Perchance it may be taken prisoner, It may be cut through with a sabre; Its white top-woe 's me !-be dyed red, And on the cold field of a battle May cover the foot of the dead. In this question of where you shall go. I see them flash down like a whirlwind, In sickness, in wounds, or in death; And yet Freedom nerves every breath. The firelight wavers and trembles With its shadowy, fitful glance, Till the very coals and the ashes Seem to look at me half askance ; And I in the chimney corner In silence and solitude sit, And work up an army of fancies, In the volunteer sock that I knit. It is all full of prayers and good wishes; Stitch by stitch, as I knit, they're wrought in; In my heart burns the love of the UnionOn my breast is a Stars-and-Stripes pin; So if ever a sock could be loyal, And for a brave volunteer fit, As well as soft, warm, and elastic, It must be this sock that I knit. Ah, if I could only make blankets! They should be of the warmest and best; No night-wind should trouble the soldier, While my blankets lay light on his breast. And I wish that my hands could work faster, And for every gray sock could knit two,— You men who go forth to the battle Don't know what the women would do. And perchance-who can tell?--the young soldier As well as to glory's grand height; And then, when his camp-chest is treasured, THE SWELL'S SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR. I don't appwove this hawid waw ; Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; In cullaws so extwemely loud? And then the ladies-pwecious deahs!— To heah the chawming cweatures talk, Like patwons of the bloody wing, Of waw and all its dawty wawk, It doesn't seem a pwappah thing! I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night, Of cawce I wose and sought the daw, I can't appwove this hawid waw ; GRANDPA NATHAN. Respectfully Inscribed to Gen. Leslie Combs. BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. I. By the beach and hickory fire Grandpa Nathan sat at night, With details of marching armies, And the news of many a fight, When he laid aside the paper, Though its contents he had told, He was plied with many questions By the young and by the old. It's a war the most infernal, (Grandpa Nathan made reply,) But the legions of the Union Soon will crush it out, or die! If I only had the vigor Of just twenty years ago, How I'd leap into my saddle! How I'd fly to meet the foe! II. Nannie Hardin, dearest daughter, Of the people of the land, Till they almost think they're honest Like a desolating flood. It has rent the nearest kindred- III. There's a camp in Wickliffe's meadow, Sweep the pantry of its choicest, For these chill November damps Oft benumb the weary sentries As they guard the sleeping camps. Drive the pet of old SarpedonFor the glory of his sires He will make the camp at Wickliffe Ere they stir the morning fires. IV. Tell the soldier of Kentucky, Fought with Daviess when he fell, Where we won immortal names, Sends them from his chimney corner Such fair greeting as he may, With a few small creature-comforts For this drear November day. V. Tell them he has watched this quarrel For the right and for the truth. That would scorn to be a slave"By the toil and blood your fathers In the cause of Freedom spent, By the memory of your mothers, And the noble aid they lent VI. By the blessings God has showered Of the hymn and of the prayer, By the God of Battles swearSwear to rally round the standard With our nation that was born, With its Stars of world-wide glory, And its Stripes that none may scorn! Swear to fight the fight forced on us, While an armed foe stirs abroad; Swear to fight the fight of Freedom, Of the Union, and of God!" VII. Ah! he drives the young Sarpedon- Do you know, child, I am prouder That e'er brought his mother joy? Of the Wabash and the Thames, Where the prowess of Kentucky Won imperishable names! VIII. I must see the camp at Wickliffe's And of deeds of daring done. As a chart that is unrolled,And I'll show them in the mirror Of the clouds and of the skies, Where the hosts of glory marshal, And the flag of glory flies IX. Take a blanket, dear, from Effie, And a comfort here and there, Hunt the house from top to bottom, What they need, the men who shield them Be up early in the morning; Ask of all what they will send To the camp in Wickliffe's meadow, Where each soldier is a friend. "Twere a sin, whilst there is plenty, (Let us never feel the taunt,) That the legions of the Union, Braving danger, were in want. were X. Write at once to Hatty Shelby, Send a line to Alice Dudley, And a word for Ruth Adair; Then to-morrow write to Dorcas, And anon to Mollie Todd, Say they've work now for their country, For their freedom, and their God; And if only half the spirit That their mother had is theirs, Just to touch the chain of memory XI. In a day or two-at farthest When the present rain is done You and I will take the carriage, With the rising of the sun, And we'll spend a day, or longer, With the soldiers in their camps, Taking stores that best may shield them From the chill November damps. Oh, I'll cheer them on to battleAnd I'll stir each lofty soul, As I paint the fields of honor Where the drums of glory roll! And I'll bid them never falter, While there's treason still abroad, In this battle of the Nation, For our Union, and for God. XII. One who fought upon the Wabash Where we met the hosts of hell; One who fought with Hart at Raisin, And with Johnson on the Thames, And with Jackson at New Orleans, Where we won immortal names, Will be listened to with patience By the heroes now at hand, Who have rushed on to our rescue, In this peril of the land. By the memory of our fathers, By the brave, and by the just, This rebellion shall be vanquished, Though each traitor bite the dust! SONGS OF THE REBELS. THE DEAD. BY AYMER. On the field of battle lying, On the cold, damp ground; And his twin companions stood, Wiping off the oozing blood From the deathly wound. "Alfred, bid my father joy, Tell him how his darling child "Tell him how I learned to stifle, The base invader's cheer; Here he whispered still more lowly, He ceased-his friend, with anxious start, But all was quiet there. BY A SOUTHERN RIGHTS WOMAN. Sons of Kentucky, arise from your dreaming! Awake, and to arms! for the foe draweth nigh; Must ye wait till our land with their legions are teeming, Ere ye rise in your might to battle or die? Oh, list to the wail from Missouri's heart coming, Then wake from your slumbers, and shield us from woe. The spirits of those who in battle have fallen, Has the day gone fore'er, when 'twere nobler to be Then rise in your might, and repel each invader, Nor let our loved land be disgraced by their tread; Let the watchword be, "Freedom and States' Rights forever!" Nor cease till each foe shall lie low with the dead. LOUISVILLE, Kr., June 24, 1861. SOUTHERN WAR-SONG. BY "N. P. W." To horse! to horse! our standard flies, From beauteous Southern homes we come, Though tamely crouch to Northern frown, Kentucky's tardy train; Though invaded soil, Maryland mourns, Though brave Missouri vainly spurns, And foaming gnaws the chain. Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Dress our pale cheek in timid smiles, To hail a master in our house, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land For gold let Northern legions fight, Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, And now that breath of Northern gale And footstep of invader rude, Then farewell home, and farewell friends; Resolved, we mingle in the tide, To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; -Louisville Courier. SONG ON GEN. SCOTT. BY N. B. J****. TUNE-" Poor Old Horse, Let Him Die." Virginia had a son, Who gathered up some fame; He many battles won, And thereby won a name; But now he's growing old, He is old, and very mean, sir; He still does meaner grow; He is not fit to fight, Nor will he ever pray; The sound of his war-whoop Poor old Scott, let him die. I had rather be a dog, And bay the stars and moon; To fill a traitor's grave, ANOTHER YANKEE DOODLE Yankee Doodle had a mind To whip the Southern traitors, Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle said he found, Yankee Doodle made a speech; 'Twas very full of feeling: "I fear," says he, "I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing." Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy ;Hurrah for Lincoln-he's the boy To take a drop of brandy. |