricken saint, who laidHis hot cheek to the holy tombOf Jesus, in the midnight gloom.
"What saw I?" Little. Clouds of dust;Great squares of men, with standards thrustAgainst their course; dense columns crownedWith billowing steel. Then bound on bound,The long black lines of cannon pouredBehind the horses, streaked and goredWith sweaty speed. Anon shot by,Like a lone meteor of the sky,A single horseman; and he shoneHis bright face on me, and was gone.All these with rolling drums, with cheers,With songs familiar to my ears,Passed under the far-hanging cloud,And vanished, and my heart was proud!
For mile on mile the line of warExtended; and a steady roar,As of some distant stormy sea,On the south wind came up to me.And high in air, and over all,Grew, like a fog, that murky pall,Beneath whose gloom of dusty smokeThe cannon flamed, the bombshell broke.And the sharp rattling volley rang,And shrapnel roared, and bullets sang,And fierce-eyed men, with panting breath,Toiled onward at the work of death.I could not see, but knew too well,That underneath that cloud of hell,Which still grew more by great degrees,Man strove with man in deeds like these.
But when the sun had passed his standAt noon, behold! on every handThe dark brown vapor backward bore,And fainter came the dreadful roarFrom the huge sea of striving men.Thus spoke my rising spirit then:"Take comfort from that dying sound,Faint heart, the foe is giving ground!"And one, who taxed his horse's powers,Flung at me, "Ho! the day is ours!"And scoured along. So swift his pace,I took no memory of his face.Then turned I once again to Heaven;All things appeared so just and even;So clearly from the highest CauseTraced I the downward-working laws—Those moral springs, made evident,In the grand, triumph-crowned event.So half I shouted, and half sang,Like Jephtha's daughter, to the clangOf my spread, cymbal-striking palms,Some fragments of thanksgiving psalms.
Meanwhile a solemn stillness fellUpon the land. O'er hill and dellFailed every sound. My heart stood still,Waiting before some coming ill.The silence was more sad and dread,Under that canopy of lead,Than the wild tumult of the warThat raged a little while before.All Nature, in her work of death,Paused for one last, despairing breath;And, cowering to the earth, I drewFrom her strong breast my strength anew.
When I arose, I wondering sawAnother dusty vapor draw,From the far right, its sluggish wayToward the main cloud, that frowning layAgainst the western sloping sun:And all the war was re-begun,Ere this fresh marvel of my senseCaught from my mind significance.And then—why ask me? O my God!Would I had lain beneath the sod,A patient clod, for many a day,And from my bones and mouldering clayThe rank field grass and flowers had sprung,Ere the base sight, that struck and stungMy very soul, confronted me,Shamed at my own humanity.O happy dead! who early fell,Ye have no wretched tale to tellOf causeless fear and coward flight,Of victory snatched beneath your sight,Of martial strength and honor lost,Of mere life bought at any cost,Of the deep, lingering mark of shame,Forever scorched on brow and name,That no new deeds, however bright,Shall banish from men's loathful sight!
Ye perished in your conscious pride,Ere this vile scandal opened wideA wound that cannot close nor heal.Ye perished steel to levelled steel,Stern votaries of the god of war,Filled with his godhead to the core!Ye died to live, these lived to die,Beneath the scorn of every eye!How eloquent your voices soundFrom the low chambers under ground!How clear each separate title burnsFrom your high-set and laurelled urns!While these, who walk about the earth,Are blushing at their very birth!And, though they talk, and go, and come,Their moving lips are worse than dumb.Ye sleep beneath the valley's dew,And all the nation mourns for you;So sleep till God shall wake the lands!For angels, armed with fiery brands,Await to take you by the hands.
The right-hand vapor broader grew;It rose, and joined itself untoThe main cloud with a sudden dash.Loud and more near the cannon's crashCame toward me, and I heard a soundAs if all hell had broken bound—A cry of agony and fear.Still the dark vapor rolled more near,Till at my very feet it tossed,The vanward fragments of our host.Can man, Thy image, sink so low,Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bowAcross the storm and raging main;Whose laws both loosen and restrainThe powers of earth, without whose willNo sparrow's little life is still?Was fear of hell, or want of faith,Or the brute's common dread of deathThe passion that began a chase,Whose goal was ruin and disgrace?What tongue the fearful sight may tell?What horrid nightmare ever fellUpon the restless sleep of crime—What history of another time—What dismal vision, darkly seenBy the stern-featured Florentine,Can give a hint to dimly drawThe likeness of the scene I saw?
I saw, yet saw not. In that sea,That chaos of humanity,No more the eye could catch and keepA single point, than on the deepThe eye may mark a single wave,Where hurrying myriads leap and rave.Men of all arms, and all costumes,Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes;Soldiers and officers, and thoseWho wore but civil-suited clothes;On foot or mounted—some bestrodeSteeds severed from their harnessed load;Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars,Of wounded, red with bleeding scars;The whole grim panoply of warSurged on me with a deafening roar!All shades of fear, disfiguring man,Glared through their faces' brazen tan.Not one a moment paused, or stoodTo see what enemy pursued.With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain,With every muscle on the strain,Onward the struggling masses bore.Oh! had the foemen lain before,They'd trampled them to dust and gore,And swept their lines and batteriesAs autumn sweeps the windy trees!Here one cast forth his wounded friend,And with his sword or musket-endUrged on the horses; there one trodUpon the likeness of his God,As if 'twere dust; a coward hereGrew valiant with his very fear,And struck his weaker comrade prone,And struggled to the front alone.All had one purpose, one sole aim,That mocked the decency of shame,—To fly, by any means to fly;They cared not how, they asked not why.I found a voice. My burning bloodFlamed up. Upon a mound I stood;I could no more restrain my voiceThan could the prophet of God's choice."Back, animated dirt!" I cried,"Back, on your wretched lives, and hideYour shame beneath your native clay!Or if the foe affrights you, slayYour own base selves; and, dying, leaveYour children's tearful cheeks to grieve,Not quail and blush, when you shall come,Alive, to their degraded home!Your wives will look askance with scorn;Your boys, and infants yet unborn,Will curse you to God's holy face!Heaven holds no pardon in its graceFor cowards. Oh! are such as yeThe guardians of our liberty?Back, if one trace of manhood stillMay nerve your arm and brace your will!You stain your country in the eyesOf Europe and her monarchies!
The despots laugh, the peoples groan;Man's cause is lost and overthrown!I curse you, by the sacred bloodThat freely poured its purple floodDown Bunker's heights, on Monmouth's plain,From Georgia to the rocks of Maine!I curse you, by the patriot bandWhose bones are crumbling in the land!By those who saved what these had wonIn the high name of Washington!"Then I remember little more.As the tide's rising waves, that pourOver some low and rounded rock,The coming mass, with one great shock,Flowed o'er the shelter of my mound,And raised me helpless from the ground.As the huge shouldering billows bear,Half in the sea and half in air,A swimmer on their foaming crest,So the foul throng beneath me pressed,Swept me along, with curse and blow,And flung me—where, I ne'er shall know.
When I awoke, a steady rainMade rivulets across the plain;And it was dark—oh, very dark.I was so stunned as scarce to markThe ghostly figures of the trees,Or hear the sobbing of the breezeThat flung the wet leaves to and fro.Upon me lay a dismal woe,A boundless, superhuman grief,That drew no promise of reliefFrom any hope. Then I arose,As one who struggles up from blowsBy unseen hands; and as I stoodAlone, I thought that God was good,To hide, in clouds and driving rain,Our low world from the angel train,Whose souls filled heroes when the earthWas worthy of their noble birth.By that dull instinct of the mind,Which leads aright the helpless blind,I struggled onward, till the dawnAcross the eastern clouds had drawnA narrow line of watery gray;And full before my vision layThe great dome's gaunt and naked bonesBeneath whose crown the nation thronesHer queenly person. On I stole,With hanging head and abject soul,Across the high embattled ridge,And o'er the arches of the bridge.So freshly pricked my sharp disgrace,I feared to meet the human face,Skulking, as any woman might,Who'd lost her virtue in the night,And sees the dreadful glare of dayPrepare to light her homeward way,Alone, heart-broken, shamed, undone,I staggered into Washington!Since then long sluggish days have passed,And on the wings of every blastHave come the distant nations' sneersTo tingle in our blushing ears.In woe and ashes, as was meet,We wore the penitential sheet.But now I breathe a purer air,And from the depths of my despairAwaken to a cheering morn,Just breaking through the night forlorn,A morn of hopeful victory.Awake, my countrymen, with me!Redeem the honor which you lost.With any blood, at any cost!I ask not how the war began,Nor how the quarrel branched and ranTo this dread height. The wrong or rightStands clear before God's faultless sight.I only feel the shameful blow,I only see the scornful foe,And vengeance burns in every veinTo die, or wipe away the stain.The war-wise hero of the west,Wearing his glories as a crest,Of trophies gathered in your sight,Is arming for the coming fight.Full well his wisdom apprehendsThe duty and its mighty ends;The great occasion of the hour,That never lay in human powerSince over Yorktown's tented plainThe red cross fell, nor rose again.My humble pledge of faith I lay,Dear comrade of my school-boy day,Before thee, in the nation's view,And if thy prophet prove untrue,And from our country's grasp be thrownThe sceptre and the starry crown.And thou, and all thy marshalled hostBe baffled and in ruin lost;Oh! let me not outlive the blowThat seals my country's overthrow!
And, lest this woful end come true,Men of the North, I turn to you.Display your vaunted flag once more,Southward your eager columns pour!Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum;From every hill and valley come.Old men, yield up your treasured gold!Can liberty be priced and sold?Fair matrons, maids, and tender bridesGird weapons to your lovers' sides;And though your hearts break at the deed,Give them your blessing and God-speed;Then point them to the field of flame,With words like those of Sparta's dame;And when the ranks are full and strong,And the whole army moves along,A vast result of care and skill,Obedient to the master will;And your young hero draws the sword,And gives the last commanding wordThat hurls your strength upon the foe—Oh! let them need no second blow.Strike, as your fathers struck of old;Through summer's heat, and winter's cold;Through pain, disaster, and defeat;Through marches tracked with bloody feet;Through every ill that could befallThe holy cause that bound them all!Strike as they struck for liberty!Strike as they struck to make you free!Strike for the crown of victory!
George Henry Boker.
MANASSAS
[July 21, 1861]
They have met at last—as storm-cloudsMeet in heaven,And the Northmen back and bleedingHave been driven;And their thunders have been stilled,And their leaders crushed or killed,And their ranks with terror thrilled,Rent and riven!Like the leaves of VallambrosaThey are lying;In the moonlight, in the midnight,Dead and dying;Like those leaves before the gale,Swept their legions, wild and pale;While the host that made them quailStood, defying.When aloft in morning sunlightFlags were flaunted,And "swift vengeance on the rebel"Proudly vaunted:Little did they think that nightShould close upon their shameful flight,And rebels, victors in the fight,Stand undaunted.But peace to those who perishedIn our passes!Light be the earth above them;Green the grasses!Long shall Northmen rue the dayWhen they met our stern array,And shrunk from battle's wild affrayAt Manassas.Catherine M. Warfield.
They have met at last—as storm-cloudsMeet in heaven,And the Northmen back and bleedingHave been driven;And their thunders have been stilled,And their leaders crushed or killed,And their ranks with terror thrilled,Rent and riven!Like the leaves of VallambrosaThey are lying;In the moonlight, in the midnight,Dead and dying;Like those leaves before the gale,Swept their legions, wild and pale;While the host that made them quailStood, defying.When aloft in morning sunlightFlags were flaunted,And "swift vengeance on the rebel"Proudly vaunted:Little did they think that nightShould close upon their shameful flight,And rebels, victors in the fight,Stand undaunted.But peace to those who perishedIn our passes!Light be the earth above them;Green the grasses!Long shall Northmen rue the dayWhen they met our stern array,And shrunk from battle's wild affrayAt Manassas.Catherine M. Warfield.
They have met at last—as storm-cloudsMeet in heaven,And the Northmen back and bleedingHave been driven;And their thunders have been stilled,And their leaders crushed or killed,And their ranks with terror thrilled,Rent and riven!
Like the leaves of VallambrosaThey are lying;In the moonlight, in the midnight,Dead and dying;Like those leaves before the gale,Swept their legions, wild and pale;While the host that made them quailStood, defying.
When aloft in morning sunlightFlags were flaunted,And "swift vengeance on the rebel"Proudly vaunted:Little did they think that nightShould close upon their shameful flight,And rebels, victors in the fight,Stand undaunted.
But peace to those who perishedIn our passes!Light be the earth above them;Green the grasses!Long shall Northmen rue the dayWhen they met our stern array,And shrunk from battle's wild affrayAt Manassas.
Catherine M. Warfield.
A BATTLE BALLAD
TO GENERAL J. E. JOHNSTON
A summer Sunday morning,July the twenty-first,In eighteen hundred sixty-one,The storm of battle burst.For many a year the thunderHad muttered deep and low,And many a year, through hope and fear,The storm had gathered slow.Now hope had fled the hopeful,And fear was with the past;And on Manassas' cornfieldsThe tempest broke at last.A wreath above the pine-tops,The booming of a gun;A ripple on the cornfields,And the battle was begun.A feint upon our centre,While the foeman massed his might,For our swift and sure destruction,With his overwhelming "right."All the summer air was darkenedWith the tramping of their host;All the Sunday stillness brokenBy the clamor of their boast.With their lips of savage shouting,And their eyes of sullen wrath,Goliath, with the weaver-beam,The champion of Gath.Are they men who guard the passes,On our "left" so far away?In the cornfields, O Manassas!Are theymenwho fought to-day?Ourboysare brave and gentle,And their brows are smooth and white;Have they grown tomen, Manassas,In the watches of a night?Beyond the grassy hillocksThere are tents that glimmer white;Beneath the leafy covertThere is steel that glistens bright.There are eyes of watchful reapersBeneath the summer leaves,With a glitter as of sicklesImpatient for the sheaves.They are men who guard the passes,They are men who bar the ford;Stands our David at Manassas,The champion of the Lord.They are men who guard our altars,And beware, ye sons of Gath,The deep and dreadful silenceOf the lion in your path.Lo! the foe was mad for slaughter,And the whirlwind hurtled on;But ourboyshad grown to heroes,They werelions, every one.And they stood a wall of iron,And they shone a wall of flame,And they beat the baffled tempestTo the caverns whence it came.And Manassas' sun descendedOn their armies crushed and torn,On a battle bravely ended,On a nation grandly born.The laurel and the cypress,The glory and the grave,We pledge to thee, O Liberty!The life-blood of the brave.Francis Orrery Ticknor.
A summer Sunday morning,July the twenty-first,In eighteen hundred sixty-one,The storm of battle burst.For many a year the thunderHad muttered deep and low,And many a year, through hope and fear,The storm had gathered slow.Now hope had fled the hopeful,And fear was with the past;And on Manassas' cornfieldsThe tempest broke at last.A wreath above the pine-tops,The booming of a gun;A ripple on the cornfields,And the battle was begun.A feint upon our centre,While the foeman massed his might,For our swift and sure destruction,With his overwhelming "right."All the summer air was darkenedWith the tramping of their host;All the Sunday stillness brokenBy the clamor of their boast.With their lips of savage shouting,And their eyes of sullen wrath,Goliath, with the weaver-beam,The champion of Gath.Are they men who guard the passes,On our "left" so far away?In the cornfields, O Manassas!Are theymenwho fought to-day?Ourboysare brave and gentle,And their brows are smooth and white;Have they grown tomen, Manassas,In the watches of a night?Beyond the grassy hillocksThere are tents that glimmer white;Beneath the leafy covertThere is steel that glistens bright.There are eyes of watchful reapersBeneath the summer leaves,With a glitter as of sicklesImpatient for the sheaves.They are men who guard the passes,They are men who bar the ford;Stands our David at Manassas,The champion of the Lord.They are men who guard our altars,And beware, ye sons of Gath,The deep and dreadful silenceOf the lion in your path.Lo! the foe was mad for slaughter,And the whirlwind hurtled on;But ourboyshad grown to heroes,They werelions, every one.And they stood a wall of iron,And they shone a wall of flame,And they beat the baffled tempestTo the caverns whence it came.And Manassas' sun descendedOn their armies crushed and torn,On a battle bravely ended,On a nation grandly born.The laurel and the cypress,The glory and the grave,We pledge to thee, O Liberty!The life-blood of the brave.Francis Orrery Ticknor.
A summer Sunday morning,July the twenty-first,In eighteen hundred sixty-one,The storm of battle burst.
For many a year the thunderHad muttered deep and low,And many a year, through hope and fear,The storm had gathered slow.
Now hope had fled the hopeful,And fear was with the past;And on Manassas' cornfieldsThe tempest broke at last.
A wreath above the pine-tops,The booming of a gun;A ripple on the cornfields,And the battle was begun.
A feint upon our centre,While the foeman massed his might,For our swift and sure destruction,With his overwhelming "right."
All the summer air was darkenedWith the tramping of their host;All the Sunday stillness brokenBy the clamor of their boast.
With their lips of savage shouting,And their eyes of sullen wrath,Goliath, with the weaver-beam,The champion of Gath.
Are they men who guard the passes,On our "left" so far away?In the cornfields, O Manassas!Are theymenwho fought to-day?
Ourboysare brave and gentle,And their brows are smooth and white;Have they grown tomen, Manassas,In the watches of a night?
Beyond the grassy hillocksThere are tents that glimmer white;Beneath the leafy covertThere is steel that glistens bright.
There are eyes of watchful reapersBeneath the summer leaves,With a glitter as of sicklesImpatient for the sheaves.
They are men who guard the passes,They are men who bar the ford;Stands our David at Manassas,The champion of the Lord.
They are men who guard our altars,And beware, ye sons of Gath,The deep and dreadful silenceOf the lion in your path.
Lo! the foe was mad for slaughter,And the whirlwind hurtled on;But ourboyshad grown to heroes,They werelions, every one.
And they stood a wall of iron,And they shone a wall of flame,And they beat the baffled tempestTo the caverns whence it came.
And Manassas' sun descendedOn their armies crushed and torn,On a battle bravely ended,On a nation grandly born.
The laurel and the cypress,The glory and the grave,We pledge to thee, O Liberty!The life-blood of the brave.
Francis Orrery Ticknor.
Retreat soon turned to flight and flight to panic. A great crowd of officials and civilians, male and female, had driven out from Washington to the battlefield to witness a victory which they considered certain. They were furnished with passes, and picnicked and wined and jested and watched the distant conflict. Suddenly the Union army gave way, the Confederates dashed forward in pursuit, and soldiers and civilians were mixed together in one panic-stricken mob.
Retreat soon turned to flight and flight to panic. A great crowd of officials and civilians, male and female, had driven out from Washington to the battlefield to witness a victory which they considered certain. They were furnished with passes, and picnicked and wined and jested and watched the distant conflict. Suddenly the Union army gave way, the Confederates dashed forward in pursuit, and soldiers and civilians were mixed together in one panic-stricken mob.
THE RUN FROM MANASSAS JUNCTION
[July 21, 1861]
Yankee Doodle went to war,On his little pony;What did he go fighting for,Everlasting goney!Yankee Doodle was a chapWho bragged and swore tarnation,He stuck a feather in his cap,And called it Federation.Yankee Doodle, keep it up,Yankee Doodle, dandy,Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy.Yankee Doodle, he went forthTo conquer the seceders,All the journals of the North,In most ferocious leaders,Breathing slaughter, fire, and smoke,Especially the latter,His rage and fury to provoke,And vanity to flatter.Yankee Doodle, having flooredHis separated brothers,He reckoned his victorious swordWould turn against us others;Secession first he would put down,Wholly and forever,And afterward, from Britain's crown,He Canada would sever.England offering neutral sauceTo goose as well as gander,Was what made Yankee Doodle cross,And did inflame his dander.As though with choler drunk he fumed,And threatened vengeance martial,Because Old England had presumedTo steer a course impartial.Yankee Doodle bore in mind,When warfare England harassed,How he, unfriendly and unkind,Beset her and embarrassed;He put himself in England's place,And thought this injured nationMust view his trouble with a baseVindictive exultation.We for North and South alikeEntertain affection;These for negro slavery strike;Those for forced protection.Yankee Doodle is the pot,Southerner the kettle;Equal morally, if notMen of equal mettle.Yankee Doodle, near Bull Run,Met his adversary.First he thought the fight he'd won,Fact proved quite contrary.Panic-struck he fled, with speedOf lightning glib with unction,Of slippery grease, in full stampede,From famed Manassas Junction.As he bolted, no ways slow,Yankee Doodle hallooed,"We are whipped!" and fled, althoughNo pursuer followed.Sword and gun right slick he threwBoth away together,In his cap, to public view,Showing the white feather.Yankee Doodle, Doodle, do,Whither are you flying,"A cocked hat we've been licked into,And knocked to Hades," crying?Well, to Canada, sir-ree,Now that, by secession,I am driven up a tree,To seize that there possession.Yankee Doodle, be content,You've had a lenient whipping;Court not further punishmentBy enterprise of strippingThose neighbors, whom if you assail,They'll surely whip you hollow;Moreover, when you've turned your tail,Won't hesitate to follow.
Yankee Doodle went to war,On his little pony;What did he go fighting for,Everlasting goney!Yankee Doodle was a chapWho bragged and swore tarnation,He stuck a feather in his cap,And called it Federation.Yankee Doodle, keep it up,Yankee Doodle, dandy,Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy.Yankee Doodle, he went forthTo conquer the seceders,All the journals of the North,In most ferocious leaders,Breathing slaughter, fire, and smoke,Especially the latter,His rage and fury to provoke,And vanity to flatter.Yankee Doodle, having flooredHis separated brothers,He reckoned his victorious swordWould turn against us others;Secession first he would put down,Wholly and forever,And afterward, from Britain's crown,He Canada would sever.England offering neutral sauceTo goose as well as gander,Was what made Yankee Doodle cross,And did inflame his dander.As though with choler drunk he fumed,And threatened vengeance martial,Because Old England had presumedTo steer a course impartial.Yankee Doodle bore in mind,When warfare England harassed,How he, unfriendly and unkind,Beset her and embarrassed;He put himself in England's place,And thought this injured nationMust view his trouble with a baseVindictive exultation.We for North and South alikeEntertain affection;These for negro slavery strike;Those for forced protection.Yankee Doodle is the pot,Southerner the kettle;Equal morally, if notMen of equal mettle.Yankee Doodle, near Bull Run,Met his adversary.First he thought the fight he'd won,Fact proved quite contrary.Panic-struck he fled, with speedOf lightning glib with unction,Of slippery grease, in full stampede,From famed Manassas Junction.As he bolted, no ways slow,Yankee Doodle hallooed,"We are whipped!" and fled, althoughNo pursuer followed.Sword and gun right slick he threwBoth away together,In his cap, to public view,Showing the white feather.Yankee Doodle, Doodle, do,Whither are you flying,"A cocked hat we've been licked into,And knocked to Hades," crying?Well, to Canada, sir-ree,Now that, by secession,I am driven up a tree,To seize that there possession.Yankee Doodle, be content,You've had a lenient whipping;Court not further punishmentBy enterprise of strippingThose neighbors, whom if you assail,They'll surely whip you hollow;Moreover, when you've turned your tail,Won't hesitate to follow.
Yankee Doodle went to war,On his little pony;What did he go fighting for,Everlasting goney!Yankee Doodle was a chapWho bragged and swore tarnation,He stuck a feather in his cap,And called it Federation.Yankee Doodle, keep it up,Yankee Doodle, dandy,Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy.
Yankee Doodle, he went forthTo conquer the seceders,All the journals of the North,In most ferocious leaders,Breathing slaughter, fire, and smoke,Especially the latter,His rage and fury to provoke,And vanity to flatter.
Yankee Doodle, having flooredHis separated brothers,He reckoned his victorious swordWould turn against us others;Secession first he would put down,Wholly and forever,And afterward, from Britain's crown,He Canada would sever.
England offering neutral sauceTo goose as well as gander,Was what made Yankee Doodle cross,And did inflame his dander.As though with choler drunk he fumed,And threatened vengeance martial,Because Old England had presumedTo steer a course impartial.
Yankee Doodle bore in mind,When warfare England harassed,How he, unfriendly and unkind,Beset her and embarrassed;He put himself in England's place,And thought this injured nationMust view his trouble with a baseVindictive exultation.
We for North and South alikeEntertain affection;These for negro slavery strike;Those for forced protection.Yankee Doodle is the pot,Southerner the kettle;Equal morally, if notMen of equal mettle.
Yankee Doodle, near Bull Run,Met his adversary.First he thought the fight he'd won,Fact proved quite contrary.Panic-struck he fled, with speedOf lightning glib with unction,Of slippery grease, in full stampede,From famed Manassas Junction.
As he bolted, no ways slow,Yankee Doodle hallooed,"We are whipped!" and fled, althoughNo pursuer followed.Sword and gun right slick he threwBoth away together,In his cap, to public view,Showing the white feather.
Yankee Doodle, Doodle, do,Whither are you flying,"A cocked hat we've been licked into,And knocked to Hades," crying?Well, to Canada, sir-ree,Now that, by secession,I am driven up a tree,To seize that there possession.
Yankee Doodle, be content,You've had a lenient whipping;Court not further punishmentBy enterprise of strippingThose neighbors, whom if you assail,They'll surely whip you hollow;Moreover, when you've turned your tail,Won't hesitate to follow.
The flight of the Union forces was watched with exultation by Jefferson Davis, who was at Confederate headquarters, and who at once wired news of the victory to the Confederate Congress at Richmond. Throughout the South, the news was naturally received with deep rejoicing.
The flight of the Union forces was watched with exultation by Jefferson Davis, who was at Confederate headquarters, and who at once wired news of the victory to the Confederate Congress at Richmond. Throughout the South, the news was naturally received with deep rejoicing.
ON TO RICHMOND
AFTER SOUTHEY'S "MARCH TO MOSCOW"
Major-General ScottAn order had gotTo push on the column to Richmond;For loudly went forth,From all parts of the North,The cry that an end of the war must be madeIn time for the regular yearly Fall Trade:Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay,The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray;The chivalrous GrowDeclared they were slow,—And therefore the orderTo march from the borderAnd make an excursion to Richmond.Major-General ScottMost likely was notVery loth to obey this instruction, I wot;In his private opinionThe Ancient DominionDeserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot,And the reason is easily noted;Though this part of the earthHad given him birth,And medals and swords,Inscribed in fine words,It never for Winfield had voted.Besides, you must know, that our First of CommandersHad sworn quite as hard as the army in Flanders,With his finest of armies and proudest of navies,To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis.Then, "Forward the column," he said to McDowell;And the Zouaves with a shout,Most fiercely cried out,"To Richmond or h-ll!" (I omit here the vowel)And Winfield he ordered his carriage and four,A dashing turnout, to be brought to the door,For a pleasant excursion to Richmond.Major-General ScottHad there on the spotA splendid arrayTo plunder and slay;In the camp he might boastSuch a numerous host,As he never had yetIn the battlefield set;Every class and condition of Northern societyWere in for the trip, a most varied variety:In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue,"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue."The buthiful boyFrom the banks of the ShannonWas there to employHis excellent cannon;And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery,The Zouaves and Hussars,All the children of Mars—There were barbers and cooks,And writers of books,—Thechef de cuisinewith his French bill of fare,And the artists to dress the young officers' hair.And the scribblers were ready at once to prepareAn eloquent storyOf conquest and glory;And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery,Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train,At a distance quite safe, to "conduct theChampagne!"While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do,On this pleasant excursion to Richmond.In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action,To crush outinstanterthe traitorous faction.In the press, and the mess,They would hear nothing lessThan to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason,And at once put an end to the insolent treason.There was Greeley,And Ely,And bloodthirsty Grow,And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau),And that terrible BakerWho would seize of the South every acre,And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, orSome nameless locality smelling of sulphur;And with all this bold crew,Nothing would do,While the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,But to march on directly to Richmond.Then the gallant McDowellDrove madly the rowelOf spur that had never been "won" by him,In the flank of his steed,To accomplish a deed,Such as never before had been done by him;And the battery called Sherman'sWas wheeled into lineWhile the beer-drinking GermansFrom Neckar and Rhine,With minie and yager,Come on with a swagger,Full of fury and lager(The day and the pageant were equally fine).Oh! the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view,As the column pushed onward to Richmond.Ere the march was begun,In a spirit of fun,General Scott in a speechSaid the army should teachThe Southrons the lesson the laws to obey,And just before dusk of the third or fourth day,Should joyfully march into Richmond.He spoke of their drill,And their courage and skill,And declared that the ladies of Richmond would raveO'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully waveIn rapture their delicate kerchiefs in airAt their morning parades on the Capitol Square.But alack! and alas!Mark what soon came to pass,When this army, in spite of his flatteries,Amid war's loudest thunder,Must stupidly blunderUpon those accursed "masked batteries."Then Beauregard came,Like a tempest of flame,To consume them in wrath,In their perilous path;And Johnson bore down in a whirlwind to sweepTheir ranks from the field,Where their doom had been sealed,As the storm rushes over the face of the deep;While swift on the centre our President pressed,And the foe might descry,In the glance of his eye,The light that once blazed upon Diomede's crest.McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day,When the Southrons you met in their battle array;To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel,'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel.Oh! the generals were green, and old Scott is now blue,And a terrible business, McDowell, to you,Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.John R. Thompson.
Major-General ScottAn order had gotTo push on the column to Richmond;For loudly went forth,From all parts of the North,The cry that an end of the war must be madeIn time for the regular yearly Fall Trade:Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay,The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray;The chivalrous GrowDeclared they were slow,—And therefore the orderTo march from the borderAnd make an excursion to Richmond.Major-General ScottMost likely was notVery loth to obey this instruction, I wot;In his private opinionThe Ancient DominionDeserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot,And the reason is easily noted;Though this part of the earthHad given him birth,And medals and swords,Inscribed in fine words,It never for Winfield had voted.Besides, you must know, that our First of CommandersHad sworn quite as hard as the army in Flanders,With his finest of armies and proudest of navies,To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis.Then, "Forward the column," he said to McDowell;And the Zouaves with a shout,Most fiercely cried out,"To Richmond or h-ll!" (I omit here the vowel)And Winfield he ordered his carriage and four,A dashing turnout, to be brought to the door,For a pleasant excursion to Richmond.Major-General ScottHad there on the spotA splendid arrayTo plunder and slay;In the camp he might boastSuch a numerous host,As he never had yetIn the battlefield set;Every class and condition of Northern societyWere in for the trip, a most varied variety:In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue,"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue."The buthiful boyFrom the banks of the ShannonWas there to employHis excellent cannon;And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery,The Zouaves and Hussars,All the children of Mars—There were barbers and cooks,And writers of books,—Thechef de cuisinewith his French bill of fare,And the artists to dress the young officers' hair.And the scribblers were ready at once to prepareAn eloquent storyOf conquest and glory;And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery,Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train,At a distance quite safe, to "conduct theChampagne!"While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do,On this pleasant excursion to Richmond.In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action,To crush outinstanterthe traitorous faction.In the press, and the mess,They would hear nothing lessThan to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason,And at once put an end to the insolent treason.There was Greeley,And Ely,And bloodthirsty Grow,And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau),And that terrible BakerWho would seize of the South every acre,And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, orSome nameless locality smelling of sulphur;And with all this bold crew,Nothing would do,While the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,But to march on directly to Richmond.Then the gallant McDowellDrove madly the rowelOf spur that had never been "won" by him,In the flank of his steed,To accomplish a deed,Such as never before had been done by him;And the battery called Sherman'sWas wheeled into lineWhile the beer-drinking GermansFrom Neckar and Rhine,With minie and yager,Come on with a swagger,Full of fury and lager(The day and the pageant were equally fine).Oh! the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view,As the column pushed onward to Richmond.Ere the march was begun,In a spirit of fun,General Scott in a speechSaid the army should teachThe Southrons the lesson the laws to obey,And just before dusk of the third or fourth day,Should joyfully march into Richmond.He spoke of their drill,And their courage and skill,And declared that the ladies of Richmond would raveO'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully waveIn rapture their delicate kerchiefs in airAt their morning parades on the Capitol Square.But alack! and alas!Mark what soon came to pass,When this army, in spite of his flatteries,Amid war's loudest thunder,Must stupidly blunderUpon those accursed "masked batteries."Then Beauregard came,Like a tempest of flame,To consume them in wrath,In their perilous path;And Johnson bore down in a whirlwind to sweepTheir ranks from the field,Where their doom had been sealed,As the storm rushes over the face of the deep;While swift on the centre our President pressed,And the foe might descry,In the glance of his eye,The light that once blazed upon Diomede's crest.McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day,When the Southrons you met in their battle array;To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel,'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel.Oh! the generals were green, and old Scott is now blue,And a terrible business, McDowell, to you,Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.John R. Thompson.
Major-General ScottAn order had gotTo push on the column to Richmond;For loudly went forth,From all parts of the North,The cry that an end of the war must be madeIn time for the regular yearly Fall Trade:Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay,The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray;The chivalrous GrowDeclared they were slow,—And therefore the orderTo march from the borderAnd make an excursion to Richmond.
Major-General ScottMost likely was notVery loth to obey this instruction, I wot;In his private opinionThe Ancient DominionDeserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot,And the reason is easily noted;Though this part of the earthHad given him birth,And medals and swords,Inscribed in fine words,It never for Winfield had voted.Besides, you must know, that our First of CommandersHad sworn quite as hard as the army in Flanders,With his finest of armies and proudest of navies,To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis.Then, "Forward the column," he said to McDowell;And the Zouaves with a shout,Most fiercely cried out,"To Richmond or h-ll!" (I omit here the vowel)And Winfield he ordered his carriage and four,A dashing turnout, to be brought to the door,For a pleasant excursion to Richmond.
Major-General ScottHad there on the spotA splendid arrayTo plunder and slay;In the camp he might boastSuch a numerous host,As he never had yetIn the battlefield set;Every class and condition of Northern societyWere in for the trip, a most varied variety:In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue,"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue."The buthiful boyFrom the banks of the ShannonWas there to employHis excellent cannon;And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery,The Zouaves and Hussars,All the children of Mars—There were barbers and cooks,And writers of books,—Thechef de cuisinewith his French bill of fare,And the artists to dress the young officers' hair.And the scribblers were ready at once to prepareAn eloquent storyOf conquest and glory;And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery,Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train,At a distance quite safe, to "conduct theChampagne!"While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do,On this pleasant excursion to Richmond.
In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action,To crush outinstanterthe traitorous faction.In the press, and the mess,They would hear nothing lessThan to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason,And at once put an end to the insolent treason.There was Greeley,And Ely,And bloodthirsty Grow,And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau),And that terrible BakerWho would seize of the South every acre,And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, orSome nameless locality smelling of sulphur;And with all this bold crew,Nothing would do,While the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,But to march on directly to Richmond.
Then the gallant McDowellDrove madly the rowelOf spur that had never been "won" by him,In the flank of his steed,To accomplish a deed,Such as never before had been done by him;And the battery called Sherman'sWas wheeled into lineWhile the beer-drinking GermansFrom Neckar and Rhine,With minie and yager,Come on with a swagger,Full of fury and lager(The day and the pageant were equally fine).Oh! the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue,Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view,As the column pushed onward to Richmond.
Ere the march was begun,In a spirit of fun,General Scott in a speechSaid the army should teachThe Southrons the lesson the laws to obey,And just before dusk of the third or fourth day,Should joyfully march into Richmond.
He spoke of their drill,And their courage and skill,And declared that the ladies of Richmond would raveO'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully waveIn rapture their delicate kerchiefs in airAt their morning parades on the Capitol Square.
But alack! and alas!Mark what soon came to pass,When this army, in spite of his flatteries,Amid war's loudest thunder,Must stupidly blunderUpon those accursed "masked batteries."Then Beauregard came,Like a tempest of flame,To consume them in wrath,In their perilous path;And Johnson bore down in a whirlwind to sweepTheir ranks from the field,Where their doom had been sealed,As the storm rushes over the face of the deep;While swift on the centre our President pressed,And the foe might descry,In the glance of his eye,The light that once blazed upon Diomede's crest.McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day,When the Southrons you met in their battle array;To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel,'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel.Oh! the generals were green, and old Scott is now blue,And a terrible business, McDowell, to you,Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.
John R. Thompson.
At the North news of the defeat caused a bitter discouragement, which soon gave place to determination to push the war through. On July 22, 1861, Congress authorized the enlistment of five hundred thousand men. The term of enlistment was for three years, or during the war, and the North girded itself anew for the conflict.
At the North news of the defeat caused a bitter discouragement, which soon gave place to determination to push the war through. On July 22, 1861, Congress authorized the enlistment of five hundred thousand men. The term of enlistment was for three years, or during the war, and the North girded itself anew for the conflict.
CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED