CANTO IX.1847-1861.PROGRESS.Now we come to architecture,In the annals of the city;Now the spirit of improvementMakes a giant-stride among us,Opens wide her money-coffers,In the growing, hillside city.On the westward street, called Danville,Rose an institute of learning,Rose the Franklin Female College,Soon the pride of all the region.And within its classic chambersHave the children of the countyGone to school in many hundreds;Have in hundreds learned to grappleWith the mysteries of science.Num’rous teachers have unitedIn the duty of instructing,Teachers from the distant sections,Teachers from among our people.Music, English, French and Latin,Morals, manners, Calisthenics,Healthful sports and games and pastimes,Useful precepts, laws and lessons,All were taught within this building,Which the Odd Fellows erectedIn eighteen hundred forty-seven.Far and wide the ranks are scattered,Strange their destiny and varied,Yet the tie of love and duty,Binds the teacher to the pupil,Binds the pupil to the teacher,Wheresoe’er their footsteps wander,Wheresoe’er their fate may lead them.May they ever fondly cherishAll the dear associations,All the lessons of ambition,Taught and gained at Franklin College,Taught within its classic chambers.[4]In eighteen hundred eight and forty,Was a novel institution,Introduced within the city;A society established,By an act of corporation.And they called themselves, “The HuntersOf Nimrod.” Oswald Von Koenig,Scion of a Saxon family,Introduced this curious Order;And the Lancaster SanhedrimNumbered six in solemn council,Hill, Kinnaird and Cope and Burton,Sandifer, McKee—the Council—Were the city’s chartered members.Afterwards the German stranger,Met his death in tragic manner,Dashed his body from a window,In the flourishing Falls City:And the accident was mournéd,Was lamented by the Hunters.They deposited their leader,In the Cave Hill cemetery,And the stone that marks th’ enclosure,Was the gift of A. A. Burton,One among the chartered members.Here the chronicle reminds usOf the noble art of printing,Now revived within the city,Now engrossing all her readers.And the news sheets are before us,With their timeworn local items,With their cunning jests and humor,With their antique advertisements,With their long-forgotten pages.The “Republican” and “Argus”Have the earliest existence,In this era of advancement;Then the famous “Garrard Banner”Floats upon the world of letters.And again the public buildingsRise and multiply about us.On the eastward street, called Richmond,Was a Baptist Church erected.Still another sect dividedFrom the Old Church congregation,In eighteen hundred one and fifty.In the next year of the cycle,Eighteen hundred two and fifty,The Reformers built another,On the southern street called Stanford.And the thriving, stirring city,Boasts her dwellings and her churches,Her Deposit-Bank and cash-box,Her commercial business houses;Spreads abroad her lawful limits,Widens out her corporation,Swells the list of tax and tariff,By her handsome architecture.And the energetic peopleCling to rustic ways no longer,Learn conventional exactions,Tread the labyrinths of fashion,Con the magazines and modistes.And no quaint old invitationTo the jolly square cotillon,Now regales the hour of pleasure:But, a dance at nine this evening,Or a hop, or social gath’ring,At the new hall, called the Sontag,Where quadrille, or waltz, or Lancers,Marked with grace the “light fantastic.”And the Categordian Maskers,With the Callithumpian Minstrels,Held high carnival among us,Formed a Mysticke Crewe of Comus.All the sewing-bees and quiltings,Apple-parings, and corn-huskings,Barbecues and basket meetings,Chicken-fights, and swift foot-races,Even singing-schools, were banishedTo the primitive old fogies.Tallow candles were supplanted,By the lamp and spermaceti,Linsey woolsey, jeans and cotton,Long suspended from the weaving,Changed to silk and print and muslin,Changed to cassimere and broadcloth.Now the seamstress plied her sewing,With machine and modern patterns;Now the drudge of toil domestic,Sought out many new inventions,Soon rejoiced in work made easy,By the labor saving structures.And the turnpikes of the county,Echoed loud to wheels revolving:All the rude, unsightly landmarks,Were now graded and remodeled,Were McAdamized and hardened.Now the bridle and the saddleRose to harness and coach-trappings;Now the rider and pedestrianTook an airing in the carriage.Sledges darted by in winter,When the snows were firm and steady,When the white and shining crystalsCovered road and wood and meadow.There were speeches and mass-meetings,When elections stirred the people,Anniversary orationsOf the nation’s independence.In the springtime came the circus;Summer time, school exhibitions;Fairs and pleasure trips in autumn,Rare festivities in winter.And sometimes there were dissensions,In this era of my story.One disastrous feud was raging,In the year of eighteen fifty,And continued with great venom,Through two years or more of bloodshed.Yet the spirit of improvementTarried not for man’s caprices.Duties, taxes, trade, and commerce,Public gala days and triumphs,Dances, weddings, and storm-parties,Floral festivals and music,Or the promenading concert,Lent a pleasing variation.Or a serenade by moonlight,Or a picnic, or band-meeting,(It was Landram’s skillful “Saxhorn,”)Or the famed association,Called the Literary Circle,Where was wit, and sense, and humor,Where were readers and were critics,Where were essays and selections,In the style of choice belles-lettres.And the weekly local paper,In the year of fifty-seven.Tells the story of the changes,Tells the story of the pleasures,Notes the firmer grasp of fashion,Notes the new, intruding customs.’Tis the “Sentinel” presidingO’er the city’s daily doings,The “American Sentinel” watchingAll the curious innovations.And the interesting columnsShow contributors in numbers,—Many writers of the cityFurnished items and productions.Roscius, Citizen, and Alma,Ida, Claude, and Regulator,Many signatures unnoted,Many noms de plume forgotten,Filled the sheet with spicy reading,With discussion, fact, and fancy,Prose and poetry and fiction,Rhyme and riddle and acrostic,All the sorrows and the blessings,All misfortunes and successes,All the city’s daily doings.And the moons were waxing, waning,As the cycle brought its changes.[4]George W. Dunlap, Jr., purchased this Institute in 1874, and established a graded school for young ladies.
Now we come to architecture,In the annals of the city;Now the spirit of improvementMakes a giant-stride among us,Opens wide her money-coffers,In the growing, hillside city.On the westward street, called Danville,Rose an institute of learning,Rose the Franklin Female College,Soon the pride of all the region.And within its classic chambersHave the children of the countyGone to school in many hundreds;Have in hundreds learned to grappleWith the mysteries of science.Num’rous teachers have unitedIn the duty of instructing,Teachers from the distant sections,Teachers from among our people.Music, English, French and Latin,Morals, manners, Calisthenics,Healthful sports and games and pastimes,Useful precepts, laws and lessons,All were taught within this building,Which the Odd Fellows erectedIn eighteen hundred forty-seven.Far and wide the ranks are scattered,Strange their destiny and varied,Yet the tie of love and duty,Binds the teacher to the pupil,Binds the pupil to the teacher,Wheresoe’er their footsteps wander,Wheresoe’er their fate may lead them.May they ever fondly cherishAll the dear associations,All the lessons of ambition,Taught and gained at Franklin College,Taught within its classic chambers.[4]
Now we come to architecture,
In the annals of the city;
Now the spirit of improvement
Makes a giant-stride among us,
Opens wide her money-coffers,
In the growing, hillside city.
On the westward street, called Danville,
Rose an institute of learning,
Rose the Franklin Female College,
Soon the pride of all the region.
And within its classic chambers
Have the children of the county
Gone to school in many hundreds;
Have in hundreds learned to grapple
With the mysteries of science.
Num’rous teachers have united
In the duty of instructing,
Teachers from the distant sections,
Teachers from among our people.
Music, English, French and Latin,
Morals, manners, Calisthenics,
Healthful sports and games and pastimes,
Useful precepts, laws and lessons,
All were taught within this building,
Which the Odd Fellows erected
In eighteen hundred forty-seven.
Far and wide the ranks are scattered,
Strange their destiny and varied,
Yet the tie of love and duty,
Binds the teacher to the pupil,
Binds the pupil to the teacher,
Wheresoe’er their footsteps wander,
Wheresoe’er their fate may lead them.
May they ever fondly cherish
All the dear associations,
All the lessons of ambition,
Taught and gained at Franklin College,
Taught within its classic chambers.[4]
In eighteen hundred eight and forty,Was a novel institution,Introduced within the city;A society established,By an act of corporation.And they called themselves, “The HuntersOf Nimrod.” Oswald Von Koenig,Scion of a Saxon family,Introduced this curious Order;And the Lancaster SanhedrimNumbered six in solemn council,Hill, Kinnaird and Cope and Burton,Sandifer, McKee—the Council—Were the city’s chartered members.Afterwards the German stranger,Met his death in tragic manner,Dashed his body from a window,In the flourishing Falls City:And the accident was mournéd,Was lamented by the Hunters.They deposited their leader,In the Cave Hill cemetery,And the stone that marks th’ enclosure,Was the gift of A. A. Burton,One among the chartered members.
In eighteen hundred eight and forty,
Was a novel institution,
Introduced within the city;
A society established,
By an act of corporation.
And they called themselves, “The Hunters
Of Nimrod.” Oswald Von Koenig,
Scion of a Saxon family,
Introduced this curious Order;
And the Lancaster Sanhedrim
Numbered six in solemn council,
Hill, Kinnaird and Cope and Burton,
Sandifer, McKee—the Council—
Were the city’s chartered members.
Afterwards the German stranger,
Met his death in tragic manner,
Dashed his body from a window,
In the flourishing Falls City:
And the accident was mournéd,
Was lamented by the Hunters.
They deposited their leader,
In the Cave Hill cemetery,
And the stone that marks th’ enclosure,
Was the gift of A. A. Burton,
One among the chartered members.
Here the chronicle reminds usOf the noble art of printing,Now revived within the city,Now engrossing all her readers.And the news sheets are before us,With their timeworn local items,With their cunning jests and humor,With their antique advertisements,With their long-forgotten pages.The “Republican” and “Argus”Have the earliest existence,In this era of advancement;Then the famous “Garrard Banner”Floats upon the world of letters.
Here the chronicle reminds us
Of the noble art of printing,
Now revived within the city,
Now engrossing all her readers.
And the news sheets are before us,
With their timeworn local items,
With their cunning jests and humor,
With their antique advertisements,
With their long-forgotten pages.
The “Republican” and “Argus”
Have the earliest existence,
In this era of advancement;
Then the famous “Garrard Banner”
Floats upon the world of letters.
And again the public buildingsRise and multiply about us.On the eastward street, called Richmond,Was a Baptist Church erected.Still another sect dividedFrom the Old Church congregation,In eighteen hundred one and fifty.In the next year of the cycle,Eighteen hundred two and fifty,The Reformers built another,On the southern street called Stanford.And the thriving, stirring city,Boasts her dwellings and her churches,Her Deposit-Bank and cash-box,Her commercial business houses;Spreads abroad her lawful limits,Widens out her corporation,Swells the list of tax and tariff,By her handsome architecture.And the energetic peopleCling to rustic ways no longer,Learn conventional exactions,Tread the labyrinths of fashion,Con the magazines and modistes.And no quaint old invitationTo the jolly square cotillon,Now regales the hour of pleasure:But, a dance at nine this evening,Or a hop, or social gath’ring,At the new hall, called the Sontag,Where quadrille, or waltz, or Lancers,Marked with grace the “light fantastic.”And the Categordian Maskers,With the Callithumpian Minstrels,Held high carnival among us,Formed a Mysticke Crewe of Comus.All the sewing-bees and quiltings,Apple-parings, and corn-huskings,Barbecues and basket meetings,Chicken-fights, and swift foot-races,Even singing-schools, were banishedTo the primitive old fogies.Tallow candles were supplanted,By the lamp and spermaceti,Linsey woolsey, jeans and cotton,Long suspended from the weaving,Changed to silk and print and muslin,Changed to cassimere and broadcloth.Now the seamstress plied her sewing,With machine and modern patterns;Now the drudge of toil domestic,Sought out many new inventions,Soon rejoiced in work made easy,By the labor saving structures.And the turnpikes of the county,Echoed loud to wheels revolving:All the rude, unsightly landmarks,Were now graded and remodeled,Were McAdamized and hardened.Now the bridle and the saddleRose to harness and coach-trappings;Now the rider and pedestrianTook an airing in the carriage.Sledges darted by in winter,When the snows were firm and steady,When the white and shining crystalsCovered road and wood and meadow.There were speeches and mass-meetings,When elections stirred the people,Anniversary orationsOf the nation’s independence.In the springtime came the circus;Summer time, school exhibitions;Fairs and pleasure trips in autumn,Rare festivities in winter.And sometimes there were dissensions,In this era of my story.One disastrous feud was raging,In the year of eighteen fifty,And continued with great venom,Through two years or more of bloodshed.Yet the spirit of improvementTarried not for man’s caprices.Duties, taxes, trade, and commerce,Public gala days and triumphs,Dances, weddings, and storm-parties,Floral festivals and music,Or the promenading concert,Lent a pleasing variation.Or a serenade by moonlight,Or a picnic, or band-meeting,(It was Landram’s skillful “Saxhorn,”)Or the famed association,Called the Literary Circle,Where was wit, and sense, and humor,Where were readers and were critics,Where were essays and selections,In the style of choice belles-lettres.And the weekly local paper,In the year of fifty-seven.Tells the story of the changes,Tells the story of the pleasures,Notes the firmer grasp of fashion,Notes the new, intruding customs.’Tis the “Sentinel” presidingO’er the city’s daily doings,The “American Sentinel” watchingAll the curious innovations.And the interesting columnsShow contributors in numbers,—Many writers of the cityFurnished items and productions.Roscius, Citizen, and Alma,Ida, Claude, and Regulator,Many signatures unnoted,Many noms de plume forgotten,Filled the sheet with spicy reading,With discussion, fact, and fancy,Prose and poetry and fiction,Rhyme and riddle and acrostic,All the sorrows and the blessings,All misfortunes and successes,All the city’s daily doings.
And again the public buildings
Rise and multiply about us.
On the eastward street, called Richmond,
Was a Baptist Church erected.
Still another sect divided
From the Old Church congregation,
In eighteen hundred one and fifty.
In the next year of the cycle,
Eighteen hundred two and fifty,
The Reformers built another,
On the southern street called Stanford.
And the thriving, stirring city,
Boasts her dwellings and her churches,
Her Deposit-Bank and cash-box,
Her commercial business houses;
Spreads abroad her lawful limits,
Widens out her corporation,
Swells the list of tax and tariff,
By her handsome architecture.
And the energetic people
Cling to rustic ways no longer,
Learn conventional exactions,
Tread the labyrinths of fashion,
Con the magazines and modistes.
And no quaint old invitation
To the jolly square cotillon,
Now regales the hour of pleasure:
But, a dance at nine this evening,
Or a hop, or social gath’ring,
At the new hall, called the Sontag,
Where quadrille, or waltz, or Lancers,
Marked with grace the “light fantastic.”
And the Categordian Maskers,
With the Callithumpian Minstrels,
Held high carnival among us,
Formed a Mysticke Crewe of Comus.
All the sewing-bees and quiltings,
Apple-parings, and corn-huskings,
Barbecues and basket meetings,
Chicken-fights, and swift foot-races,
Even singing-schools, were banished
To the primitive old fogies.
Tallow candles were supplanted,
By the lamp and spermaceti,
Linsey woolsey, jeans and cotton,
Long suspended from the weaving,
Changed to silk and print and muslin,
Changed to cassimere and broadcloth.
Now the seamstress plied her sewing,
With machine and modern patterns;
Now the drudge of toil domestic,
Sought out many new inventions,
Soon rejoiced in work made easy,
By the labor saving structures.
And the turnpikes of the county,
Echoed loud to wheels revolving:
All the rude, unsightly landmarks,
Were now graded and remodeled,
Were McAdamized and hardened.
Now the bridle and the saddle
Rose to harness and coach-trappings;
Now the rider and pedestrian
Took an airing in the carriage.
Sledges darted by in winter,
When the snows were firm and steady,
When the white and shining crystals
Covered road and wood and meadow.
There were speeches and mass-meetings,
When elections stirred the people,
Anniversary orations
Of the nation’s independence.
In the springtime came the circus;
Summer time, school exhibitions;
Fairs and pleasure trips in autumn,
Rare festivities in winter.
And sometimes there were dissensions,
In this era of my story.
One disastrous feud was raging,
In the year of eighteen fifty,
And continued with great venom,
Through two years or more of bloodshed.
Yet the spirit of improvement
Tarried not for man’s caprices.
Duties, taxes, trade, and commerce,
Public gala days and triumphs,
Dances, weddings, and storm-parties,
Floral festivals and music,
Or the promenading concert,
Lent a pleasing variation.
Or a serenade by moonlight,
Or a picnic, or band-meeting,
(It was Landram’s skillful “Saxhorn,”)
Or the famed association,
Called the Literary Circle,
Where was wit, and sense, and humor,
Where were readers and were critics,
Where were essays and selections,
In the style of choice belles-lettres.
And the weekly local paper,
In the year of fifty-seven.
Tells the story of the changes,
Tells the story of the pleasures,
Notes the firmer grasp of fashion,
Notes the new, intruding customs.
’Tis the “Sentinel” presiding
O’er the city’s daily doings,
The “American Sentinel” watching
All the curious innovations.
And the interesting columns
Show contributors in numbers,—
Many writers of the city
Furnished items and productions.
Roscius, Citizen, and Alma,
Ida, Claude, and Regulator,
Many signatures unnoted,
Many noms de plume forgotten,
Filled the sheet with spicy reading,
With discussion, fact, and fancy,
Prose and poetry and fiction,
Rhyme and riddle and acrostic,
All the sorrows and the blessings,
All misfortunes and successes,
All the city’s daily doings.
And the moons were waxing, waning,As the cycle brought its changes.
And the moons were waxing, waning,
As the cycle brought its changes.
[4]George W. Dunlap, Jr., purchased this Institute in 1874, and established a graded school for young ladies.
[4]George W. Dunlap, Jr., purchased this Institute in 1874, and established a graded school for young ladies.
CANTO X.1861-1865.CIVIL WAR.Eighteen hundred one and sixty,Rolls its direful weight upon us;Now the horoscope of nations,Opens wide its omens to us.In the mystic stars of fortune,Of the western constellation,Of the grand, united countries,On the continent of freedom,The astrologer now gazesOn a weird and crimson shadow.Stars of fixed and cruel brightness,Stars of fitful gleam and shining.Stars of strange and faint illuming,Reads the national magician;Stripes of gory hue adorning,All the mammoth constellation;Stripes extending down the shadowOf the shifting, warning picture.What broad stream pursues its flowing,Through the fateful, dark camera?What bedews the starry emblem,With the startling shade of crimson?’Tis, alas! the fearful shadow,Of contention and of vengeance;’Tis the strife of human passion,In the hapless land of freedom;’Tis the clash of angry foemen,Steel to steel in fierce encounter;’Tis the symbol of a struggle,In the brave, aspiring nation.Not the tramp of foreign armies,On the soil we bought with bloodshed,Not the aid to captive strangers,In the distant, unknown countries;But the war at home and fireside,The assault of friend and brother,The array of kith and kindred,In one grand, domestic quarrel.And the soldiers went in legions,Went in tens and tens of thousands,Swarmed upon the fields of battle,Crowded tent and camp and barrack.And the city of Lancaster,Ever foremost in her duty,Gave her mite of men and warriorsTo the ranks and to the hardships,Gave her fighting men to sufferIn the civil war that delugedAll this mighty West RepublicIn eighteen hundred one and sixty.First we note the conquering armies,With their brave, victorious leaders,Who enlisted in the service,From the county of old Garrard.General Landram was promoted,In the rising scale of glory,From the easier gradations,To the topmost roll of honor.Born within the hillside city,Architect of his own fortunes,Native industry and talentLed him up to high position.Poet, pensman, and musician,Writer, editor, and lawyer,Social leader and controllerOf the city’s hours of leisure,He put by these modest duties,To adorn the post of soldier;He ascended as commander,In the conquering Union armies.His command—“Nineteenth Kentucky,”Of the Infantry—the footmen,Was the charge at first entrusted,Numbered eighty men from GarrardOf the officers and privates,Company H. begins the roll-call.Morgan Evans, first a Captain,Was promoted soon to “Major,”And was killed when bravely fighting,Fell before the Vicksburg trenches,Fell in May (the twenty-second)Eighteen hundred three and sixty;And his body lies distinguished,By a shaft of pure white marble,In the quiet cemeteryOf his native hillside city.Here the “Blue” and “Grey” are resting,’Neath “the laurel” and “the lily,”“Love and tears” the one, adorning,“Tears and love” the other, mourning.Captain Alexander Logan,Lives to chronicle his story.First Lieutenant T. A. Elkin,On the staff of Colonel Landram,Drilled a band of Zouave urchins,In the lance munition tactics,Ere he joined the army proper,Ready for its earnest duties.By promotion he was CaptainOf the Cavalry—the horsemen,And survived a soldier’s perils,Made a creditable record.Stephen Hedger,[5]First Lieutenant,Was advanced from rank of Second.Now the Sergeants, nine in number,Are the chief among subalterns;Joseph Vaughn, and John H. Bussing,James D. Price, and A. M. Bishop,A. Kincead and Henry Innis,[6]Wilson Duggins, John L. Connor,[6]And Hugh Burns, the last recorded.Then nine Corporals are writtenOn the fresh and modern record;John C. Vaughn, and George S. Pollard,Thomas Alverson, James Chumbley,William Rigsby, and James Griffey,Gideon Duncan, James H. Dismukes,[6]Lastly, Alexander Duggins.For the fifty-eight remainingIn the ranks,vide Appendix.The great Mississippi ValleyWas their theatre of action.At the city of New Orleans,Eighteen hundred five and sixty,Colonel Landram was commissioned,Brigadier Commanding General.When the armistice was sounded,When the hero, Lee, surrendered,And the companies disbanded,At the trumpet proclamation,Then the city on the hillside,Summoned home her noble chieftains,Once again to routine quiet.Colonel Faulkner was a leaderIn the conquering Union army,Was the only son descended,From his military father,Who led forth his men to battle,In the war of eighteen thirteen.In the chronicle before us,We read, “Colonel John K. Faulkner,”Of command “Nineteenth Kentucky,”Of the Cavalry—the horsemen.First comes Captain Robert Collier;Then is Captain Joseph Thornton,First Lieutenant W. M. Kerby,First Lieutenant E. H. Walker;James L. Baird, and Thomas Dunn, areNext in order as Lieutenants.Sergeants six in number followIn the company’s statistics;Curtis Pierce, and James M. Rothwell,J. M. Carpenter, S. Rothwell,John McQuery, P. H. Fletcher;Then the Corporals, eight in number:Robert Baugh, and James T. Dollens,A. T. Conn, and James D. Adams,J. H. Anderson, James Perkins,G. W. Dollens, A. J. Hammock,John F. Kennedy, the farrier,And James Sims, the company’s saddler.See the Privates, forty-seven,InAppendixof my ditty.Of the first Kentucky Cavalry,Company G had two commanders,First, was Captain Thornton Hackley,Then came Captain Irvine Burton.William Carpenter, First Lieutenant,Second Lieutenant, Henry Robson,Second Lieutenant, Daniel Murphy,Sergeants: James F. Spratt, T. Wherritt,Eugene Miller, W. B. Saddler,J. H. Kennedy, James Ross, andA. M. Saddler, William Sherod.Corporals: John L. Pond, R. Hukle,Joseph Hicks, and Miles M. Chandler,John E. Wright, and Hiram Roberts,James O. Lynn, and Robert Rainey,John T. Brooks, the ninth in number.Fifty-seven private soldiers,Filled the columns. (SeeAppendix.)General Lovell H. Rousseau[7]wasYet another gallant warrior,Of whose glittering escutcheon,All the city’s pride is boastful;Lawyer, politician, soldier,He in Congress representedLouisville and all the district,And won military prowess,In the nation’s civil combats.Colonel William Hoskins gloriesIn unsullied reputation,Both as citizen and soldier,Both as friend and as companion.Served the Union in its struggle,Served his county’s legislature;Is a genial, polished courtier,Ever welcome at the fireside,Ever welcome in all circles.Whether lifting up his voice inMeasures for the public welfare,Whether shouldering the bayonet,For the bloody field of battle,Whether drawing strains of music,From the violin’s sweet echoes,Colonel Hoskins wins a greeting,Claims a welcome in all circles.Major M. H. Owsley, leaderIn “the Cavalry” of Kentucky,Was advanced from rank of CaptainIn eighteen hundred one and sixty.Since those times of manly trial,He has step by step ascended,From the youthful lawyer’s office,Up the grade of politicians,To the bench of legal power.A. G. Daniel, Junior, CaptainOf the Home Guard nightly patrol,Served the Government thereafter,In responsible positions.W. A. Yantis ranked Lieutenant,Led the military musicOn the march of Wolford’s cavalry.R. L. Cochran was Lieutenant,Also, R. Leslie McMurtry,Officers from brave Lancaster,In the army of the Union.Other men perchance from Garrard,From the inland hillside city,Took up arms to save the Union,Fought the desperate seceders.Far and near the slogan sounded,Long and loud the fatal summons,Till around each fireside lonely,Soon a “vacant chair” was standing;Till the only free retainersWere the women and the children;Till the crippled and the agedWere the guardians of the homesteads.* * * * *How the shadows of the pictureDarken o’er the southern landscape!How the “Lost Cause” sheds a gloamingOn the erst illumed horizon!All about the stricken regionHangs the doom of vanquished power;All throughout the conquered countrySounds the knell of fruitless bloodshed.Mothers mourn their slaughtered first-born,Wives lament their martyred husbands,Sisters guard the worn grey jackets,Maidens prize the blood-stained tresses.Farmers, planters, cultivators—All the men of thrift and profit,Grieve above the desolation,Deep bewail the fruits so bitter.Furrows in the soil may ripen,With a renovated harvest;Furrows in the heart are open,With a ceaseless, arid planting.Wind and rain and shower and sunshine,Soon give back the laborer’s treasure;None of nature’s sweet restorers,Bring alas! the mourner’s idols.From the North were foreign legions,Swarming on to bayonet charges;From the South the fostered nurselingsOf the native born American.Every drop of blood a rendingOf the ties of pure affection;Every pillowed head a tokenOf “Somebody’s Darling,” stricken;Every “Picket Guard” on duty,Joined in dreams an absent “Mary,”Every hospital and barrack,Held the hope of some fond household.Captain Matthew David Logan,Major and Lieutenant-colonel,Long a citizen of Garrard,Long a practicing physician,Led a band of Southern-Rights-menTo the troubled land of Dixie;Bore the “Bonnie Blue Flag” above him,Held the Stars and Bars unfurling.Forest, Breckinridge, and Morgan,Gallant gentlemen and soldiers,Were his comrades in the struggle,Were his mighty fellow-suff’rers.His career through countless hardships,His successes and his losses,His adventures without number,Culminating in the northern prisons,At Fort Delaware, Columbus,Morris Island, Fort Pulaski,—All these woes and hopes defeated,Left their gloomy impress on him,Added years of bitter pining.May the dove of peace brood overEvery blighting grief and trial,May all past despair and anguishHold abeyance till the Judgment.The Confederates were rallied,Oft in haste and stealth and darkness.All the archives of their columnsAre obscure, or lost forever.SeeAppendix, for the gatheringOf the names that float about us,Whether officers or privates;Let the blanks be duly pardoned.H. D. Brown,[6]was First LieutenantOf command of Captain Logan;J. T. McQuery was Lieutenant;James McMurray was a Sergeant,And the Sergeant, Joseph Arnold,Was promoted while in service.Sergeant D. A. King is numberedWith the officers belongingTo the gallant Third Kentucky,Of the Cavalry—the horsemen.Other names are linked togetherIn my song’s repleteAppendix.Captain Michael Salter musteredCompany E—the Third Kentucky,With Lieutenant L. B. Hudson,Fellow-officer and leader;Samuel Curd, the Orderly Sergeant.Captain Salter’s fearless spirit,His bold exploits and his daring,Led him into bonds and capture,Till he languished long in prison,At the Johnson’s Island stronghold.James and William Jennings, brothers,Natives of remote Lancaster,Skillful surgeons by profession,Cast their fortunes in the balance,In the trembling Southern balance.One survived the toil and peril,One was sacrificed to rapine.On the scattered army recordsOf the “Dixie Boys” of Garrard,Captain H. Clay Myers is written,And Captain Jack W. Adams:Also S. F. McKee, anotherScion of a race of soldiers,Claims a place within my canto,In the “grey” and “faded” columns.Major Baxter Smith was foremost,In events of risk and danger,Was a son of brave Lancaster,Served the South in many battles.Morgan’s men were soon recruited,By Confederates[8]from Garrard;History furnishes already,Stormy raids and dashing charges,Led within the fruitful bordersOf Kentucky’s fair dominion.Thrilling incidents unnumbered,Mark the story of the struggle,Mark the hideous distortionOf the nation’s sunny temper,Tell the sad and fatal meaningOf this Cain and Abel quarrel,When the slain in myriad numbers,Filled the “furrows” in “God’s Acre.”When the “seed” of Death’s “rude plowshare”Yielded bounteous “human harvests.”Each forgot the sacred lesson,Thou art still thy brother’s keeper;Each essayed in vain to smotherIn the ground the cries of bloodshed.Family feuds are wounds that fester,Home dissensions breed sore anguish,Yet the love that binds the members,Spreads the mantle of forgiveness;And from every wound that seversParent stems and sturdy branches,Springs a shoot of vital growing,Flows a blessed balm of healing.Thus may North and South uniting,Soothe the pangs of heartstrings broken,Leave the fierce and naming fires,In the crucible to smoulder.Let the ashes crumble, crumble,To the dust of buried vengeance.Let no moon wax o’er Lancaster,But may shed her beams in gladness;Let no moon wane o’er the city,But illumes with love and pardon.[5]Stephen Hedger, while Postmaster at Lancaster in 1874, was shot and killed by Ebenezer Best.[6]Dead.[7]Deceased.[8]SeeAppendix.
Eighteen hundred one and sixty,Rolls its direful weight upon us;Now the horoscope of nations,Opens wide its omens to us.In the mystic stars of fortune,Of the western constellation,Of the grand, united countries,On the continent of freedom,The astrologer now gazesOn a weird and crimson shadow.Stars of fixed and cruel brightness,Stars of fitful gleam and shining.Stars of strange and faint illuming,Reads the national magician;Stripes of gory hue adorning,All the mammoth constellation;Stripes extending down the shadowOf the shifting, warning picture.What broad stream pursues its flowing,Through the fateful, dark camera?What bedews the starry emblem,With the startling shade of crimson?’Tis, alas! the fearful shadow,Of contention and of vengeance;’Tis the strife of human passion,In the hapless land of freedom;’Tis the clash of angry foemen,Steel to steel in fierce encounter;’Tis the symbol of a struggle,In the brave, aspiring nation.Not the tramp of foreign armies,On the soil we bought with bloodshed,Not the aid to captive strangers,In the distant, unknown countries;But the war at home and fireside,The assault of friend and brother,The array of kith and kindred,In one grand, domestic quarrel.And the soldiers went in legions,Went in tens and tens of thousands,Swarmed upon the fields of battle,Crowded tent and camp and barrack.And the city of Lancaster,Ever foremost in her duty,Gave her mite of men and warriorsTo the ranks and to the hardships,Gave her fighting men to sufferIn the civil war that delugedAll this mighty West RepublicIn eighteen hundred one and sixty.
Eighteen hundred one and sixty,
Rolls its direful weight upon us;
Now the horoscope of nations,
Opens wide its omens to us.
In the mystic stars of fortune,
Of the western constellation,
Of the grand, united countries,
On the continent of freedom,
The astrologer now gazes
On a weird and crimson shadow.
Stars of fixed and cruel brightness,
Stars of fitful gleam and shining.
Stars of strange and faint illuming,
Reads the national magician;
Stripes of gory hue adorning,
All the mammoth constellation;
Stripes extending down the shadow
Of the shifting, warning picture.
What broad stream pursues its flowing,
Through the fateful, dark camera?
What bedews the starry emblem,
With the startling shade of crimson?
’Tis, alas! the fearful shadow,
Of contention and of vengeance;
’Tis the strife of human passion,
In the hapless land of freedom;
’Tis the clash of angry foemen,
Steel to steel in fierce encounter;
’Tis the symbol of a struggle,
In the brave, aspiring nation.
Not the tramp of foreign armies,
On the soil we bought with bloodshed,
Not the aid to captive strangers,
In the distant, unknown countries;
But the war at home and fireside,
The assault of friend and brother,
The array of kith and kindred,
In one grand, domestic quarrel.
And the soldiers went in legions,
Went in tens and tens of thousands,
Swarmed upon the fields of battle,
Crowded tent and camp and barrack.
And the city of Lancaster,
Ever foremost in her duty,
Gave her mite of men and warriors
To the ranks and to the hardships,
Gave her fighting men to suffer
In the civil war that deluged
All this mighty West Republic
In eighteen hundred one and sixty.
First we note the conquering armies,With their brave, victorious leaders,Who enlisted in the service,From the county of old Garrard.General Landram was promoted,In the rising scale of glory,From the easier gradations,To the topmost roll of honor.Born within the hillside city,Architect of his own fortunes,Native industry and talentLed him up to high position.Poet, pensman, and musician,Writer, editor, and lawyer,Social leader and controllerOf the city’s hours of leisure,He put by these modest duties,To adorn the post of soldier;He ascended as commander,In the conquering Union armies.His command—“Nineteenth Kentucky,”Of the Infantry—the footmen,Was the charge at first entrusted,Numbered eighty men from GarrardOf the officers and privates,Company H. begins the roll-call.Morgan Evans, first a Captain,Was promoted soon to “Major,”And was killed when bravely fighting,Fell before the Vicksburg trenches,Fell in May (the twenty-second)Eighteen hundred three and sixty;And his body lies distinguished,By a shaft of pure white marble,In the quiet cemeteryOf his native hillside city.Here the “Blue” and “Grey” are resting,’Neath “the laurel” and “the lily,”“Love and tears” the one, adorning,“Tears and love” the other, mourning.Captain Alexander Logan,Lives to chronicle his story.First Lieutenant T. A. Elkin,On the staff of Colonel Landram,Drilled a band of Zouave urchins,In the lance munition tactics,Ere he joined the army proper,Ready for its earnest duties.By promotion he was CaptainOf the Cavalry—the horsemen,And survived a soldier’s perils,Made a creditable record.Stephen Hedger,[5]First Lieutenant,Was advanced from rank of Second.Now the Sergeants, nine in number,Are the chief among subalterns;Joseph Vaughn, and John H. Bussing,James D. Price, and A. M. Bishop,A. Kincead and Henry Innis,[6]Wilson Duggins, John L. Connor,[6]And Hugh Burns, the last recorded.Then nine Corporals are writtenOn the fresh and modern record;John C. Vaughn, and George S. Pollard,Thomas Alverson, James Chumbley,William Rigsby, and James Griffey,Gideon Duncan, James H. Dismukes,[6]Lastly, Alexander Duggins.For the fifty-eight remainingIn the ranks,vide Appendix.The great Mississippi ValleyWas their theatre of action.At the city of New Orleans,Eighteen hundred five and sixty,Colonel Landram was commissioned,Brigadier Commanding General.When the armistice was sounded,When the hero, Lee, surrendered,And the companies disbanded,At the trumpet proclamation,Then the city on the hillside,Summoned home her noble chieftains,Once again to routine quiet.
First we note the conquering armies,
With their brave, victorious leaders,
Who enlisted in the service,
From the county of old Garrard.
General Landram was promoted,
In the rising scale of glory,
From the easier gradations,
To the topmost roll of honor.
Born within the hillside city,
Architect of his own fortunes,
Native industry and talent
Led him up to high position.
Poet, pensman, and musician,
Writer, editor, and lawyer,
Social leader and controller
Of the city’s hours of leisure,
He put by these modest duties,
To adorn the post of soldier;
He ascended as commander,
In the conquering Union armies.
His command—“Nineteenth Kentucky,”
Of the Infantry—the footmen,
Was the charge at first entrusted,
Numbered eighty men from Garrard
Of the officers and privates,
Company H. begins the roll-call.
Morgan Evans, first a Captain,
Was promoted soon to “Major,”
And was killed when bravely fighting,
Fell before the Vicksburg trenches,
Fell in May (the twenty-second)
Eighteen hundred three and sixty;
And his body lies distinguished,
By a shaft of pure white marble,
In the quiet cemetery
Of his native hillside city.
Here the “Blue” and “Grey” are resting,
’Neath “the laurel” and “the lily,”
“Love and tears” the one, adorning,
“Tears and love” the other, mourning.
Captain Alexander Logan,
Lives to chronicle his story.
First Lieutenant T. A. Elkin,
On the staff of Colonel Landram,
Drilled a band of Zouave urchins,
In the lance munition tactics,
Ere he joined the army proper,
Ready for its earnest duties.
By promotion he was Captain
Of the Cavalry—the horsemen,
And survived a soldier’s perils,
Made a creditable record.
Stephen Hedger,[5]First Lieutenant,
Was advanced from rank of Second.
Now the Sergeants, nine in number,
Are the chief among subalterns;
Joseph Vaughn, and John H. Bussing,
James D. Price, and A. M. Bishop,
A. Kincead and Henry Innis,[6]
Wilson Duggins, John L. Connor,[6]
And Hugh Burns, the last recorded.
Then nine Corporals are written
On the fresh and modern record;
John C. Vaughn, and George S. Pollard,
Thomas Alverson, James Chumbley,
William Rigsby, and James Griffey,
Gideon Duncan, James H. Dismukes,[6]
Lastly, Alexander Duggins.
For the fifty-eight remaining
In the ranks,vide Appendix.
The great Mississippi Valley
Was their theatre of action.
At the city of New Orleans,
Eighteen hundred five and sixty,
Colonel Landram was commissioned,
Brigadier Commanding General.
When the armistice was sounded,
When the hero, Lee, surrendered,
And the companies disbanded,
At the trumpet proclamation,
Then the city on the hillside,
Summoned home her noble chieftains,
Once again to routine quiet.
Colonel Faulkner was a leaderIn the conquering Union army,Was the only son descended,From his military father,Who led forth his men to battle,In the war of eighteen thirteen.In the chronicle before us,We read, “Colonel John K. Faulkner,”Of command “Nineteenth Kentucky,”Of the Cavalry—the horsemen.First comes Captain Robert Collier;Then is Captain Joseph Thornton,First Lieutenant W. M. Kerby,First Lieutenant E. H. Walker;James L. Baird, and Thomas Dunn, areNext in order as Lieutenants.Sergeants six in number followIn the company’s statistics;Curtis Pierce, and James M. Rothwell,J. M. Carpenter, S. Rothwell,John McQuery, P. H. Fletcher;Then the Corporals, eight in number:Robert Baugh, and James T. Dollens,A. T. Conn, and James D. Adams,J. H. Anderson, James Perkins,G. W. Dollens, A. J. Hammock,John F. Kennedy, the farrier,And James Sims, the company’s saddler.See the Privates, forty-seven,InAppendixof my ditty.
Colonel Faulkner was a leader
In the conquering Union army,
Was the only son descended,
From his military father,
Who led forth his men to battle,
In the war of eighteen thirteen.
In the chronicle before us,
We read, “Colonel John K. Faulkner,”
Of command “Nineteenth Kentucky,”
Of the Cavalry—the horsemen.
First comes Captain Robert Collier;
Then is Captain Joseph Thornton,
First Lieutenant W. M. Kerby,
First Lieutenant E. H. Walker;
James L. Baird, and Thomas Dunn, are
Next in order as Lieutenants.
Sergeants six in number follow
In the company’s statistics;
Curtis Pierce, and James M. Rothwell,
J. M. Carpenter, S. Rothwell,
John McQuery, P. H. Fletcher;
Then the Corporals, eight in number:
Robert Baugh, and James T. Dollens,
A. T. Conn, and James D. Adams,
J. H. Anderson, James Perkins,
G. W. Dollens, A. J. Hammock,
John F. Kennedy, the farrier,
And James Sims, the company’s saddler.
See the Privates, forty-seven,
InAppendixof my ditty.
Of the first Kentucky Cavalry,Company G had two commanders,First, was Captain Thornton Hackley,Then came Captain Irvine Burton.William Carpenter, First Lieutenant,Second Lieutenant, Henry Robson,Second Lieutenant, Daniel Murphy,Sergeants: James F. Spratt, T. Wherritt,Eugene Miller, W. B. Saddler,J. H. Kennedy, James Ross, andA. M. Saddler, William Sherod.Corporals: John L. Pond, R. Hukle,Joseph Hicks, and Miles M. Chandler,John E. Wright, and Hiram Roberts,James O. Lynn, and Robert Rainey,John T. Brooks, the ninth in number.Fifty-seven private soldiers,Filled the columns. (SeeAppendix.)General Lovell H. Rousseau[7]wasYet another gallant warrior,Of whose glittering escutcheon,All the city’s pride is boastful;Lawyer, politician, soldier,He in Congress representedLouisville and all the district,And won military prowess,In the nation’s civil combats.
Of the first Kentucky Cavalry,
Company G had two commanders,
First, was Captain Thornton Hackley,
Then came Captain Irvine Burton.
William Carpenter, First Lieutenant,
Second Lieutenant, Henry Robson,
Second Lieutenant, Daniel Murphy,
Sergeants: James F. Spratt, T. Wherritt,
Eugene Miller, W. B. Saddler,
J. H. Kennedy, James Ross, and
A. M. Saddler, William Sherod.
Corporals: John L. Pond, R. Hukle,
Joseph Hicks, and Miles M. Chandler,
John E. Wright, and Hiram Roberts,
James O. Lynn, and Robert Rainey,
John T. Brooks, the ninth in number.
Fifty-seven private soldiers,
Filled the columns. (SeeAppendix.)
General Lovell H. Rousseau[7]was
Yet another gallant warrior,
Of whose glittering escutcheon,
All the city’s pride is boastful;
Lawyer, politician, soldier,
He in Congress represented
Louisville and all the district,
And won military prowess,
In the nation’s civil combats.
Colonel William Hoskins gloriesIn unsullied reputation,Both as citizen and soldier,Both as friend and as companion.Served the Union in its struggle,Served his county’s legislature;Is a genial, polished courtier,Ever welcome at the fireside,Ever welcome in all circles.Whether lifting up his voice inMeasures for the public welfare,Whether shouldering the bayonet,For the bloody field of battle,Whether drawing strains of music,From the violin’s sweet echoes,Colonel Hoskins wins a greeting,Claims a welcome in all circles.Major M. H. Owsley, leaderIn “the Cavalry” of Kentucky,Was advanced from rank of CaptainIn eighteen hundred one and sixty.Since those times of manly trial,He has step by step ascended,From the youthful lawyer’s office,Up the grade of politicians,To the bench of legal power.A. G. Daniel, Junior, CaptainOf the Home Guard nightly patrol,Served the Government thereafter,In responsible positions.W. A. Yantis ranked Lieutenant,Led the military musicOn the march of Wolford’s cavalry.R. L. Cochran was Lieutenant,Also, R. Leslie McMurtry,Officers from brave Lancaster,In the army of the Union.Other men perchance from Garrard,From the inland hillside city,Took up arms to save the Union,Fought the desperate seceders.Far and near the slogan sounded,Long and loud the fatal summons,Till around each fireside lonely,Soon a “vacant chair” was standing;Till the only free retainersWere the women and the children;Till the crippled and the agedWere the guardians of the homesteads.* * * * *How the shadows of the pictureDarken o’er the southern landscape!How the “Lost Cause” sheds a gloamingOn the erst illumed horizon!All about the stricken regionHangs the doom of vanquished power;All throughout the conquered countrySounds the knell of fruitless bloodshed.Mothers mourn their slaughtered first-born,Wives lament their martyred husbands,Sisters guard the worn grey jackets,Maidens prize the blood-stained tresses.Farmers, planters, cultivators—All the men of thrift and profit,Grieve above the desolation,Deep bewail the fruits so bitter.Furrows in the soil may ripen,With a renovated harvest;Furrows in the heart are open,With a ceaseless, arid planting.Wind and rain and shower and sunshine,Soon give back the laborer’s treasure;None of nature’s sweet restorers,Bring alas! the mourner’s idols.From the North were foreign legions,Swarming on to bayonet charges;From the South the fostered nurselingsOf the native born American.Every drop of blood a rendingOf the ties of pure affection;Every pillowed head a tokenOf “Somebody’s Darling,” stricken;Every “Picket Guard” on duty,Joined in dreams an absent “Mary,”Every hospital and barrack,Held the hope of some fond household.
Colonel William Hoskins glories
In unsullied reputation,
Both as citizen and soldier,
Both as friend and as companion.
Served the Union in its struggle,
Served his county’s legislature;
Is a genial, polished courtier,
Ever welcome at the fireside,
Ever welcome in all circles.
Whether lifting up his voice in
Measures for the public welfare,
Whether shouldering the bayonet,
For the bloody field of battle,
Whether drawing strains of music,
From the violin’s sweet echoes,
Colonel Hoskins wins a greeting,
Claims a welcome in all circles.
Major M. H. Owsley, leader
In “the Cavalry” of Kentucky,
Was advanced from rank of Captain
In eighteen hundred one and sixty.
Since those times of manly trial,
He has step by step ascended,
From the youthful lawyer’s office,
Up the grade of politicians,
To the bench of legal power.
A. G. Daniel, Junior, Captain
Of the Home Guard nightly patrol,
Served the Government thereafter,
In responsible positions.
W. A. Yantis ranked Lieutenant,
Led the military music
On the march of Wolford’s cavalry.
R. L. Cochran was Lieutenant,
Also, R. Leslie McMurtry,
Officers from brave Lancaster,
In the army of the Union.
Other men perchance from Garrard,
From the inland hillside city,
Took up arms to save the Union,
Fought the desperate seceders.
Far and near the slogan sounded,
Long and loud the fatal summons,
Till around each fireside lonely,
Soon a “vacant chair” was standing;
Till the only free retainers
Were the women and the children;
Till the crippled and the aged
Were the guardians of the homesteads.
* * * * *
How the shadows of the picture
Darken o’er the southern landscape!
How the “Lost Cause” sheds a gloaming
On the erst illumed horizon!
All about the stricken region
Hangs the doom of vanquished power;
All throughout the conquered country
Sounds the knell of fruitless bloodshed.
Mothers mourn their slaughtered first-born,
Wives lament their martyred husbands,
Sisters guard the worn grey jackets,
Maidens prize the blood-stained tresses.
Farmers, planters, cultivators—
All the men of thrift and profit,
Grieve above the desolation,
Deep bewail the fruits so bitter.
Furrows in the soil may ripen,
With a renovated harvest;
Furrows in the heart are open,
With a ceaseless, arid planting.
Wind and rain and shower and sunshine,
Soon give back the laborer’s treasure;
None of nature’s sweet restorers,
Bring alas! the mourner’s idols.
From the North were foreign legions,
Swarming on to bayonet charges;
From the South the fostered nurselings
Of the native born American.
Every drop of blood a rending
Of the ties of pure affection;
Every pillowed head a token
Of “Somebody’s Darling,” stricken;
Every “Picket Guard” on duty,
Joined in dreams an absent “Mary,”
Every hospital and barrack,
Held the hope of some fond household.
Captain Matthew David Logan,Major and Lieutenant-colonel,Long a citizen of Garrard,Long a practicing physician,Led a band of Southern-Rights-menTo the troubled land of Dixie;Bore the “Bonnie Blue Flag” above him,Held the Stars and Bars unfurling.Forest, Breckinridge, and Morgan,Gallant gentlemen and soldiers,Were his comrades in the struggle,Were his mighty fellow-suff’rers.His career through countless hardships,His successes and his losses,His adventures without number,Culminating in the northern prisons,At Fort Delaware, Columbus,Morris Island, Fort Pulaski,—All these woes and hopes defeated,Left their gloomy impress on him,Added years of bitter pining.May the dove of peace brood overEvery blighting grief and trial,May all past despair and anguishHold abeyance till the Judgment.The Confederates were rallied,Oft in haste and stealth and darkness.All the archives of their columnsAre obscure, or lost forever.SeeAppendix, for the gatheringOf the names that float about us,Whether officers or privates;Let the blanks be duly pardoned.H. D. Brown,[6]was First LieutenantOf command of Captain Logan;J. T. McQuery was Lieutenant;James McMurray was a Sergeant,And the Sergeant, Joseph Arnold,Was promoted while in service.Sergeant D. A. King is numberedWith the officers belongingTo the gallant Third Kentucky,Of the Cavalry—the horsemen.Other names are linked togetherIn my song’s repleteAppendix.
Captain Matthew David Logan,
Major and Lieutenant-colonel,
Long a citizen of Garrard,
Long a practicing physician,
Led a band of Southern-Rights-men
To the troubled land of Dixie;
Bore the “Bonnie Blue Flag” above him,
Held the Stars and Bars unfurling.
Forest, Breckinridge, and Morgan,
Gallant gentlemen and soldiers,
Were his comrades in the struggle,
Were his mighty fellow-suff’rers.
His career through countless hardships,
His successes and his losses,
His adventures without number,
Culminating in the northern prisons,
At Fort Delaware, Columbus,
Morris Island, Fort Pulaski,—
All these woes and hopes defeated,
Left their gloomy impress on him,
Added years of bitter pining.
May the dove of peace brood over
Every blighting grief and trial,
May all past despair and anguish
Hold abeyance till the Judgment.
The Confederates were rallied,
Oft in haste and stealth and darkness.
All the archives of their columns
Are obscure, or lost forever.
SeeAppendix, for the gathering
Of the names that float about us,
Whether officers or privates;
Let the blanks be duly pardoned.
H. D. Brown,[6]was First Lieutenant
Of command of Captain Logan;
J. T. McQuery was Lieutenant;
James McMurray was a Sergeant,
And the Sergeant, Joseph Arnold,
Was promoted while in service.
Sergeant D. A. King is numbered
With the officers belonging
To the gallant Third Kentucky,
Of the Cavalry—the horsemen.
Other names are linked together
In my song’s repleteAppendix.
Captain Michael Salter musteredCompany E—the Third Kentucky,With Lieutenant L. B. Hudson,Fellow-officer and leader;Samuel Curd, the Orderly Sergeant.Captain Salter’s fearless spirit,His bold exploits and his daring,Led him into bonds and capture,Till he languished long in prison,At the Johnson’s Island stronghold.
Captain Michael Salter mustered
Company E—the Third Kentucky,
With Lieutenant L. B. Hudson,
Fellow-officer and leader;
Samuel Curd, the Orderly Sergeant.
Captain Salter’s fearless spirit,
His bold exploits and his daring,
Led him into bonds and capture,
Till he languished long in prison,
At the Johnson’s Island stronghold.
James and William Jennings, brothers,Natives of remote Lancaster,Skillful surgeons by profession,Cast their fortunes in the balance,In the trembling Southern balance.One survived the toil and peril,One was sacrificed to rapine.On the scattered army recordsOf the “Dixie Boys” of Garrard,Captain H. Clay Myers is written,And Captain Jack W. Adams:Also S. F. McKee, anotherScion of a race of soldiers,Claims a place within my canto,In the “grey” and “faded” columns.Major Baxter Smith was foremost,In events of risk and danger,Was a son of brave Lancaster,Served the South in many battles.Morgan’s men were soon recruited,By Confederates[8]from Garrard;History furnishes already,Stormy raids and dashing charges,Led within the fruitful bordersOf Kentucky’s fair dominion.Thrilling incidents unnumbered,Mark the story of the struggle,Mark the hideous distortionOf the nation’s sunny temper,Tell the sad and fatal meaningOf this Cain and Abel quarrel,When the slain in myriad numbers,Filled the “furrows” in “God’s Acre.”When the “seed” of Death’s “rude plowshare”Yielded bounteous “human harvests.”Each forgot the sacred lesson,Thou art still thy brother’s keeper;Each essayed in vain to smotherIn the ground the cries of bloodshed.Family feuds are wounds that fester,Home dissensions breed sore anguish,Yet the love that binds the members,Spreads the mantle of forgiveness;And from every wound that seversParent stems and sturdy branches,Springs a shoot of vital growing,Flows a blessed balm of healing.Thus may North and South uniting,Soothe the pangs of heartstrings broken,Leave the fierce and naming fires,In the crucible to smoulder.Let the ashes crumble, crumble,To the dust of buried vengeance.Let no moon wax o’er Lancaster,But may shed her beams in gladness;Let no moon wane o’er the city,But illumes with love and pardon.
James and William Jennings, brothers,
Natives of remote Lancaster,
Skillful surgeons by profession,
Cast their fortunes in the balance,
In the trembling Southern balance.
One survived the toil and peril,
One was sacrificed to rapine.
On the scattered army records
Of the “Dixie Boys” of Garrard,
Captain H. Clay Myers is written,
And Captain Jack W. Adams:
Also S. F. McKee, another
Scion of a race of soldiers,
Claims a place within my canto,
In the “grey” and “faded” columns.
Major Baxter Smith was foremost,
In events of risk and danger,
Was a son of brave Lancaster,
Served the South in many battles.
Morgan’s men were soon recruited,
By Confederates[8]from Garrard;
History furnishes already,
Stormy raids and dashing charges,
Led within the fruitful borders
Of Kentucky’s fair dominion.
Thrilling incidents unnumbered,
Mark the story of the struggle,
Mark the hideous distortion
Of the nation’s sunny temper,
Tell the sad and fatal meaning
Of this Cain and Abel quarrel,
When the slain in myriad numbers,
Filled the “furrows” in “God’s Acre.”
When the “seed” of Death’s “rude plowshare”
Yielded bounteous “human harvests.”
Each forgot the sacred lesson,
Thou art still thy brother’s keeper;
Each essayed in vain to smother
In the ground the cries of bloodshed.
Family feuds are wounds that fester,
Home dissensions breed sore anguish,
Yet the love that binds the members,
Spreads the mantle of forgiveness;
And from every wound that severs
Parent stems and sturdy branches,
Springs a shoot of vital growing,
Flows a blessed balm of healing.
Thus may North and South uniting,
Soothe the pangs of heartstrings broken,
Leave the fierce and naming fires,
In the crucible to smoulder.
Let the ashes crumble, crumble,
To the dust of buried vengeance.
Let no moon wax o’er Lancaster,
But may shed her beams in gladness;
Let no moon wane o’er the city,
But illumes with love and pardon.
[5]Stephen Hedger, while Postmaster at Lancaster in 1874, was shot and killed by Ebenezer Best.[6]Dead.[7]Deceased.[8]SeeAppendix.
[5]Stephen Hedger, while Postmaster at Lancaster in 1874, was shot and killed by Ebenezer Best.
[6]Dead.
[7]Deceased.
[8]SeeAppendix.
CANTO XI.1865-1874.CHANGE.Now the civil war is ended,Now the strife by arms is over;And the city’s star of fortuneBeams with undiminished glory:All her brilliant constellationWears new rays of future promise,All her plans for peace and progressMove to swifter execution.In eighteen hundred three and sixty,Of the late, eventful cycle,Was laid out a modern cityOf the dead among the grasses;Was enclosed a cemetery,On a green and graceful summit,At the city’s southeast section,On the street we call Crab Orchard.Shrubs and flowers lead the strangerTo invade the sacred precinct,Clust’ring evergreens invite himTo behold the sad environs.Gleaming shafts of purest marble,Greet the eye of friend and mourner,Costly slabs of stone and granite,Wearing strange device and fashion,Lie amid the urns and vases.Lie among the shells and mosses:Tell of forms long since departed,Tell of loved ones safely resting,Tell of fresh turned earth and sodding,Of green wreaths and floral tributes,Kindly tributes of affection.And the ancient trodden graveyard,Of the city’s early ages,Lingers on with sunken tomb-stones,Lingers on with gray inscriptions,Lingers yet with moss and ivy,Winding close their clinging tendrils,Lingers now a small enclosure,In the suburbs of Lancaster.In eighteen hundred sixty-seven,Fell the second central court-house,In the middle of the city;Fell the tall and stately locusts,With their grateful, cooling shadows,Fell the ruined iron railing,Once so rich and ornamental.And a grand, imposing structure,At the open southwest corner,Now extends its costly apexFar above the churches’ steeples,Reaches forth its white cupola,High into the azure ether.And the central, broad arena,Of the square, right-angle outlines,Has been leveled to the surfaceOf the streets and roads around it,Bears no pile of architecture,[9]To be seen afar and nearer,To be seen from hill and valley,By the traveler wand’ring hither.On the summit of the tower,Of the octagon bell-tower,Of this new and gorgeous building,With its porticos and stairways,With its halls and council chambers,Is a high observatory,Whence is viewed the distant landscape,Whence is seen the rural beautiesOf this land of agriculture.Near this pinnacle so lofty,Is the ever-warning town-clock,Is the pendulum vibrating,To diurnal revolutions,Is the fire-alarm resounding,Over hill and dale and meadow,Is the heavy bell sonorous,With events of varied import.It was in this year of changes,Eighteen hundred sixty-seven,That a fearful conflagration,Tore away a block of buildings,At the city’s southeast corner;Razed an ancient block to ashes,On a wintry Saturday evening,On a night of snow and tempest,In the month of February.Soon a handsome row replaced it,Soon the enterprising peopleCleared the débris and the rubbish,Cleared away the silent ruins,And rebuilt the last possessions.Silent? Aye, but speaking everOf events and actors vanished,In the history of Lancaster.Of the offices and store-rooms,Of the dwellings and the households,Of affairs of public moment,Of the hidden and domestic,Of the groups of Mystic Brothers,Of the Masons and Odd-Fellows,Of ye ancient Sons of Temperance,All the secrets of the bygone,Speaking from the smoking ruins.So there rose another structure,Phœnix-like, upon the ashes.Where the merchants and the tradesmen,Can pursue their avocations.And the store-rooms are surmounted,By a Hall of spacious model,Where the city’s merry-makers,Find an evening’s recreation,Where the weary men of business,Often seek an hour’s diversion;Where the order of Good Templars,Held their rites and ceremonies,Where the skating-rink and concert,Where the festival and supper,Where the theatre and lecture,And the dancing-school and tableau,—All the public entertainments,Have beguiled the times of leisure.Eighteen hundred nine and sixty,Came the hissing locomotive,Came the train of rumbling coaches,Dashing through the quiet city;Came the smoking iron monster,Of the “Louisville and Nashville,”Sounded loud the shrill steam-whistleOf the railroad “On to Richmond.”And the Old Church walls so sacred,Fell beneath the stormy cargo,Our Republican ancestressBent her hoary head in shrinking;All the rank and mouldy ruinsFell before the thund’ring onset.Never more the timeworn benchesShall reëcho words of wisdom;Never more the brick and plasterShall have grace from text and precept,Ne’er alas! her slumb’ring childrenGive her earthly praise and homage.Gone forever, church and pastor,Gone, all gone, her saints’ communion,Dust to dust the crumbling mortar,Earth to earth the human body,Air of air the ghostly phantoms,Heav’n of heav’ns the final meeting.* * * * *In this section, once a wildwood,Now are clustered many buildings;Now hotels, depots, and warerooms,Tell of industry and labor;Now the loud mill-whistle piercesThrough the fogs of early morning,Now the neat and tasteful cottageTakes the place of tree and grapevine,And a porter’s lodge adorning,Guards the modern cemetery,Guards the modern double entrance,To the home of sleeping loved ones.All about this busy section,Are the signs of swift progression;Swift progression towards profit,In the thrift of living workmen,Swift advance to time eternal,In the fast increasing graveyard.In this year the game of Base-ball,Occupied the young athletics,Occupied maturer players,Gave the city’s “men of muscle,”Daily rounds of fun and frolic.And the ball and bat and score-book,Answered oft a neighbor’s challenge,Won the palm in match and test games,Won the victor’s crown of laurel.Eighteen hundred one and seventyBrought a company of soldiersTo protect the hillside cityFrom the dreaded Klan of Kuklux;From this band of masking lynchers,Who defied the legal councils,Who withdrew the reins of powerFrom the tardy, lenient, rulers,Who dealt quick and fearful justice,To all hapless state offenders.And the law-abiding peopleCalled the U. S. A. to aid them;To disband the Regulators,With their penalties mysterious,To respite their guilty culprits,From deserved but lawless peril.And the garrison enlivens,With its neat and healthful barracks,With its drum and fife and bugle,With its tents and lofty flagstaff,With its officers and soldiers.Colonel Rose was first to answerThe petition for assistance;Then the “Fourth” sent troops to guard us(The Fourth Infantry, C company.)Captain Edwin Coates commanding,Bubb and Robinson, Lieutenants,With the Surgeon S. T. Weirrick,Spent two years within our circles,Winning friends while firm on duty.Wolfe and Galbraith then succeeded,For a few months of probation.Colonel Fletcher, Major Barber,And Lieutenant Will. McFarland,Doctor S. L. Smith, the surgeon,Now control the troops among us,Now preserve the law and order.Eighteen seventy-three was saddened,By another fire disaster,[10]Which consumed the new Bank building,Burned the late established “National,”On the fated Southeast corner,Of the chastened hillside city.And two handsome halls were numberedWith the property that suffered,With the storeroom of the merchant,The lamented H. S. Burnam;And the Masons and Odd-Fellows,Once again sustain misfortune,Once again construct new temples,For the gath’ring of the mystic.On the fifteenth day of August,Came the dreaded epidemic,Came the poisonous contagion,Came the cholera’s gaunt spectre,Spreading woe and desolation,Ever bringing fell destruction.Forty deaths were soon recorded,Forty homes in sable shroudings,All the bells were ringing “softly,”For the crêpe was “on the door.”A devoted band of nurses,Led by William H. Kinnaird, wereReady night and day to succor,Ready to confront the danger,Ready with true Christian courage,To invoke a balm in Gilead,To console ill-fated brothers.Eighteen hundred, four and seventyFinds the city of Lancaster,In praiseworthy competitionWith the spirit of the present.Still the waxing, waning moonlight,Sees her changing with the cycle.Now the light’ning wires unite herWith the world in speedy transit;The “Kentucky News” informs her,Of the moving scenes about her,Links her name with sister cities,In the tie of common welfare,Wafts her praises to the public,Casts her errors on the waters.Her rejoicings and enjoyments,Scarce know pause or diminution,And the Cornet Band musicians,(J. P. Sandifer, the leader),Serve the city’s gala seasons,Furnish melody in numbers.All along the panoramaOf her shiftings and adventures,Are peculiar memoranda,Dotting, here and there, the margin.Now the “Red Stars” have a meeting,With their weird, uncanny customs;Now the “Knights of Pythias” cluster’Round a shrine of secret magic;Now the “Eastern Star” is dawning,With its cabalistic mottoes;Now the “Julipeans” revel’Neath the awnings on the greensward,With their mighty dignitaries,With Sockdologers, Sapsuckers,With their Knockemstiffs, Lawgivers,With their Orators and Wise-Men,With their visitors and laymen—All their corps of jolly members’Neath the cooling, woodland shelter.Strange societies and groupings,Hidden wonders and dark missions,Items fanciful and puzzling,Dot the margin hither, thither,Of the shifting panorama.Change and progress rule the city,Tearing loose her timeworn moorings;Now Excelsior, the watchword,Leads her prow forever onward;Now her streets are all encumberedWith the architect’s essentials;Now the rubbish from the burning,From the third great fire that swept her,On the first evening in April,Gathers in the northwest corner;And this row of ancient houses,Numbered with the things of yore,Soon will rise again to greet us,Soon resound with plane and trowel.All the city’s luckless harborsShall revive with added grandeur;[11]Now her handsome jail and court-house,Her new halls and spacious churches,Her improved suburban dwellings,And her central, model buildings,All betray the stride of fortune,All betray the march of knowledge;And the crumbling hall of science,The Academy of Garrard,Wears a modern dress and fashion,On the old revered foundation;New red brick and glossy mouldingsNow invite th’ aspiring student;No more ancient hallowed landmarks,Linger now to move the tear-drop;Yet a classic aura gathers,All about the hidden ruins.Shades of Cæsar and of Virgil,Shades of Webster and of Murray,Manes of ye classic worthies,Gather ever o’er the ruins.[9]A brick engine-house was erected on the square in 1875, to shelter the new Champion Fire Extinguisher, called the “Undine.”[10]One year later a Hook and Ladder company was organized, with George W. Dunlap Jr., as Captain, and W. H. Wherritt and Theodore Currey as Lieutenants.[11]A new Deposit Bank building was erected during the summer of 1874.
Now the civil war is ended,Now the strife by arms is over;And the city’s star of fortuneBeams with undiminished glory:All her brilliant constellationWears new rays of future promise,All her plans for peace and progressMove to swifter execution.In eighteen hundred three and sixty,Of the late, eventful cycle,Was laid out a modern cityOf the dead among the grasses;Was enclosed a cemetery,On a green and graceful summit,At the city’s southeast section,On the street we call Crab Orchard.Shrubs and flowers lead the strangerTo invade the sacred precinct,Clust’ring evergreens invite himTo behold the sad environs.Gleaming shafts of purest marble,Greet the eye of friend and mourner,Costly slabs of stone and granite,Wearing strange device and fashion,Lie amid the urns and vases.Lie among the shells and mosses:Tell of forms long since departed,Tell of loved ones safely resting,Tell of fresh turned earth and sodding,Of green wreaths and floral tributes,Kindly tributes of affection.And the ancient trodden graveyard,Of the city’s early ages,Lingers on with sunken tomb-stones,Lingers on with gray inscriptions,Lingers yet with moss and ivy,Winding close their clinging tendrils,Lingers now a small enclosure,In the suburbs of Lancaster.
Now the civil war is ended,
Now the strife by arms is over;
And the city’s star of fortune
Beams with undiminished glory:
All her brilliant constellation
Wears new rays of future promise,
All her plans for peace and progress
Move to swifter execution.
In eighteen hundred three and sixty,
Of the late, eventful cycle,
Was laid out a modern city
Of the dead among the grasses;
Was enclosed a cemetery,
On a green and graceful summit,
At the city’s southeast section,
On the street we call Crab Orchard.
Shrubs and flowers lead the stranger
To invade the sacred precinct,
Clust’ring evergreens invite him
To behold the sad environs.
Gleaming shafts of purest marble,
Greet the eye of friend and mourner,
Costly slabs of stone and granite,
Wearing strange device and fashion,
Lie amid the urns and vases.
Lie among the shells and mosses:
Tell of forms long since departed,
Tell of loved ones safely resting,
Tell of fresh turned earth and sodding,
Of green wreaths and floral tributes,
Kindly tributes of affection.
And the ancient trodden graveyard,
Of the city’s early ages,
Lingers on with sunken tomb-stones,
Lingers on with gray inscriptions,
Lingers yet with moss and ivy,
Winding close their clinging tendrils,
Lingers now a small enclosure,
In the suburbs of Lancaster.
In eighteen hundred sixty-seven,Fell the second central court-house,In the middle of the city;Fell the tall and stately locusts,With their grateful, cooling shadows,Fell the ruined iron railing,Once so rich and ornamental.And a grand, imposing structure,At the open southwest corner,Now extends its costly apexFar above the churches’ steeples,Reaches forth its white cupola,High into the azure ether.And the central, broad arena,Of the square, right-angle outlines,Has been leveled to the surfaceOf the streets and roads around it,Bears no pile of architecture,[9]To be seen afar and nearer,To be seen from hill and valley,By the traveler wand’ring hither.On the summit of the tower,Of the octagon bell-tower,Of this new and gorgeous building,With its porticos and stairways,With its halls and council chambers,Is a high observatory,Whence is viewed the distant landscape,Whence is seen the rural beautiesOf this land of agriculture.Near this pinnacle so lofty,Is the ever-warning town-clock,Is the pendulum vibrating,To diurnal revolutions,Is the fire-alarm resounding,Over hill and dale and meadow,Is the heavy bell sonorous,With events of varied import.
In eighteen hundred sixty-seven,
Fell the second central court-house,
In the middle of the city;
Fell the tall and stately locusts,
With their grateful, cooling shadows,
Fell the ruined iron railing,
Once so rich and ornamental.
And a grand, imposing structure,
At the open southwest corner,
Now extends its costly apex
Far above the churches’ steeples,
Reaches forth its white cupola,
High into the azure ether.
And the central, broad arena,
Of the square, right-angle outlines,
Has been leveled to the surface
Of the streets and roads around it,
Bears no pile of architecture,[9]
To be seen afar and nearer,
To be seen from hill and valley,
By the traveler wand’ring hither.
On the summit of the tower,
Of the octagon bell-tower,
Of this new and gorgeous building,
With its porticos and stairways,
With its halls and council chambers,
Is a high observatory,
Whence is viewed the distant landscape,
Whence is seen the rural beauties
Of this land of agriculture.
Near this pinnacle so lofty,
Is the ever-warning town-clock,
Is the pendulum vibrating,
To diurnal revolutions,
Is the fire-alarm resounding,
Over hill and dale and meadow,
Is the heavy bell sonorous,
With events of varied import.
It was in this year of changes,Eighteen hundred sixty-seven,That a fearful conflagration,Tore away a block of buildings,At the city’s southeast corner;Razed an ancient block to ashes,On a wintry Saturday evening,On a night of snow and tempest,In the month of February.Soon a handsome row replaced it,Soon the enterprising peopleCleared the débris and the rubbish,Cleared away the silent ruins,And rebuilt the last possessions.Silent? Aye, but speaking everOf events and actors vanished,In the history of Lancaster.Of the offices and store-rooms,Of the dwellings and the households,Of affairs of public moment,Of the hidden and domestic,Of the groups of Mystic Brothers,Of the Masons and Odd-Fellows,Of ye ancient Sons of Temperance,All the secrets of the bygone,Speaking from the smoking ruins.So there rose another structure,Phœnix-like, upon the ashes.Where the merchants and the tradesmen,Can pursue their avocations.And the store-rooms are surmounted,By a Hall of spacious model,Where the city’s merry-makers,Find an evening’s recreation,Where the weary men of business,Often seek an hour’s diversion;Where the order of Good Templars,Held their rites and ceremonies,Where the skating-rink and concert,Where the festival and supper,Where the theatre and lecture,And the dancing-school and tableau,—All the public entertainments,Have beguiled the times of leisure.
It was in this year of changes,
Eighteen hundred sixty-seven,
That a fearful conflagration,
Tore away a block of buildings,
At the city’s southeast corner;
Razed an ancient block to ashes,
On a wintry Saturday evening,
On a night of snow and tempest,
In the month of February.
Soon a handsome row replaced it,
Soon the enterprising people
Cleared the débris and the rubbish,
Cleared away the silent ruins,
And rebuilt the last possessions.
Silent? Aye, but speaking ever
Of events and actors vanished,
In the history of Lancaster.
Of the offices and store-rooms,
Of the dwellings and the households,
Of affairs of public moment,
Of the hidden and domestic,
Of the groups of Mystic Brothers,
Of the Masons and Odd-Fellows,
Of ye ancient Sons of Temperance,
All the secrets of the bygone,
Speaking from the smoking ruins.
So there rose another structure,
Phœnix-like, upon the ashes.
Where the merchants and the tradesmen,
Can pursue their avocations.
And the store-rooms are surmounted,
By a Hall of spacious model,
Where the city’s merry-makers,
Find an evening’s recreation,
Where the weary men of business,
Often seek an hour’s diversion;
Where the order of Good Templars,
Held their rites and ceremonies,
Where the skating-rink and concert,
Where the festival and supper,
Where the theatre and lecture,
And the dancing-school and tableau,
—All the public entertainments,
Have beguiled the times of leisure.
Eighteen hundred nine and sixty,Came the hissing locomotive,Came the train of rumbling coaches,Dashing through the quiet city;Came the smoking iron monster,Of the “Louisville and Nashville,”Sounded loud the shrill steam-whistleOf the railroad “On to Richmond.”And the Old Church walls so sacred,Fell beneath the stormy cargo,Our Republican ancestressBent her hoary head in shrinking;All the rank and mouldy ruinsFell before the thund’ring onset.Never more the timeworn benchesShall reëcho words of wisdom;Never more the brick and plasterShall have grace from text and precept,Ne’er alas! her slumb’ring childrenGive her earthly praise and homage.Gone forever, church and pastor,Gone, all gone, her saints’ communion,Dust to dust the crumbling mortar,Earth to earth the human body,Air of air the ghostly phantoms,Heav’n of heav’ns the final meeting.* * * * *In this section, once a wildwood,Now are clustered many buildings;Now hotels, depots, and warerooms,Tell of industry and labor;Now the loud mill-whistle piercesThrough the fogs of early morning,Now the neat and tasteful cottageTakes the place of tree and grapevine,And a porter’s lodge adorning,Guards the modern cemetery,Guards the modern double entrance,To the home of sleeping loved ones.All about this busy section,Are the signs of swift progression;Swift progression towards profit,In the thrift of living workmen,Swift advance to time eternal,In the fast increasing graveyard.In this year the game of Base-ball,Occupied the young athletics,Occupied maturer players,Gave the city’s “men of muscle,”Daily rounds of fun and frolic.And the ball and bat and score-book,Answered oft a neighbor’s challenge,Won the palm in match and test games,Won the victor’s crown of laurel.
Eighteen hundred nine and sixty,
Came the hissing locomotive,
Came the train of rumbling coaches,
Dashing through the quiet city;
Came the smoking iron monster,
Of the “Louisville and Nashville,”
Sounded loud the shrill steam-whistle
Of the railroad “On to Richmond.”
And the Old Church walls so sacred,
Fell beneath the stormy cargo,
Our Republican ancestress
Bent her hoary head in shrinking;
All the rank and mouldy ruins
Fell before the thund’ring onset.
Never more the timeworn benches
Shall reëcho words of wisdom;
Never more the brick and plaster
Shall have grace from text and precept,
Ne’er alas! her slumb’ring children
Give her earthly praise and homage.
Gone forever, church and pastor,
Gone, all gone, her saints’ communion,
Dust to dust the crumbling mortar,
Earth to earth the human body,
Air of air the ghostly phantoms,
Heav’n of heav’ns the final meeting.
* * * * *
In this section, once a wildwood,
Now are clustered many buildings;
Now hotels, depots, and warerooms,
Tell of industry and labor;
Now the loud mill-whistle pierces
Through the fogs of early morning,
Now the neat and tasteful cottage
Takes the place of tree and grapevine,
And a porter’s lodge adorning,
Guards the modern cemetery,
Guards the modern double entrance,
To the home of sleeping loved ones.
All about this busy section,
Are the signs of swift progression;
Swift progression towards profit,
In the thrift of living workmen,
Swift advance to time eternal,
In the fast increasing graveyard.
In this year the game of Base-ball,
Occupied the young athletics,
Occupied maturer players,
Gave the city’s “men of muscle,”
Daily rounds of fun and frolic.
And the ball and bat and score-book,
Answered oft a neighbor’s challenge,
Won the palm in match and test games,
Won the victor’s crown of laurel.
Eighteen hundred one and seventyBrought a company of soldiersTo protect the hillside cityFrom the dreaded Klan of Kuklux;From this band of masking lynchers,Who defied the legal councils,Who withdrew the reins of powerFrom the tardy, lenient, rulers,Who dealt quick and fearful justice,To all hapless state offenders.And the law-abiding peopleCalled the U. S. A. to aid them;To disband the Regulators,With their penalties mysterious,To respite their guilty culprits,From deserved but lawless peril.And the garrison enlivens,With its neat and healthful barracks,With its drum and fife and bugle,With its tents and lofty flagstaff,With its officers and soldiers.Colonel Rose was first to answerThe petition for assistance;Then the “Fourth” sent troops to guard us(The Fourth Infantry, C company.)Captain Edwin Coates commanding,Bubb and Robinson, Lieutenants,With the Surgeon S. T. Weirrick,Spent two years within our circles,Winning friends while firm on duty.Wolfe and Galbraith then succeeded,For a few months of probation.Colonel Fletcher, Major Barber,And Lieutenant Will. McFarland,Doctor S. L. Smith, the surgeon,Now control the troops among us,Now preserve the law and order.
Eighteen hundred one and seventy
Brought a company of soldiers
To protect the hillside city
From the dreaded Klan of Kuklux;
From this band of masking lynchers,
Who defied the legal councils,
Who withdrew the reins of power
From the tardy, lenient, rulers,
Who dealt quick and fearful justice,
To all hapless state offenders.
And the law-abiding people
Called the U. S. A. to aid them;
To disband the Regulators,
With their penalties mysterious,
To respite their guilty culprits,
From deserved but lawless peril.
And the garrison enlivens,
With its neat and healthful barracks,
With its drum and fife and bugle,
With its tents and lofty flagstaff,
With its officers and soldiers.
Colonel Rose was first to answer
The petition for assistance;
Then the “Fourth” sent troops to guard us
(The Fourth Infantry, C company.)
Captain Edwin Coates commanding,
Bubb and Robinson, Lieutenants,
With the Surgeon S. T. Weirrick,
Spent two years within our circles,
Winning friends while firm on duty.
Wolfe and Galbraith then succeeded,
For a few months of probation.
Colonel Fletcher, Major Barber,
And Lieutenant Will. McFarland,
Doctor S. L. Smith, the surgeon,
Now control the troops among us,
Now preserve the law and order.
Eighteen seventy-three was saddened,By another fire disaster,[10]Which consumed the new Bank building,Burned the late established “National,”On the fated Southeast corner,Of the chastened hillside city.And two handsome halls were numberedWith the property that suffered,With the storeroom of the merchant,The lamented H. S. Burnam;And the Masons and Odd-Fellows,Once again sustain misfortune,Once again construct new temples,For the gath’ring of the mystic.On the fifteenth day of August,Came the dreaded epidemic,Came the poisonous contagion,Came the cholera’s gaunt spectre,Spreading woe and desolation,Ever bringing fell destruction.Forty deaths were soon recorded,Forty homes in sable shroudings,All the bells were ringing “softly,”For the crêpe was “on the door.”A devoted band of nurses,Led by William H. Kinnaird, wereReady night and day to succor,Ready to confront the danger,Ready with true Christian courage,To invoke a balm in Gilead,To console ill-fated brothers.
Eighteen seventy-three was saddened,
By another fire disaster,[10]
Which consumed the new Bank building,
Burned the late established “National,”
On the fated Southeast corner,
Of the chastened hillside city.
And two handsome halls were numbered
With the property that suffered,
With the storeroom of the merchant,
The lamented H. S. Burnam;
And the Masons and Odd-Fellows,
Once again sustain misfortune,
Once again construct new temples,
For the gath’ring of the mystic.
On the fifteenth day of August,
Came the dreaded epidemic,
Came the poisonous contagion,
Came the cholera’s gaunt spectre,
Spreading woe and desolation,
Ever bringing fell destruction.
Forty deaths were soon recorded,
Forty homes in sable shroudings,
All the bells were ringing “softly,”
For the crêpe was “on the door.”
A devoted band of nurses,
Led by William H. Kinnaird, were
Ready night and day to succor,
Ready to confront the danger,
Ready with true Christian courage,
To invoke a balm in Gilead,
To console ill-fated brothers.
Eighteen hundred, four and seventyFinds the city of Lancaster,In praiseworthy competitionWith the spirit of the present.Still the waxing, waning moonlight,Sees her changing with the cycle.Now the light’ning wires unite herWith the world in speedy transit;The “Kentucky News” informs her,Of the moving scenes about her,Links her name with sister cities,In the tie of common welfare,Wafts her praises to the public,Casts her errors on the waters.Her rejoicings and enjoyments,Scarce know pause or diminution,And the Cornet Band musicians,(J. P. Sandifer, the leader),Serve the city’s gala seasons,Furnish melody in numbers.All along the panoramaOf her shiftings and adventures,Are peculiar memoranda,Dotting, here and there, the margin.Now the “Red Stars” have a meeting,With their weird, uncanny customs;Now the “Knights of Pythias” cluster’Round a shrine of secret magic;Now the “Eastern Star” is dawning,With its cabalistic mottoes;Now the “Julipeans” revel’Neath the awnings on the greensward,With their mighty dignitaries,With Sockdologers, Sapsuckers,With their Knockemstiffs, Lawgivers,With their Orators and Wise-Men,With their visitors and laymen—All their corps of jolly members’Neath the cooling, woodland shelter.Strange societies and groupings,Hidden wonders and dark missions,Items fanciful and puzzling,Dot the margin hither, thither,Of the shifting panorama.Change and progress rule the city,Tearing loose her timeworn moorings;Now Excelsior, the watchword,Leads her prow forever onward;Now her streets are all encumberedWith the architect’s essentials;Now the rubbish from the burning,From the third great fire that swept her,On the first evening in April,Gathers in the northwest corner;And this row of ancient houses,Numbered with the things of yore,Soon will rise again to greet us,Soon resound with plane and trowel.All the city’s luckless harborsShall revive with added grandeur;[11]Now her handsome jail and court-house,Her new halls and spacious churches,Her improved suburban dwellings,And her central, model buildings,All betray the stride of fortune,All betray the march of knowledge;And the crumbling hall of science,The Academy of Garrard,Wears a modern dress and fashion,On the old revered foundation;New red brick and glossy mouldingsNow invite th’ aspiring student;No more ancient hallowed landmarks,Linger now to move the tear-drop;Yet a classic aura gathers,All about the hidden ruins.Shades of Cæsar and of Virgil,Shades of Webster and of Murray,Manes of ye classic worthies,Gather ever o’er the ruins.
Eighteen hundred, four and seventy
Finds the city of Lancaster,
In praiseworthy competition
With the spirit of the present.
Still the waxing, waning moonlight,
Sees her changing with the cycle.
Now the light’ning wires unite her
With the world in speedy transit;
The “Kentucky News” informs her,
Of the moving scenes about her,
Links her name with sister cities,
In the tie of common welfare,
Wafts her praises to the public,
Casts her errors on the waters.
Her rejoicings and enjoyments,
Scarce know pause or diminution,
And the Cornet Band musicians,
(J. P. Sandifer, the leader),
Serve the city’s gala seasons,
Furnish melody in numbers.
All along the panorama
Of her shiftings and adventures,
Are peculiar memoranda,
Dotting, here and there, the margin.
Now the “Red Stars” have a meeting,
With their weird, uncanny customs;
Now the “Knights of Pythias” cluster
’Round a shrine of secret magic;
Now the “Eastern Star” is dawning,
With its cabalistic mottoes;
Now the “Julipeans” revel
’Neath the awnings on the greensward,
With their mighty dignitaries,
With Sockdologers, Sapsuckers,
With their Knockemstiffs, Lawgivers,
With their Orators and Wise-Men,
With their visitors and laymen—
All their corps of jolly members
’Neath the cooling, woodland shelter.
Strange societies and groupings,
Hidden wonders and dark missions,
Items fanciful and puzzling,
Dot the margin hither, thither,
Of the shifting panorama.
Change and progress rule the city,
Tearing loose her timeworn moorings;
Now Excelsior, the watchword,
Leads her prow forever onward;
Now her streets are all encumbered
With the architect’s essentials;
Now the rubbish from the burning,
From the third great fire that swept her,
On the first evening in April,
Gathers in the northwest corner;
And this row of ancient houses,
Numbered with the things of yore,
Soon will rise again to greet us,
Soon resound with plane and trowel.
All the city’s luckless harbors
Shall revive with added grandeur;[11]
Now her handsome jail and court-house,
Her new halls and spacious churches,
Her improved suburban dwellings,
And her central, model buildings,
All betray the stride of fortune,
All betray the march of knowledge;
And the crumbling hall of science,
The Academy of Garrard,
Wears a modern dress and fashion,
On the old revered foundation;
New red brick and glossy mouldings
Now invite th’ aspiring student;
No more ancient hallowed landmarks,
Linger now to move the tear-drop;
Yet a classic aura gathers,
All about the hidden ruins.
Shades of Cæsar and of Virgil,
Shades of Webster and of Murray,
Manes of ye classic worthies,
Gather ever o’er the ruins.
[9]A brick engine-house was erected on the square in 1875, to shelter the new Champion Fire Extinguisher, called the “Undine.”[10]One year later a Hook and Ladder company was organized, with George W. Dunlap Jr., as Captain, and W. H. Wherritt and Theodore Currey as Lieutenants.[11]A new Deposit Bank building was erected during the summer of 1874.
[9]A brick engine-house was erected on the square in 1875, to shelter the new Champion Fire Extinguisher, called the “Undine.”
[10]One year later a Hook and Ladder company was organized, with George W. Dunlap Jr., as Captain, and W. H. Wherritt and Theodore Currey as Lieutenants.
[11]A new Deposit Bank building was erected during the summer of 1874.