Hymne Patriotique, Pah Gustave Dime, Ouvrier-Estam
Peur: Air, "Gloire Aux Martyrs Victoriaux."
Appel Aux Armes.
Debout fils de l'Union
Pour venges l'infamie
Faite à la nation,
Pour venger la Patrie,
La Constitution!
A bas Rébellion!
Debout, debout Américains,
Debout les armes à main.
l'outrage.
De Baltimore à Charleston,
De Richmont à Montgomery,
Le grand drapeau de Washington
Partout il fut souillie, flétri,
Du Fort Sumpter vengeons l'outrage
Et en la sol de Virginie
Sachions montrer notre courage
En digne fils de la Patrie.
l'assassinat.
Le Sud in horrible furie
Du Poignard de la Trahison
Perçant le cour de la Patrie,
Proclame à la Secession.
Mais le President héroïque
Et l'Autorité, le Sénat,
Sauront sauver la République
Et cet infâme Assassinat.
le triomphe.
Gloire à ton nom, libre Amérique,
Gloire à tes vaillant défenseurs
Ils sauveront la République,
Terrasseront tes oppresseurs.
Ils volent tous à la victoire,
Pour l'Union des Etats Unis.
Ils reviendront couverts de gloire
Et les traîtres Seront Punis.
The "ouvrier-estampeur" was sufficiently energetic, but his song never became the Franco-American Marseillaise.
As the war dragged its slow length along, demanding greater and greater sacrifices, and with its days of repulse and defeat for the Union armies, the feeling of universal enthusiasm gave way to discouragement, and there were not wanting in New York, among its heterogeneous population, elements of bitterness which culminated in the deadly and shameful outbreak of the draft riots. This feeling manifested itself in the street ballads, not so conspicuously as the previous enthusiasm, but enough to have attracted the attention of those who were watching the signs of popular feeling. "Copperheadism" had its bards as well as loyalty, although they were much fewer in number, and they cannot be omitted in an account of the folksongs of the civil war. A rude jingle entitled Johnny, fill up the Bowl, gave the popular expression to this feeling:—
Abram Lincoln, what yer 'bout?
Hurrah, hurrah.
Stop this war, for it's played out,
Hurrah, hurrah.
Abram Lincoln, what yer 'bout?
Stop this war, for it's played out.
We 'll all drink stone-blind,
Johnny fill up the bowl.
The pages of the dime song-books at this time contained a number of songs in opposition to the draft, expressing hatred to the negro, and a demand for the stoppage of the war, of which the following is an example:—
And this the "people's sovereignty,
Before a despot humbled,
Lies in the dust 'neath power unjust,
With crown and sceptre crumbled.
Their brows distained—like felons chained
To negroes called "their betters,"
Their whinings drowned in "Old John Brown,"
Poor sovereigns wearing fetters.
Hurrah for the Conscription,
American Conscription!
Well have they cashed old Lincoln's drafts,
Hurrah for the Conscription!
Some think the hideous spectacle
Should move the heart to sadness,
That fetters ought—oh silly thought!—
Sting freemen's hearts to madness.
When has the stock of Plymouth rock
Been melted to compunction?
As for Provos, the wide world knows
That chaining is their function.
Hurrah for the Conscription,
American Conscription,
And for the stock of Plymouth rock,
Whence sprung this new Conscription!
What matter if you 'resandwichedin
A host of sable fellows,
Well flavored men, your kith and kin,
As Abe and Sumner tell us?
Is not the war—thismurder—for
The negro,nolens volens?
For every three now killed of ye
There's just a negro stolen.
And then ye have Conscription,
American Conscription,
Your blood must flow for this, you know.
Hurrah for the Conscription!
The songs written by the soldiers and sailors themselves, descriptive of their engagements, or incidents of camp and march, or expressing their feelings, were not many, either in folk-ballads or finished poetry. Major J. W. De Forrest's powerful verses, In Louisiana, are almost the only specimen of the latter, and there are but few of the ruder ballads. It may have been because the soldiers and sailors were too much occupied, and that the life in camp and on shipboard was not favorable to poetical reverie, although there were many hours on picket or watch which might have been thus employed; but the fact remains that there was more carving of bone rings than of verses, and more singing than writing in the army and navy. There was not an absolute dearth, however, and the soldiers and sailors sometimes told their own stories or expressed their own feelings in verse. One of the best of these was written during the early days of the war by H. Millard, a member of Company A, Seventy-first Regiment, concerning the march from Annapolis to the Junction, and has the genuine flavor of soldiership as well as a fine spirit ofcamaraderie.
It is entitled Only Nine Miles to the Junction:—
The Rhode Island boys were posted along
On the road from Annapolis station,
As the Seventy-first Regiment, one thousand strong,
Went on in defense of the nation.
We'd been marching all day in the sun's scorching ray,
With two biscuits each as a ration,
When we asked Gov. Sprague to show us the way,
And "How many miles to the Junction?"
How many miles—how many miles,
And how many miles to the Junction;
When we asked Gov. Sprague to show us the way,
And "How many miles to the Junction?"
The Rhode Island boys cheered us on out of sight,
After giving the following injunction:
"Just keep up your courage, you 'll come out all right,
For it's only nine miles to the Junction."
They gave us hot coffee, a grasp of the hand,
Which cheered and refreshed our exhaustion;
We reached in six hours the long-promised land,
For't was only nine miles to the Junction.
There were not many attempts to describe the battles in which the soldiers took part, and they were left to the poets, who did not see them, and had to depend, not very successfully, upon their imagination. There was, however, a ballad of the Seven Days' Fight before Richmond, evidently written by a soldier, and of some force and vigor. It begins: —
Away down in old Yirginny many months ago,
McClellan made a movement and made it very slow.
The Rebel Generals found it out and pitched into our rear;
They caught the very devil, for they found old Kearney
there.
In the old Yirginny low-lands, low-lands,
The old Yirginny low-lands, low.
The bard details the fights as though they were a succession of Union victories, and concludes with a defense of General McClellan:—
Now all you politicians, a word I have for you,
Just let our little Mac alone, for he is tried and true;
For you have found out lately that he is our only hope,
For twice he saved the Capitol, likewise McDowell and
Pope.
The enthusiasm aroused by General McClellan among the rank and file of the Army of the Potomac had no counterpart in regard to any other commander, was proof against failure and defeat, and lingered, to a certain extent, even to the close of the war. His removal caused a great deal of indignation, and called out a good many protests and appeals for his restoration. A song, Give us back our old Commander, was a good deal sung at the time:—
Give us back our old Commander,
Little Mac, the people's pride;
Let the army and the nation
In their choice be satisfied.
With McClellan as our leader,
Let us strike the blow anew;
Give us back our old Commander,
He will see the battle through.
Give us back our old Commander,
Let him manage, let him plan;
With McClellan as our leader,
We can wish no better man.
The very rollicking and nonsensical chorus of Bummers, come and meet Us, belongs to this period, and was almost as popular as John Brown's Body, fulfilling amply and simply the conditions for relieving the lungs. Like the sailors' "shanties" and the plantation choruses, it was capable of indefinite extension and improvisation. The following is a specimen of its construction:—
McClellan is our leader, we've had our last retreat,
McClellan is our leader, we've had our last retreat,
McClellan is our leader, we 've had our last retreat,
We 'll now go marching on.
Say, brothers, will you meet us,
Say, brothers, will you meet us,
Say, brothers, will you meet us,
As we go marching on?
The girls we left behind us, boys, our sweethearts in the
North,
The girls we left behind us, boys, our sweethearts in the
North,
The girls we left behind us, boys, our sweethearts in the
North,
Smile on us as we march.
Oh sweethearts, don't forget us,
Oh sweethearts, don't forget us,
Oh sweethearts, don't forget us,
We 'll soon come marching home.
A seaman on board the Vandalia, one of the ships engaged in the capture of Port Royal, wrote a description of the engagement, which has considerable of the light of battle in it. It is entitled:—
Behold our glorious banner floats gayly in the air,
But four hours hence base traitors swore we could not plant
it there;
But brave Dupont he led us on to fight the vaunting foe,
And soon the rebel standard was in the dust laid low.
Whack row de dow,
How are you, old Port Royal?
Whack row de dow,
How are you, Secesh?
When we were seen advancing they laughed with foolish pride,
And said that soon our Northern fleet they'd sink beneath
the tide;
And with their guns trained carefully they waited our advance,
And the gallant Wabash soon struck up the music of the
dance.
The Susquehanna next in line delivered her broadside,
With deadly aim each shot was sent and well each gun was
plied;
And still our gallant ships advanced, and each one, as she
passed,
Poured in her deadly messengers, and the foe fell thick and
fast.
Each ship advanced in order, each captain wore a smile,
Until the famed Vandalia brought up the rear in style,
And as our guns were shortest we balanced to the right,
And brought us to the enemy the closest in the fight.
Then round the room (Port Royal bay) we took a Highland
Fling,
And showed them in Fort Walker what loud music we could
sing.
And then we poured in our broadsides that brought their
courage low,
And o'er the rebel batteries soon our Union flag did flow.
Three cheers for gallant Haggerty, he led us safely through;
And three for our loved Whiting, he is the real true blue.
Success to every officer who fought with us that day;
Together may we pass unscathed through many a gallant
fray.
A health to every gallant tar who did his duty well,
Peace to the ashes of the dead who nobly fighting fell.
'T was in a glorious cause they died, the Union to maintain.
We who are left, when called upon, will try it o'er again.
Some of the disagreeable features of a soldier's duty and camp life were dealt with by the soldiers in the spirit of humorous exaggeration, which was as much an evidence of high spirits as the enthusiastic choruses. A camp poet thus relieves his feelings in regard to the exercise of "double quick:"—
Since I became a volunteer things have went rather queer;
Some say I'm a three months' man, and others a three years'
volunteer.
With plenty of likes and dislikes to all I have to stick;
There's plenty of pork, salt horse, and plenty of Double
Quick.
Oh, I'm miserable, I'm miserable,
To all I 'll have to stick.
The old salt horse is passable,
But d-n the Double-Quick.
If a friend should call to see you the men have a pretty game.
They call him paymaster, obstacle, or some such kind of a
name.
They chase him around the camp; it's enough to make him
sick
To try and teach him discipline by giving him Double-Quick.
You may feel rather hungry, almost in a starving state,
And you wish to get your dinner first, all ready with your
plate;
There's always others just the same, waiting for the lick;
To be the twentieth one, you must travel Double-:Quick.
Once upon every Sunday to church you must always go,
Your bayonet by your side in case you should meet the foe;
And when the service was ended it was called the moral trick
To drive you back to your camp at a pleasant Double-Quick.
Each day there are just twelve roll-calls to keep you in the
camp;
If off three rods the bugle sounds, back you will have to tramp,
And, if you chance to miss, why, you are a poor, gone chick,—
Fourteen bricks in your knapsack, and four hours Double
Quick.
Now, all you chaps who would enlist, don't leap before you
look,
And, if you wish to fight for the Union, go on your own hook,
For, if a soldier you become, it will be your last kick,
To the devil you will surely be drove headlong Double-Quick.
The Southern poetry of the civil war was even more rhetorical and stilted than that of the North. Its literary culture was more provincial, and its style a great deal more inflated and artificial. It was the "foemen" that they were to meet instead of the enemy, and "gore" instead of blood that was to be shed; and there was a great deal about the "clank of the tyrant's chain," and the "bloodstained sword," and such other fuliginous figures of speech. Sometimes there was a good deal of force behind this sounding rhetoric, as in Henry Timrod's A Call to Arms and in James R. Randall's There's Life in the Old Land yet, but for the most part it had an air of bombast and turgidity, which would have given a false impression in regard to the real spirit of determination among the Southern people, if one had only judged by its inflated expression. The pages of the Southern Amaranth, and other collections of rebel poetry, give the impression of having been written by school-boys, and contain little but sophomoric rhetoric of the most sounding and inflated description. That it had a fiery energy and an invincible determination behind it was abundantly shown, but the voice of the South in its polite literature was one of inflated extravagance. Nevertheless it produced the most manly and vigorous song of the whole war in Dr. J. W. Palmer's Stonewall Jackson's Way; and some verses appeared in a Richmond paper in 1861, entitled Call All, which have a fiery energy and directness unsurpassed, and were in the genuine language of the people:
Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose,
Roaring around like the very deuce.
Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack;
After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back,
Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice,
Back to the beggarly land of ice.
Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tear
Everybody and everywhere.
Old Kentucky is caved from under;
Tennessee is split asunder,
Alabama awaits attack,
And Georgia bristles up her back.
Old John Brown is dead and gone,
Still his spirit is marching on,—
Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys,
Long as an ape's from Illinois.
Want a weapon? Gather a brick,
A club or cudgel, a stone or stick,
Anything with a blade or butt,
Anything that can cleave or cut;
Anything heavy, or hard, or keen;
Any sort of slaying machine;
Anything with a willing mind
And the steady arm of a man behind.
Want a weapon? Why, capture one;
Every Doodle has got a gun,
Belt and bayonet, bright and new.
Kill a Doodle and capture two!
Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire,
All, call all! to the feast of fire,
Mother and maiden, child and slave,
A common triumph or a single grave.
The street ballad did not exist in the South, so far as I can discover, and the popular song-books were very few in comparison with those of the North. There were some, however, printed on discolored paper and with worn-out type. Among them were The New Confederate Flag Songster, S. C. Griggs, Mobile; The General Lee Songster, John C. Schreiner & Son, Macon and Savannah; The Jack Morgan Songster, compiled by a captain in General Lee's army; and Songs of Love and Liberty, compiled by a North Carolina lady, Raleigh, 1864. Like the Northern song-books, they contained an admixture of the popular negro melodies with the songs of the war, and there are but few instances of any genuine and native expression. The song which gave the title to The Jack Morgan Songster, however, has a good deal of force and vigor, and was evidently written by the camp fire. It is entitled Three Cheers for our Jack Morgan:—
The snow is in the cloud,
And night is gathering o'er us,
The winds are piping loud,
And fan the flame before us.
Then join the jovial band,
And tune the vocal organ,
And with a will we 'll all join in
Three cheers for our Jack Morgan.
Chorus. Gather round the camp fire,
Our duty has been done,
Let's gather round the camp fire
And have a little fun.
Let's gather round the camp fire,
Our duty has been done,
'T was done upon the battle field,
Three cheers for our Jack Morgan.
Jack Morgan is his name,
The peerless and the lucky;
No dastard foe can tame
The son of old Kentucky.
His heart is with his State,
He fights for Southern freedom;
His men their General's word await,
They 'll follow where he 'll lead 'em.
He swore to free his home,
To burst her chains asunder,
With sound of trump and drum
And loud Confederate thunder.
And in the darksome night,
By light of homesteads burning,
He puts the skulking foe to flight,
Their hearts to wailings turning.
The dungeon, dark and cold,
Could not his body prison,
Nor tame a spirit bold
That o'er reverse had risen.
Then sing the song of joy,
Our toast is lovely woman,
And Morgan he's the gallant boy
To plague the hated foeman.
The tone of the Southern songs was not only a good deal more ferocious and savage than that of those of the North, but there were fewer indications of that spirit of humor which pervaded the Northern camps, and found expression in the soldiers' songs. There is, however, one Southern piece of verse, descriptive of the emotions of the newly drafted conscript, which has an original flavor of comicality, although evidently inspired by the spirit of Yankee Doodle:—
How are you, boys? I'm just from camp,
And feel as brave as Cæsar;
The sound of bugle, drum, and fife
Has raised my Ebenezer.
I'm full of fight, odds shot and shell,
I 'll leap into the saddle,
And when the Yankees see me come,
Lord, how they will skedaddle!
Hold up your head, up, Shanghai, Shanks,
Don't shake your knees and blink so,
It is no time to dodge the act;
Brave comrades, don't you think so?
I was a ploughboy in the field,
A gawky, lazy dodger,
When came the conscript officer
And took me for a sodger.
He put a musket in my hand,
And showed me how to fire it;
I marched and countermarched all day;
Lord, how I did admire it!
With corn and hog fat for my food,
And digging, guarding, drilling,
I got as thin as twice-skimmed milk,
And was scarcely worth the killing.
And now I'm used to homely fare,
My skin as tough as leather,
I do guard duty cheerfully
In every kind of weather.
I'm brimful of fight, my boys,
I would not give a "thank ye"
For all the smiles the girls can give
Until I've killed a Yankee.
High private is a glorious rank,
There's wide room for promotion;
I 'll get a corporal's stripes some day,
When fortune's in the notion.
'T is true I have not seen a fight,
Nor have I smelt gunpowder,
But then the way I 'll pepper 'em
Will be a sin to chowder.
A sergeant's stripes I now will sport,
Perhaps be color-bearer,
And then a captain—good for me—
I 'll be a regular tearer.
I'll then begin to wear the stars,
And then the wreaths of glory,
Until the army I command,
And poets sing my story.
Our Congress will pass votes of thanks
To him who rose from zero,
The people in a mass will shout,
Hurrah, behold the hero!
(Fires his gun by accident.)
What's that? oh dear! a boiler's burst,
A gaspipe has exploded,
Maybe the Yankees are hard by
With muskets ready loaded.
On, gallant soldiers, beat'em back,
I 'll join you in the frolic,
But I 've a chill from head to foot,
And symptoms of the colic.
The spirit of the Southern women is well known to have been as vigorous and determined as that of their brothers, and the sacrifices which they were compelled to make were much more severe and general than at the North. They had been dependent upon the North and foreign countries for clothing and the luxuries of the household, and when these sources of supply were cut off by the war and the blockade, they had to make and sew their own homespun dresses, and forego all the delights of fashion and adornment. The sacrifices and devotion of the daughters of the South were sung in turgid rhetoric, like the threats and appeals of the men, but here is a genuine voice, evidently a woman's own, which speaks for her sisters in their homelier trials, as well as in their deeper emotions:—