Conference smurf::civil_war

    Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary;
    Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
    	Furl it, fold it - it is best;
    For there's not a man to wave it,
    And there's not one left to lave it
    In the blood which heroes gave it;
    	Furl it, hide it - let it rest!
    
    Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;
    Broken is its staff and shattered;
    And the valiant hosts are scattered,
    	Over whom it floated high.
    Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it,
    Hard to think there's none to hold it,
    Hard that those who once unrolled it
    	Now must furl it with a sigh!
    
    Furl that Banner - furl it sadly;
    Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
    And ten thousands wildly, madly,
    	Swore it should forever wave-
    Swore that foeman's sword should never
    Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
    Till that flag should float forever
    	O'er their freedom or their grave!
    
    Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
    And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
    	Cold and dead are lying low;
    And that Banner - it is trailing,
    While around it sounds the wailing
    	Of its people in their woe.
    
    For, though conquered, they adore it-
    Love, the cold, dead hands that bore it!
    Weep for those who fell before it!
    Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
    But, oh, wildly they deplore it,
    	Now who furl and fold it so!
    
    Furl that Banner! True. 'tis gory,
    Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
    And 'twill live in song and story
    	Though its folds are in the dust!
    For its fame on brightest pages,
    Penned by poets and by sages,
    Shall go sounding down the ages-
    	Furl its folds though now we must.
    
    Furl that Banner, softly, slowly;
    Treat it gently - it is holy,
    	For it droops above the dead;
    Touch it not - unfold it never;
    Let it droop there, furled forever,-
    	For its people's hopes are fled.
    
    						Abram Joseph Ryan

    Come, stack arms, men! pile on the rails,
    	Stir up the camp-fire bright;
    No growling if the canteen fails,
    	We'll make a roaring night.
    Here Shenandoah brawls along,
    There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
    To swell the Brigade's rousing song
    	Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."
    
    We see him now - the queer slouched hat
    	Cocked o'er his eye askew;
    The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
    	So calm, so blunt, so true.
    The "Blue-light Elder" knows 'em well;
    Says he, "That's Banks - he's fond of shell;
    Lord save his soul! we'll give him--" well!
    	That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
    
    Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
    	Old Massa's goin' to pray.
    Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
    	Attention! it's his way.
    Appealing from his native sod
    In forma pauperis to God:
    "Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod!
    	Amen!" - That's "Stonewall's way."
    
    He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
    	Steady! the whole brigade!
    Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
    	His way out, ball and blade!
    What matter if our shoes are worn?
    What matter if our feet are torn?
    "Quick step! we're with him before morn!"
    	That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
    
    The sun's bright lances rout the mists
    	Of morning, and, by George!
    Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
    	Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
    Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before;
    "Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
    "Charge, Stuart! Pay of Ashby's score!"
    	In "Stonewall Jackson's way."
    
    Ah, Maiden! wait and watch and yearn
    	For news of Stonewall's band.
    Ah, Widow! read, with eyes that burn,
    	That ring upon thy hand.
    Ah, Wife! sew on, pray on, hope on;
    Thy life shall not be all forlorn;
    The foe had better ne'er been born
    	That gets in "Stonewall's way."
    
    						John Williamson Palmer
    
    

    
    Rebels! tis a holy name!
    The name our fathers bore
    When battling in the cause of Right,
    Against the tyrant in his might,
    In the dark days of yore.
    
    Rebels! 'tis our family name!
    Our father, Washington,
    Was the arch-rebel in the fight,
    And gave the name to us-a right
    Of father unto son.
    
    Rebels! 'tis our given name!
    Our mother, Liberty,
    Recieved the title with her fame,
    In the days of grief, of fear, and shame,
    When at her breast were we.
    
    Rebels! 'tis our sealed name!
    A baptism of blood!
    The war-ay, and din of strife-
    The fearful contest, life for life-
    The mingled crimson flood.
    
    Rebels! 'tis a patriots name!
    In struggles it was given;
    We bore it then when tryants raved,
    And through their curses 'twas engraved
    On the doomsday-book of heaven.
    
    Rebels! 'tis our fighting name!
    For peace rules o'er the land!
    Until they speak of craven woe,
    Until our rights recieve a blow
    From foe's or brother's hand.
    
    Rebels! 'tis our dying name!
    For although life is dear,
    Yet, freemen born and freemen bred,
    We'd rather live as freemen dead,
    Than live in slavish fear.
    
    Then call us rebels, if you will-
    We glory in the name;
    For bending under unjust laws,
    And swearing faith to an unjust cause,
    We count a greater shame.
    
    First published in the Atlanta CONFEDERACY. The author is unknown.
    
    					The Alabama Slammer

    
    We are a band of brothers,
    And native to the soil,
    Fighting for our Liberty,
    With treasure, blood and toil;
    And when our rights were threaten'd,
    The cry rose near and far,
    Hur-rah for the Bonnie Blue Flag,
    that bears a Single Star!
    
    Chorus:
    Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern Rights Hurrah!
    Hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star....
    
    2. As long as the Union was faithful to her trust,
    Like friends and like brethern,
    kind were we and just;
    But now when Northern treachery
    attempts our rights to mar,
    We hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears the Single Star.
    
    Chorus:
    
    3. First, gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand;
    Then came ALABAMA, who took her by the hand;
    Next, quickly Mississippi, Georgia and Florida,
    All rais'd on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star.
    
    Chorus:
    
    4. Ye men of valor, gather round the Banner of the Right,
    Texas and fair Louisiana, join us in the fight;
    Davis, our beloved President, and Stephens, Statesman rare,
    Now rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star.
    
    Chorus:
    
    5. And here's to brave Virginia! the Old Dominion State
    With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate;
    Impell'd by her example, now other States prepare
    To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star.
    
    Chorus:
    
    6. Then cheer, boys, raise the joyuos shout,
    For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out;
    And let another rousing cheer for Tennessee be given,
    The Single Star of the Bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be Eleven.
    
    Chorus:
    
    7.Then here's to our Confederacy, strong we are and brave,
    Like patriots of old, we'll fight out heritage to save;
    And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer,
    So cheer for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears the Single Star.
    
    Chorus. - Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern Rights, Hurrah!
    	      Hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue Flag has gain'd th' Eleventh
              Star!
    

    Just as a quick turn in the action here, has anyone besides me seen the
    PBS show "Music of the Civil War"?  I couldn't help but notice that
    many of the songs which the show claimed were written by "so and so"
    were in fact traditional Irish folk songs with different words.  The
    two which immediately come to mind are: "The Colored Soldier" and
    "Lincoln and Liberty Too".  These tunes actually are "The Gallant Forty
    Twa" and "Rosin the Bow" respectively.  Was this very common during the
    war, or are these isolated instances?

    Okay Slammer, this has been a scion of rebeldom long enough!  Time for
    a little equal time.
    
    Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally
    		once again,
    	Shouting the battlecry of freedom,
    We will rally from the hillside, we'll gather
    		from the plain,
    	Shouting the battlecry of freedom.
    
    The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!
    Down with the traitor, up with the star,
    While we rally round the flag, boys,
    Rally once again,
    Shouting the battlecry of Freedom.
    
    We are springing to the call of our
    		brothers gone before,
    	Shouting the battlecry of freedom.
    And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a
    		million freemen more,
    	Shouting the battlecry of freedom.
    
    The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah!
    Down with the traitor, up with the star,
    While we rally round the flag, boys, 
    Rally once again,
    Shouting the battlecry of Freedom.
    
    					George Frederick Root

    Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song-
    Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along-
    Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong,
    While we were marching through Georgia.
    
    	"Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee,
    	Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!"
    	So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
    	While we were marching through Georgia.
    
    How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound!
    How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found!
    How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground,
    While we were marching through Georgia.
    
    	"Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee,
    	Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!"
    	So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea,
    	While we were marching through Georgia.
    
    						Henry Clay Work

    "At dawn," he said, "I bid them all farewell,
    	To go where bugles call and rifles gleam."
    And with the restless thought asleep he fell,
    	And glided into dream.
    
    A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread,-
    	Through it a level river slowly drawn:
    He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head
    	Streamed banners like the dawn.
    
    There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar,
    	And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay;
    Blood trickled down the river's reedy shore,
    	And with the dead he lay.
    
    The morn broke in upon his solemn dream,
    	And still, with steady pulse and deepening eye,
    "Where bugles call," he said, "and rifles gleam,
    	I follow, though I die!"
    
    					Elbridge Jefferson Cutler

    re .5:  
    Very common.  The best example I know is Battle Hymn of the Republic:
    The tune of the "Battle Hymn" dates back to at least 1856, and is
    credited to a Southern composer, William Steffe.  It was first sung to
    the words "Say, brothers, will you meet us?" and this Southern
    camp-meeting song was a favorite with American soldiers before the
    Civil War.  After the Harper's Ferry incident in 1859, the words "John
    Brown's body lies moldering in the grave" were substituted; and when
    the Confederacy was formed, a parody, "We will hang Jeff Davis to a
    sour apple tree," was sung to the same tune.  In 1861 Julia Ward Howe,
    visiting some army camps outside Washington, heard the soldiers march
    into battle singing "John Brown's Body."  That night she wrote for the
    old camp-meeting tune the words of the "Battle Hymn," which became the
    great marching song of the North.
    
    
    Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
    He has trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
    He has loos'd the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,
    His truth is marching on.
    
    Chorus:
    	Glory, glory Hallelujah! Glory, glory Hallelujah!
    	Glory, glory Hallelujah! His truth is marching on.
    
    I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;
    They have builded Him an altar in the ev'ning dews and damps:
    I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps, 
    His day is marching on.
    
    Chorus:
    
    I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of steel:
    "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My Grace shall deal"; 
    Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel,
    Since God is marching on.
    
    Chorus:
    
    
    							Don

    After John Brown and his followers were captured by Col. Lee (and 
    Jeb Stuart, did-ye-new?) and Mr. Brown duly hung by the neck until 
    dead, a simple pro-abolitionist song sprang up:
    
    John Brown's Body lies a-molderin' in the grave,
     "     "      "     "       "      "   "    "
     "     "      "     "       "      "   "    "
    But his soul goes marching on.
    
    He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord,
     "    "   "  "  "    "    "   "   "   "   "   "
     "    "   "  "  "    "    "   "   "   "   "   "
    But his soul goes marching on.
    
    John Brown died that the slaves might be free,
     "     "    "    "    "     "     "   "   "
     "     "    "    "    "     "     "   "   " 
    But his soul goes marching on.
                                             
    His pet lambs will meet him on the way,
     "   "    "    "    "    "  "   "   "
     "   "    "    "    "    "   "   "  "
    But his soul goes marching on.
    
    							Don    

    Although the "Bonnie Blue Flag" was considered the Confederate anthem,
    it didn't stop Johnny Reb from personalizing the tune:
    
    Just before the battle, the gineral hears a row,
    He says the Yanks are comin', I hear their rifles now,
    He turns around in wonder and what do you reckon he sees,
    The Georgia militia, eatin; goober peas.
    
    The "Bonnie Blue Flag" also had a Northern parody; its chorus was:
    
    Hurrah! Hurrah! for equal rights, hurrah!
    Hurrah for the brave old flag that bears the Stripes and Stars!
    
    The "Battle cry of Freedom" had several:
    
    From the (hungry) Yankee Army:
    
    ...and frequently she turned it loose upon the bank to play,
    The soldiers eyed it from the shore in a kleptomanic way,
    Mary never more did see her darling lamb,
    For the boys in blue they chawed it up and they didn't give a damn,
    Shouting the battle cry of freedom.
    
    And when the war ended, black soldiers sang:
    
    Union forever,
    Hurrah, boys, hurrah!
    Although I may be poor,
    I'll never be a slave--
    Shouting the battle cry of freedom.   
    
    I've been looking for a parody (been searching about an hour now)
    of the tune "Battle Hymn" which was directed at Jefferson Davis;
    one of the lines spoke of how they were going to:
    
    ...hang Jeff Davis from a sour apple tree.
    
    I'll find it one of these days...
    
    							Don

    While the Northern and Southern armies clashed to maintain the Union 
    or defend a Way of Life, slaves were still being bought and sold by 
    their masters and transported from plantation to plantation, state to 
    state.  Families were frequently separated.  This song, written by 
    B.R Hanby, about a slave sold away from her home was tremendously 
    popular in the North during the War.
    
    There's a low green valley on the old Kentucky shore,
    There I've whiled many happy hours away.
    A-sitting and a-singing by the little cottage door,
    Where lived my darling Nelly Gray.
    
    Chorus:
    Oh! my poor Nelly Gray, they have taken you away,
    And I'll never see my darling anymore.
    I'm a-sitting by the river and I'm weeping all the day,
    For you've gone from the old Kentucky shore.
    
    One night I went to see her but "she's gone," the neighbors say,
    The white man bound her with his chain,
    They have taken her to Georgia for to wear her life away,
    As she toils in the cotton and the cane.
    
    Chorus:
    
    							Don

    George F. Root, an important composer of the Civl War period, made his
    greatest contribution, perhaps, in the writing of war songs.  This
    famous marching song of the Northern armies returned to popularity in
    both world wars, and is considered one of our best military tunes.
    
    In the prison cell I sit, 
    Thinking, mother dear, of you,
    And our bright and happy home so far away;
    And the tears they fill my eyes,
    Spite of all that I can do,
    Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
    
    Chorus:
    Tramp, tramp, tramp! the boys are marching,
    Cheer up, comrades they will come,
    And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again
    Of the free land in our own beloved home.
    
    In the battle front we stood,
    When their fiercest charge they made,
    And they swept us off a hundred men or more;
    But before we reached their lines,
    They were beaten back, dismayed,
    And we heard the cry of victory o'er and o'er.
    
    Chorus:
    
    So within the prison cell,
    We are waiting for the day
    That shall come to open wide the iron door;
    And the hollow eye grows bright,
    And the poor heart almost gay,
    As we think of seeing home and friends once moore.
    
    Chorus:
    
    Tramp, tramp, tramp! the boys are marching,
    Cheer up, comrades, they will come (they will come),
    And beneath the starry flag we shall breath the air again
    Of the free land in our own beloved home. 
    
    							Don

    This is an early G.F. Root war song which was sung by Civil War 
    soldiers of both sides.
    
    Just before the battle, Mother,
    I am thinking most of you;
    While up on the fielf we're watching,
    With the enemy in view.
    
    Comrades brave are 'round me lying,
    Filled with thoughts of home and God;
    For well they know that on the morrow
    Some will sleep beneath the sod.
    
    Chorus:
    Farewell, Mother, you may never
    Press me to your heart again;
    But oh, you'll not forget me, Mother,
    If I'm numbered with the slain.
    
    Hark! I hear the bugle calling,
    'Tis the signal for the fight;
    Now may God protect us, Mother,
    As He ever does the right.
    
    Hear the "Battle Cry of Freedom,"
    How it swells upon the air!
    Oh yes, we'll rally 'round the standard,
    Or we'll perish nobly there.
    
    Chorus:
    
    							Don

    So it wasn't all rousing cheers and charge to glory, especially as the
    war dragged on.  The general war weariness is reflected in many Civil 
    War songs, like Walter Kittredge's "Tenting Tonight."
    
    We're tenting tonight on the old camp ground,
    Give us a song to cheer
    Our weary hearts, a song of home
    And friends we loved so dear.
    
    Chorus:
    Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,
    Wishing for the war to cease;
    Many are the hearts that are looking for the right,
    To see the dawn of peace.
    Tenting tonight, tenting tonight, 
    Tenting on the old camp ground.
    
    We've been tenting tonight on the old camp ground,
    Thinking of days gone by,
    Of the loved ones at home that gave us the hand,
    And the tear that said, "Good bye."
    
    Chorus:
    
    We are tired of war on the old camp ground,
    Many are dead and gone
    Of the brave and true who've left their home,
    Others been wounded long ago.
    
    Chorus:
    
    We've been fighting tonight on the old camp ground,
    Many are lying near;
    Some are dead, and some are dying,
    Many are in tears.
    
    Chorus:
    
    							Don

    RE .9:
    
    There are two more verses:
    
    	He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat.
    	He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat.
    	Oh, be swift my soul to answer Him, be jubilant my feet,
    	For God is marching on.
    
    	(Chorus)
    
    	In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
    	With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me,
    	As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free!
    	While God is marching on.
    
    	(Chorus)
    
    MikeR

    Mike, I knew there was at least one more verse but the book I used
    doesn't go that far.  I might have tried the "lilies" verse but 1 AM
    wasn't the right time to type from memory.  Thanks for helping out.
    
    Moving right along, here's a nonsense song that was a great favorite
    among the Negro troops.
    
    Chorus:
    Shoo, fly, don't bother me!  Shoo, fly, don't bother me!
    Shoo, fly, don't bother me, I belong to Comp'ny G.
    
    I feel, I feel, I feel, I feel like a morning star,
    I feel, I feel, Ifeel, Ifeel like a morning star.
    
    Chorus:
    
    I feel, I feel, I feel, That's what my mother said,
    Like angels pouring 'lasses right down upon my head.
    
    Chorus:
    
    [And etc.]
    
    							Don

    John A. and Alan Lomax in their book FOLK SONG U.S.A. has this to say
    about "Go Down, Moses":
    
    	"America had a railroad long ago that operated without rolling
    stock or tracks, without rates or schedules. It ran only in the
    darkness of night and its motive power was sheer courage and the love
    of humanity. They called it the "Underground Railroad," and, in the
    days before the Civil War, thousands of slaves moved along its hidden
    lines, stopping for rest and food in the secret "stations" of its
    Abolitionist operators, going on to freedom and refuge from slavery.
    	"The bravest engineer on this road was Harriet Tubman, an escaped
    slave woman, who dared to slip back, time after time, into the South,
    tell her people of the underground way and lead them back to freedom.
    The slave states offered ten thousand dollars for Harriet Tubman, dead
    or alive, but the reward was never collected. She moved like the
    will-o'-the-wisp through the lowlands of the South; she brought
    hundreds of her people into Canada and she never lost a soul along the
    way. John Brown addressed her as General Tubman.
    	"The Negroes felt that she was "God-driven" and they called her 
    "Moses," the Moses of her people. Legend has it that they made their
    great song, "Go Down, Moses," about her.  It was sung by the Negro
    regiments in the Civil War, since that time, it has become a song of
    the whole world."
    
    When Israel was in Egypt land,
    Let my people go,
    Oppressed so hard, she could not stand,
    Let my people go.
    
    Chorus: "Go down, Moses, 
            Way down in Egypt land,
            Tell old Pharoah
            To let my people go."
    
    "Thus spoke the Lord," bold Moses said,
    Let my people go,
    "If not, I'll strike your first-born dead,"
    Let my people go. (Chorus)
    
    "Your foes before you shall not stand,"
    Let my people go,
    "And you'll posses fair Canann's land,"
    Let my people go. (Chorus)
    
    "You'll not get lost in the wilderness,"
    Let my people go,
    "With a lighted candle in your breas',"
    Let my people go. (Chorus)
    
    							Don

    "O Freedom" was another song adopted by Negro soldiers during the Civil
    War:
    
    O freedom, O freedom,
    O freedom after a while,
    And before I'd be a slave, I'd be buried in my grave,
    And go home to my Lord and be free.
    
    There'll be no more moaning, no more moaning,
    No more moaning after a while,
    And before I'd be a slave, I'd be buried in my grave,
    And go home to my Lord and be free.
    
    No more weeping, no more crying,
    No more weeping after a while,
    And before I'd be a slave, I'd be buried in my grave,
    And go home to my Lord and be free.
    
    There'll be no more kneeling, no more bowing,
    No more kneeling after a while,
    And before I'd be a slave, I'd be buried in my grave, 
    And go home to my Lord and be free.
    
    There'll be shouting, there'll be shouting,
    There'll be shouting after a while,
    And before I'd be a slave, I'd be buried in my grave,
    And go home to my Lord and be free.
    
    							Don

    There were a few more songs popular during the War, like "Marching 
    Through Georgia," "Kingdom Comin'," and "Listen to the Mocking Bird," 
    Septimus Winner's famous poem published in 1855 under the pseudonym 
    "Alice Hawthorne."  The cheerful, whistling tune he is said to have 
    credited to a little Negro boy, Richard Milburn, whom he heard 
    whistling it.  The song was tremendously popular during the war period, 
    and people danced to it on the White House lawn when the news of Lee's 
    surrender was received. "Mockingbird" sings of Hallie, who used to
    pick cotton "side by side" with the singer, but died "in the mild
    September" and was buried in the valley, "And the mockingbird is
    singing where she lies."  Cheery tune, depressing poem.
    
    Then there was "Dixie," a battle song which was in the heart of
    every Southern soldier and was to them what "Battle Hymn of the
    Republic" was to the Northern fighting man.  Ironically, "Dixie" was
    composed by a Northerner, Dan Emmet of Ohio, and the music of "Battle
    Hymn" was composed by a Southerner--William Steffe was from South
    Carolina.  Both songs became favorites of Abraham Lincoln.  He praised
    "Dixie" as one of the best songs he ever heard, promptly asking the
    band to play it for him. (Hopefully it was more personal mood than
    political move.)  Upon hearing "Battle Hymn of the Republic" for the
    first time, it is said the President's eyes welled up with tears,
    and he asked for a repetition.  
    
    And when the war ended, ex-slaves who had put their lives on the line
    in blue uniforms sang:
    
    		Abe Lincoln freed the nigger
    		With the gun and trigger;
    		And I ain't going to get whipped any more.
    		I got my ticket,
    		Leaving the thicket,
    		And I'm a-heading for the golden shore!
    
    							Don
    
    P.S. to Mike R.: There's about nine more verses to "Go Down, Moses."
                     I'll send you a paper copy if you'd like to enter
                     them.  :-)
          

    
    				Dixie's Land
    
    I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
    Old times dar am not forgotten;
    Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie land.
    In Dixie Land whar I was born in,
    Early on one frosty mornin,
    Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
    
    Chorus: Den I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray! Hooray!
    In Dixie Land, I'll took my stand,
    To lib and die in Dixie,
    Away, Away, Away down south in Dixie,
    Away, Away, Away down south in Dixie.
                       2.
    Old Missus marry "Will-de-weaber,"
    Willium was a gay deceaber;
    		Look away! &c_
    But when he put his arm around'er,
    He smilled as fierce as a 'forty-pound'er.
    		Look away! &c_
    	Chorus_Den I wish I was in Dixie,&c_
                       3.
    His face was sharp as a butchers cleaber,
    But dat did not seem to greab'er;
    		Look away! &c_
    Old Missus acted de foolish part,
    And died for a man dat broke her heart.
    		Look away! &c_
    	Chorus_Den I wish I was in Dixie, &c_
                       4.
    Now here's a health to the next old Missus,
    An all de galls dat want to kiss us;
    		Look away! &c_
    But if you want to drive 'way sorrow,
    Come an hear dis song to-morrow.
    		Look away! &c_
    	Chorus_Den I wish I was in Dixie, &c_
                       5.
    Dar's buck-wheat cakes an 'Ingen 'batter,
    Makes you fat or a little fatter;
    		Look away! &c_
    Den hoe it down an scratch your grabble,
    To Dixie land I'm bound to trabble.
    		Look away! &c_
    	Chorus_Den I wish I was in Dixie, &c_

    
    The despot's heel is on thy shore,
    Maryland, My Maryland!
    His touch is at thy temple door,
    Maryland, My Maryland!
    Avenge the patriotic gore,
    That fleck'd the streets of Baltimore,
    And be the Battle Queen of yore,
    Maryland, My Maryland!
                   2.
    Hark to a wand'ring Son's appeal!
    Maryland, My Maryland!
    My Mother State! to thee I kneel,
    Maryland, My Maryland!
    For life and death, for woe and weal,
    Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
    And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
    Maryland, My Maryland!
    		    3.
    Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
    Remember Howard's warlike thrust_
    And all thy slumberers with the just,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    		    4.
    Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    Come! for thy dalliance, does thee wrong,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    Come! to thine own herioc throng,
    That stalks with Liberty along,
    And gives a new Key to thy song,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    		    5.
    Dear Mother! burst the tryant's chain,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    Virginia should not call in vain!
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    She meets her sisters on the plain_
    "Sic semper" tis the proud refrain,
    That baffles minions back amain,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    		    6.
    I see the blush upon thy cheek,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    But thou wast ever bravely meek,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    But lo! there surges forth a shriek
    From hill to hill, from creek to creek_
    Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    		    7.
    Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    Thou wilt not crook to his control,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    Better the fire upon thee roll,
    Better the blade, the shot, the bowl,
    Than crucifixion of the soul,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    		    8.
    I hear the distant thunder-hum,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum,
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb_
    Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
    She breathes_ she burns! she'll come! she'll come!
    Maryland! My Maryland!
    
    			Written by A Baltimorean in Louisianna
    
    					The Alabama Slammer

    
     A chaunt to the Wild Western Melody, "Joe Bowers"
    
    O I'm a good old Rebel,
    Now that's just what I am,
    For this "Fair Land of Freedom"
    I do not care at all;
    I'm glad I fit against it_ only wish we'd won
    And I don't want no pardon
    For any thing I done.
    
    I hates the Constitution,
    This Great Republic, too,
    I hates the Freedman's Buro,
    In uniforms of blue;
    I hates the nasty eagle,
    With all his braggs and fuss,
    The lyin', thievin' Yankees,
    I hates 'em wuss and wuss.
    
    I hates the Yankee nation
    And everything they do,
    I hates the Declaration
    Of Independence, too;
    I hates the the glorious Union-
    'Tis dripping with our blood-
    I hates their striped banner,
    I fit it all I could.
    
    I followed old mas' Robert
    For four year, near about,
    Got wounded in three places
    And starved at Pint Lookout;
    I cotch the roomatism
    A campin' in the snow,
    But I killed a chance o' Yankees,
    I'd like to kill some mo'.
    
    Three hundred thousand Yankees
    Is stiff in Southern dust;
    We got three hundred thousand
    Before they conquered us;
    They died of Southern fever
    And Southern steel and shot,
    I wish they was three million
    Instead of what we got.
    
    I can't take up my musket
    And fight'em now no more
    But I aint a going to love'em
    Now that is sarten sure;
    And I don't want no pardon
    For what I was and am,
    I won't be reconstructed
    And I don't care a dam.
    
    	Respectfully dedicated to the Hon. Thad. Stevens
    
    					The Alabama Slammer
    

     
    You can never win us back;
    Never! Never!
    Tho' we perish in the track of your endeavor;
    Tho' our corpses strew the earth
    Smiling now as on our birth,
    And tho' blood pollute each hearth
    Now and ever!
    
    We have risen to a man,
    Stern and fearless;
    Of your curses, of your ban,
    We are careless.
    Every hand is on its knife,
    Every gun is primed for strife,
    Every palm contains a life,
    High and peerless.
    
    You have no such blood as ours
    For the shedding;
    In the veins of Cavaliers
    Was it heading!
    You have no such stately men
    In your abolition den
    Marching on through foe and fen,
    Nothing dreading!
    
    We may fall before the fire
    Of your legions,
    Paid with gold for murderous hire,
    Bought allegiance;
    But for every drop you shed,
    You shall have a mound of dead,
    So that vultures may be fed
    In our regions!
    
    But the battle to the strong
    Is not given,
    While the Judge of right and wrong
    Sits in Heaven
    And the God of David still
    Guides the pebble with His will
    There are giants yet to kill,
    Wrongs unshriven!
    
    				by A.E. Blackmar
    
    					The Alabama Slammer

    These next two were also favorites in the war, at least in the brigade
    to which my regiment was attached:
    
    Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding
    Loudly the war cries arise on the gale
    Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding
    To join the thick squadrons on Saimer's green vale
    On, ev'ry mountaineer, strangers to flight or fear
    Bonnaught and Gallowglass, throng from each mountain pass
    Onward for Erin O'Donnell Abu!
    
    Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing
    With many a chieftain and warrior clan.
    A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing
    'Neath the borderers brave from the banks of the Bann
    Many a heart shall quail under its coat of mail
    Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue
    When on his ear shall ring, borne on the breeze's wing
    Tir Connell's dread war cry, "O'Donnell Abu!"
    
    Wildly o'er Desmond the war wolf is howling;
    Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain
    The fox in the streets of the city is prowling
    And all who would scare them are banished or slain.
    On with O'Donnell, then, fight the old fight again
    Sons of Tir Connell, are valiant and true
    Make the proud Saxon feel Erin's avenging steel;
    Strike for your country, O'Donnell Abu!

    Let Bacchus' sons be be not dismayed
    But join with me each jovial blade
    Come booze and sing and lend me aid
    To help me with the chorus
    
    	Instead of spa we'll drink down ale
    	And pay the reckoning on the nail
    	For debt no man shall go to jail
    	From Garryowen and glory
    
    We are the boys who take delight in
    Smashing the lamps when lightin'
    Through the streets like sporters fightin'
    And tearing all before us
    
    We'll break the windows, we'll break the doors
    The watch knock down by threes and fours
    Then let the doctors work their cures
    And tinker with our bruises
    
    We'll beat the bailiffs out of fun
    We'll make the mayors and sheriffs run
    We are the boys no man dare dun
    If he values his whole skin
    
    Our hearts so stout have got us fame
    For soon tis known from whence we came
    Where'er we go they dread the name
    Of Garryowen in glory

    
               GENERAL LEE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
    
    				Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia,
    						April 10, 1865.
    
    	After four years of arduous service, marked by unsurpassed
    courage and fortitude, the Army of Northern Virginia has been compelled
    to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not tell the
    survivors of so many hard-fought battles, who have remained steadfast
    to the last, that I have consented to this result from no distrust of
    them, but, feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish nothing
    that could compensate for the loss that would have attended the
    continuation of the contest, I have determined to avoid the useless
    sacrifice of those whose past services have endeared them to their
    countrymen. 
    	By the terms of the agreement officers and men can return to their
    homes, and remain there until exchanged. You will take with you the
    satisfaction that proceeds from the consciousness of duty faithfully
    performed; and I earnestly pray that a merciful God will extend to 
    you his blessing and protection.
    	With an increasing admiration of your constancy and devotion to
    your country, and a grateful remembrance of your kind and generous
    consideration of myself, I bid you an affectionate farewell.
    
    							R.E. Lee,
    							  General.
    
    
    The Alabama Slammer

    
    
    Hello all. I'm a first-time noter and glad to find this conference.
    
    re .5
    
    Putting new words to tunes already well known is a pretty efficient way
    to produce a large number of morale-boosting songs in real short time.
    Irish tunes lent themselves nicely to this. In addition to the songs
    mentioned in .5, several other very popular tunes were of Irish 
    origin. "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" was from an old Irish song
    called "Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye." The "Bonnie Blue Flag" on the
    Confederate side came from "The Irish Jaunting Car." "The Wearing of
    the Gray" played to the Irish tune "Wearing of the Green."
    
    In addition, several Irish songs such as "Garryowen" and "The Girl I
    Left Behind Me" are very stirring marches popular throughout the Army
    of the Potomac and with the U.S. Army for many years after the war.
    ("The Kerry Dances" was my dad's regimental song in WWII!)
    
    This "borrowing" of tunes was returned somewhat after the Civil War
    when Irish Fenians took the American tune "Tramp. Tramp. Tramp." and
    produced the anthem "God Save Ireland." I guess fair is fair.
    
    Tom  
                  

    "Corporal Greene!" the Orderly cried;
    	"Here!" was the answer loud and clear,
    	From the lips of a soldier who stood near,-
    And "Here!" was the word the next replied.
    
    "Cyrus Drew!"-then a silence fell;
    	This time no answer followed the call;
    	Only his rear-man had seen him fall;
    Killed or wounded he could not tell.
    
    There they stood in the failing light,
    	These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
    	As plain to be read as open books,
    While slowly gathered the shades of night.
    
    The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,
    	And down in the corn where the poppies grew
    	Were redder stains than the poppies knew,
    And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
    
    For the foe had crossed from the other side,
    	That day, in the face of a murderous fire
    	That swept them down in terrible ire;
    And their life-blood went to color the tide.
    
    "Herbert Cline!"-At the call ther came
    	Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
    	Bearingbetween them this Herbert Cline,
    Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
    
    "Ezra Kerr!"-and a voice answered "Here!"
    	"Hiram Kerr!"-but no man replied.
    	They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed,
    And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
    
    "Ephraim Deane!"-then a solier spoke:
    	"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said,
    	"When our ensign was shot; I left him for dead,
    Just after the enemy wavered and broke.
    
    "Close to the roadside his body lies;
    	I paused a moment and gave him a drink;
    	He murmured his mother's name, I think,
    And Death came with it and closed his eyes."
    
    'Twas a victory, yes; but it cost us dear:
    	For that company's roll, when called at night,
    	Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
    Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"
    
    					Nathaniel Graham Shepherd

    O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
    The ship has weatherd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
    The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
    	But O heart! heart! heart!
    	    O the bleeding drops of red,
    	        Where on the deck my Captain lies,
    		    Fallen cold and dead.
    
    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
    Rise up-for you the flag is hung-for you the bugle trills,
    For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding
    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
    	Here Captain! dear father!
    	    This arm beneath your head!
    		It is some dream that on the deck
    		    You've fallen cold and dead.
    
    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
    The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
    From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with objects won;
    	Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
    	    But I, with mournful tread,
    		Walk the deck my Captain lies,
    		    Fallen cold and dead.
    
    						Walt Whitman

    When the boys come home in triumph, brother,
    With the laurels they shall gain;
    When we go to give them welcome, brother,
    We shall look for you in vain.
    We shall wait for your returning, brother,
    You were set forever free;
    For your comrades left you sleeping, brother,
    Underneath a Southern tree.
    
    chorus-
    Sleeping to waken in this weary world no more;
    Sleeping for your true lov'd country, brother,
    Sleeping for the flag you bore.
    
    You were the first on duty, brother,
    When "to arms" your leader cried,-
    You have left the ranks forever
    You have laid your arms aside,
    From the awful scenes of battle, brother,
    You were set forever free;
    When your comrades left uou sleeping, brother,
    Underneath a Southern tree.
    
    						Henry Clay Work

There's a PBS special sometime soon on songs of the Civil War.  
Unfortunately, I don't remember when.  Kathy Mattea is one of the 
people singing (for y'all country fans out there).  Checking the local 
listings would be a good idea.

Scott

    re .28: "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye", had a much grimmer mesage than
            the lighter "When Johnny Comes Marching Home".  It keyed on 
            the waste of humanity rather than the glories of war.
    
    The version I have ends like this:
    
    	"...Ye haven't an arm and ye haven't a leg;
        Ye're an eyeless, boneless, chicken-less egg
        And ye'll have to be put with a bowl to beg--
        O Johnny, I hardly knew ye."
    
    							Don

    
    Southrons, hear your country call you!
    Up, lest worse than death befall you!
    To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!
    Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted-
    Let hearts be now united.
    	To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie!
    		Advance the flag of Dixie!
    	Hurrah! Hurrah!
    For Dixie's land we take our stand,
    	And live and die for Dixie!
    		To arms! To arms!
    And conquer peace for Dixie!
    	To arms! To arms!
    And conquer peace for Dixie!
    
    Hear the Northern thunders mutter!
    Northern flags in South winds flutter.
    Send them back your fierce defiance;
    Stamp upon the accursed alliance.
    
    Chorus:
    
    Fear no danger! Shun no labor!
    Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre.
    Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
    Let the odds make each heart bolder.
    
    Chorus:
    
    How the South's great heart rejoices
    At your cannons' ringing voices!
    For faith betrayed, and pledges broken,
    Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken.
    
    Chorus:
    
    Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
    Back to thier kennels hunt these beagles!
    Cut the unequal bonds asunder;
    Let them hence each other plunder!
    
    Chorus:
    
    Swear upon your country's altar
    Never to submit or falter,
    Till the spoilers are defeated,
    Till the Lord's work is completed.
    
    Chorus:
    
    Halt not till our Federation
    Secures among earth's powers its station.
    Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
    Hear your children tell the story.
    
    Chorus:
    
    If the loved ones weep in sadness,
    Victory soon shall bring them gladness,
    Exultant pride soon banish sorrow,
    Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.
    
    Chorus:
    
    	It was written by General Albert Pike, a former native of 
    Massachusetts, living in Little Rock, Ark.
    
    					The Alabama Slammer

    There was no union in the land,
    	Though wwise men labored long
    With links of clay and ropes of sand
    	To bind the right and wrong.
    
    Ther was no temper in the blade
    	That once could cleave a chain;
    Its edge was dull with touch of trade
    	And clogged with rust of gain.
    
    The sand and clay must shrink away
    	Before the lava tide:
    By blows and blood and fire assay
    	The metal must be tried.
    
    Here sledge and anvil met, and when
    	The furnace fiercest roared,
    God's undiscerning workingmen
    	Reforged His people's sword.
    
    Enough for them to ask and know
    	The moment's dury clear-
    The bayonets flashed it there below,
    	The guns proclaimed it here:
    
    To do and dare, and die at need,
    	But while life lasts, to fight-
    For right or wrong a simple creed,
    	But simplest for the right.
    
    They faltered not who stood that day
    	And held this post of dread;
    Nor cowards they who wore the gray
    	Until the gray was red.
    
    For every wreath the victor wears
    	The vanquished half may claim;
    Every monument declares
    	A common pride and fame.
    
    We raise no altar stones to Hate,
    	Who never bowed to Fear:
    No province crouches at our gate,
    	To shame our triumph here.
    
    Here standing by a dead wrong's grave
    	The blindest now may see,
    The blow that liberates the slave
    	But sets the master free!
    
    When ills beset a nation's life
    	Too dangerous to bear,
    The sword must be the surgeon's knife,
    	Too merciful to spare.
    
    O Soldier of our common land,
    	"Tis thine to bare that blade
    Loose in thy sheath, or firm in hand,
    	But ever unafraid.
    
    					James Jeffery Roche

    I accidentally left off the last verse of my last entry.  It should end
    like this:
    
    When foreign foes assail our right,
    	One nation trusts to thee-
    To wield it well in worthy fight-
    	The sword of Meade and Lee!
    
    Now on to a new one:
    
    A cloud possessed the hollow field,
    The gathering battle's smoky shield:
    	Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,
    	And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,
    And from the heights the thunder pealed.
    
    Then, at the brief command of Lee,
    Moved out that matchless infantry,
    	With Pickett leading grandly down,
    	To rush against the roaring crown
    Of those dread heights of destiny.
    
    Far heard above the angry guns
    A cry across the tumult runs,-
    	The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods
    	And Chickamauga's solitudes,
    The fierce South cheering on her sons!
    
    Ah, how the withering tempest blew
    Against the front of Pettigrew!
    	A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed
    	Like that infernal flame that fringed
    The British squares at Waterloo!
    
    A thousand fell where Kemper led;
    A thousand more where Garnett bled:
    	In blinding flame and strangling smoke
    	The remnant through the batteries broke
    And crossed the works with Armistead,
    
    "Once more in Glory's van with me!"
    Virginia cried to Tennessee;
    	"We two together, come what may,
    	Shall stand upon these works to-day!"
    (The reddest day in history.)
    
    Brave Tennessee! In reckless way
    Virginia heard her comerade say:
    	"Close round this rent and riddled rag!"
    	What time she set her battle-flag
    Amid the guns of Doubleday.
    
    But who shall break the guards that wait
    Before the awful face of Fate?
    	The tattered standards of the South
    	Were shrivelled at the cannon's mouth,
    And all her hopes were desolate.
    
    In vain the Tennessean set 
    His breast against the bayonet;
    	In vain Virginia charged and raged,
    	A tigress in her wrath uncaged,
    Till all the hill was red and wet!
    
    Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed,
    Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost
    	Receding through the battle-cloud,
    	And heard across the tempest loud
    The death cry of a nation lost!
    
    The brave went down! Without disgrace
    They leaped to Ruin's red embrace;
    	They only heard Fame's thunder wake,
    	And saw the dazzling sun-burst break
    In smiles on Glory's bloody face!
    
    Tey fell, who lifted up a hand
    And bade the sun in heaven to stand;
    	They smote and fell, who set the bars
    	Against the progress of the stars,
    And stayed the march of Motherland!
    
    They stood, who saw the future come
    On through the fight's delirium;
    	They smote and stood, who held the hope
    	Of nations on that slippery slope
    Amid the cheers of Christendom.
    
    God lives! He forged the iron will
    That clutched and held that trembling hill!
    	God lives and reigns! He built and lent
    	The heights for freedom's battlement
    Where floats her flag in triumph still!
    
    Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns!
    Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs.
    	A mighty mother turns in tears
    	The pages of her battle years,
    Lamenting all her fallen sons!
    
    					Will Henry Thompson (4th Georgia)

    Far up the lonely mountainside
    	My wandering footsteps led;
    The moss lay thick beneath my feet,
    	The pine sighed overhead.
    The trace of a dismantled fort
    	Lay in the forest nave,
    And in the shadow of my path
    	I saw a soldier's grave.
    
    The bramble wrestled with the weed
    	Upon the lowly mound;-
    The simple head- board, rudely writ,
    	Had rotted to the ground;
    I raised it with a reverent hand,
    	From dust its words to clear,
    But time had blotted all but these-
    	"A Georgia Volunteer!"
    
    I saw the toad and scaly snake
    	From tangled covert start,
    And hide themselves among the weeds
    	Above the dead man's heart;
    But undisturbed, in sleep profound,
    	Unheeding, there he lay;
    His coffin but the mountain soil,
    	His shroud Confederate gray.
    
    
    i heard the Shenandoah roll
    	Along the vale below,
    I saw the Alleghanies rise
    	Towards the realms of snow.
    The "Valley Campaign" rose to mind-
    	Its leader's name-and then
    I knew the sleeper had been one
    	Of Stonewall Jackson's men.
    
    Yet whence he came, what lip shall say-
    	Whose tongue will ever tell
    What desolated hearths and hearts
    	Have been because he fell?
    What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair,
    	Her hair which he held dear?
    One lock of which perchance lies with
    	The Georgia Volunteer!
    
    What mother, with long watching eyes,
    	And white lips cold and dumb,
    Waits with appalling patience for
    	Her darling boy to come?
    Her boy! whose mountain grave swells up
    	But one of many a scar,
    Cut on the face of our fair land,
    	By gory-handed war.
    
    What fights he fought, what wounds he wore,
    	Are all unknown to fame;
    Remember, on his lonely grave
    	There is not e'en a name!
    That he fought well and bravely too,
    	And held his country dear,
    We know, else he had never been
    	A Georgia Volunteer.
    
    He sleeps-what need to question now
    	If he were wrong or right?
    He knows, ere this, whose cause was just
    	In God the Father's sight.
    He wields no warlike weapons now,
    	Returns no foeman's thrust-
    Who but a coward would revile
    	An honest soldier's dust?
    
    Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll,
    	Adown thy rocky glen,
    Above thee lies the grave of one
    	Of Stonewall Jackson's men.
    Beneath the cedar and the pine,
    	In solitude austere,
    Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies
    	A Georgia Volunteer.
    
    					Mary Ashley Townsend

    By the flow of the inland river,
    	Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
    Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
    	Asleep are the ranks of the dead:
    	    Under the sod and the dew,
    		Waiting the judgement-day;
    	    Under the one, the Blue,
    		Under the other, the Gray.
    
    These in the robings of glory,
    	Those in the gloom of defeat,
    All with the battle-blood gory,
    	In the dusk of eternity meet:
    	    Under the sod and the dew,
    		Waiting the judgement-day;
    	    Under the laurel, the Blue,
    		Under the willow, the Gray.
    
    From the silence of sorrowful hours
    	The desolate mourners go,
    Lovingly laden with flowers
    	Alike for the friend and the foe:
    	    Under the sod and the dew,
    		Waiting the judgement-day
    	    Under the roses, the Blue,
    		Under the lilies, the Gray.
    
    So with an equal splendor,
    	The morning sun-rays fall,
    With a touch impartially tender,
    	On the blossoms blooming for all:
    	    Under the sod and the dew,
    		Waiting the judgement-day;
    	    Broidered with gold, the Blue,
    		Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
    
    So, when the summer calleth,
    	On forest and field of grain,
    With an equal murmur falleth
    	The cooling drip of the rain:
    	    Under the sod and the dew,
    		Waiting the judgement-day;
    	    Wet with the rain, the Blue,
    		Wet with the rain, the Gray.
    
    Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
    	The generous deed was done,
    In the storm of the years that are fading
    	No braver battle was won:
    	    Under the sod and the dew'
    		Waiting the judgement-day;
    	    Under the blossoms, the Blue,
    		Under the garlands, the Gray.
    
    No more shall the war cry sever,
    	Or the winding rivers be red;
    They banish our anger forever
    	When they laurel the graves of our dead!
    	    Under the sod and the dew,
    		Waiting the judgement-day
    	    Love and tears for the Blue,
    		Tears and love for the Gray.
    
    						Francis Miles Finch
    
    This one was inspired by the following item in the New York Tribune of
    1867: "The women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by nobler
    sentiments than many of their sisters, have shown themselves impartial
    in their offerings made to the memory of the dead.  They strewed
    flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National
    soldiers."
    
    Ziff

    
    	I asked God for strength,
    		that I might achieve
    			I was made weak,
    				that I might learn humbly to obey.
    	I asked for health
    		that I might do great things,
    			I was given infirmity,
    				that I might do better things.
    	I asked for riches,
    		that I might be happy,
    			I was given poverty,
    				that I might be wise.
    	I asked for power,
    		that I might have the praise of men,
    			I was given weakness,
    				that I might feel the need for God.
    	I asked for all things,
    		that I might enjoy life,
    			I was given life,
    				that I might enjoy all things.
    	I got nothing that I asked for,
    		but everything I had hoped for.
    	Almost despite myself,
    		my unspoken prayers were answered.
    	I am among all men,
    		most richly blessed.
    
    				-An Unknown Confederate Soldier
    
    
    	The Alabama Slammer
    
    

    
    	"Look down upon the battlefield,
    	Oh thou, Our Heavenly Friend,
    	Have mercy on our sinful souls."
    	The soldiers cried, "Amen."
    	There gathered 'round a little group,
    	Each brave man knelt and cried.
    	They listened to the drummer boy,
    	Who prayed before he died.
    
    	"Oh, Mother," said the the dying boy,
    	"Look down from heaven on me.
    	Receive me to thy fond embrace,
    	Oh, take me home to thee.
    	I've loved my country as my God.
    	To serve them both I've tried!"
    	He smiled, shook hands - death seized the boy,
    	Who prayed before he died.
    
    	Each soldier wept then like a child.
    	Stout hearts were they and brave.
    	They wrapped him in his country's flag
    	And laid him in the grave.
    	They placed by him a Bible,
    	A rededicated guide
    	To those that mourn the drummer boy
    	Who prayed before he died.
    
    	Ye angels 'round the throne of grace,
    	Look down upon the braves,
    	Who fought and died on Shiloh's plain,
    	Now slumbering in their graves.
    	How many homes made desolate,
    	How many hearts have sighed.
    	How many like that drummer boy,
    	Who prayed before he died.
    
    					-Will S. Hays
    
    
    	The Alabama Slammer 

    For Christmas I was given a BEAUTIFUL set of 3 CD's of music of the War
    Between the States.  It is produced by Time-Life.  I haven't had time
    to listen to all of it yet, but what I've heard is great.  There is
    about a 5-minute (no exaggeration) revellie by the Sandy Hook Fife and
    Drum Corps.
    
    I was so pleased I didn't even scold my Mom about supporting
    Time-Life's political agendas!
    
    Now if we can just get the 11th North Carolina band, or the 8th Georgia
    band to put out CD's, instead of those hissy old tapes!
    
    
    Wess

    
    	There is left but a banner in tatters,
    	But a few that defended it then;
    	There are scars, there are sleeves that are empty,
    	There are snows in the locks of men;
    
    	And the sweep of the sickle is falling,
    	And the bravest are passing away,
    	As the sobs of the mourning are sounding,
    	Round the graves of the last of the grey.
    
    
    			A quoted verse by Silas Calmes Buck,
    			Private, 12th Mississippi Cavalry,
    			At the 3rd Reunion of the Erath and Dublin County
    			Confederate Veterans Association, Dublin, Tx.
    			August 10th, 1906
    
    
    						The Alabama Slammer

    
    
    			"Now I lay me down to sleep,
    			 While gray-backs oe'r my body creep;
    			 If I should die before I wake,
    			 I pray the Lord their jaws to break."
    
    
    					Private Shield,
    						Virginia Light Artillery
    
    
    		The Alabama Slammer

    can someone supply the lyrics to Slowly By Lorena.
    
    I have heard this song was popular on both sides and caused many a wave
    of nostalgia to sweep through the camps. It was the Lilly Marlene of
    the WBTS.
    
    Thanx
    

    I'd have guessed there would be more verses, but a music
    book I have shows the following lyrics for _Lorena_:
    
             The years creep slowly by, Lorena,
             The snow is on the grass again;
             The sun's low in the sky Lorena,
             The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been.
             But the heart beats on as warmly now,
             As when the summer days were here;
             Oh! the sun can never sink so low,
             To cool this love for you so dear.
             The sun can never sink so low,
             To cool this love for you so dear.
    
    From _Song_Fest_no_2-Folk_Songs_of_Today
    Compiled & edited by Charles Hansen, Folk World, Inc (c) 1973
    
        Jay
                         

                    
                Lorena
    
    Oh the years creep slowly by Lorena
    The snow is on the ground again
    The sun's low down in the sky Lorena
    The frost gleams where the flowers have been
    
    But the heart beats on as warmly now
    As when the summer days were nigh
    Oh the sun can never dip so low 
    To be down in Affection's cloudless sky
    
    A hundred months have passed Lorena
    Since last I held that hand in mine
    And felt the pulse beat fast Lorena
    Though mine beat faster far than thine
    
    A hundred months 'twas flowery May
    When up that hilly slope we'd climb
    To watch the dying of the day
    And hear the distant church bells chime
    
    We loved each other then, Lorena
    Far more than we ever dared to tell
    And what we might have been Lorena
    Had our lovings prospered well
    
    Then 'tis part the years roll on
    I'll not call up their shadowy form
    I'll say to them, lost years sleep on!
    Sleep on, heed life's pelting storms
    
    
                        H. De Lafayette Webster / J.P. Webster
    
    (sniffle sniffle) that song always makes me cry, sure wish there was a
    way to include the music here.... The melody is so haunting, I had a
    fiddle player at my wedding and had her learn the song and play it
    there and everyone just loved it.  It's included on The Songs of the
    Civil War which is the soundtrack from the PBS special of the same 
    name, although I thought that particlar arrangement lacked the charm 
    and beauty of the others I have heard.
    

    
              Somebody's Darling
    
    Into the wards of the clean whitewashed halls
    Where the dead slept and the dying lay
    Wounded by bayonets, sabres and balls
    Somebody's darling was borne one day
    
    Somebody's darling, so young and so brave
    Wearning still on his sweet yet pal face
    Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave
    The lingering light of his boyhood's grace
    
    Chorus: Somebody's darling
            Somebody's pride
            Who'll tell his mother
            Where her boy died?
    
    Matted and damp are his tresses of gold
    Kissing the snow of that fair young brow
    Pale are the lips of most delicate mould
    Somebody's darlin' is dying now
    Back from his beautiful, purple-veined brow
    Brush off the wandering waves of gold
    Cross his white hands on his broad bosom now
    Somebody's darling is still and cold
    
    Chorus
    
    Somebody's watching and waiting for him
    Yearning to hold him again to her breast
    Yet there he lies with his blue eyes so dim
    And purple, child-like lips half apart
    Tenderly bury the fair unkown dead
    Pausing to drop on his grave a tear
    Carve on the wooden slab over his head
    Somebody's darling is slumbering here
    
                       Marie Revenal de la Coste
    
    -the copy of this that I have says that Marie Revenal de la Coste 
    wrote this after being deeply moved by what she had witnessed in a 
    hospital ward.

    The following is out of the book "Beautiful Gems of Thought and      
    Sentiment" published in 1890, no author is given.  Although no date
    or other details are given, it is among other Civil War poems so
    I am assuming it applies here... If anyone has any information on this
    poem, please let me know.  It is very moving and concerns a mother
    and her daughter-in-law who go out together to the battle-field to
    search for her slain son (the daughter-in-law's husband), with the
    interesting thread woven though of the mother almost competing with 
    the daughter-in-law to prove that her love for him was greater and her
    pain worse.
    
    
               Searching for the Slain
    
    Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so,
    There more blood to see than this stain on the snow;
    There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,
    And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair.
    Did you think, when we came, you and I out tonight
    To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight?
    
    You're his wife; you love him -- you think so; and I
    Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie
    In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
    His form to a grave that mine own may soon share.
    So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
    While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.
    
    You will go! then no faintings! Give me the light,
    And follow my footsteps - my heart will lead right.
    Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of the slain,
    All mangled and gory! what horible pain
    These beings have died in!  Dear mothers, ye weep,
    Ye weep, oh ye weep o'er this terrible sleep!
    
    More! more! Ah! I thought I could nevermore know
    Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below,
    Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell
    How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell.
    Did they think I cared then to see officers stand
    Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand?
    
    Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright,
    That your red hands turn over toward this dim light
    These dead mean that stare so? Ah, if you had kept
    Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left,
    You had heard that his place was worst of them all --
    Not 'mid the stragglers -- where he fought he would fall.
    
    There's the moon through the clouds: O Crist what a scene!
    Dost though from thy heavens o'er such visions lean,
    And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine.
    Hark! a groan! there another -- here in this line
    Piled close on each other! Ah, here is the flag,
    Torn, driping with gore; --bah! they died for this rag.
    
    Here's the voice that we seek; poor soul, do not start;
    We're women, not ghosts.  What a gash o'er the heart!
    Is there aught we can do? A message to give
    To any beloved one?  I swear, if I live,
    To take it for sake of the words my boy said,
    "Home," "mother," "wife," ere he reeled down 'mong the dead.
    
    But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood?
    Speak, speak, man, or point; 'twas the Ninth. Oh the blood
    Is choking his voice!  What a look of despair!
    There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair
    From eyes so fast glazing.  Oh, my darling, my own,
    My hands were both idle when you died alone.
    
    He's dying--he's dead!  Close his lids, let us go.
    God's peace on his soul!  If we only could know
    Where our own dear one lies! -- my soul has turned sick;
    Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick?
    I cannot! I cannot! How eager you are!
    One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War.
    
    He's not here -- and not here.  What wild hopes flash through
    My thought, as, foot-deep, I stand in this dread dew,
    And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet sky!
    Was it you, girl, that shrieked?  Ah! what face doth lie
    Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white?
    O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream.  My old sight
    Is dimmed with these horrows.  My son! oh, my son!
    Would I had died for thee, my own, only one!
    There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast
    Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn, to rest.
    Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss
    As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this?
    
    He was yours, too; he loved you?  Yes, yes, you're right.
    Forgive me , my daughter, I'm maddened to-night.
    Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years
    May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears.
    Yes, take him again; -- ah! don't lay your face there;
    See the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair.
    
    How quiet you are!  Has she fainted! -- her cheek
    Is cold as his now.  Say a word to me -- speak!
    Am I crazed?  Is she dead?  Has HER heart boke first?
    Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst.
    I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead?
    Those corpses are stirring; God help my poor head.
    
    I'll sit by my children until the men come
    To bury the others, and then we'll go home.
    Why, the slain are all dancing!  Dearest, don't move.
    Keep away from my boy; he's guarded by love.
    Lullably, lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep!
    God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep!
    

     I've been hesitating to enter this one, as I don't think it dates
     from the CW (not even close).  If a moderator deletes it before
     you can extract it, send me EMail. 
    
     This song was recorded by Brian Hyland, and later by Gene Pitney (a 
     much better version).  The tune is quite haunting.  If you're not a 
     CW purist, and you want it, you may be able to order it through a 
     used LP record store.  (Hold out for the Pitney version.)

     It's one of my favorite Pitney tunes.  (Punctuation is mine, as I
     wrote it down while listening to my old, worn reel-to-reel copy.)

     						Don

         I'm Afraid to Go Home
     
     
     I'm afraid to go home;
     I'm afraid to go home;
     Worries on my mind;
     Afraid of what I'll find.
     
     Will my family be gone?
     I'm afraid to go home;
     Back to Tennessee,
     Afraid of what I'll see.
     
     As I walk down this dusty road,
     Got a heart with a heavy load;
     Ain't a thing that's the same;
     So much sorrow and pain.
     
     Headin' home in a single file,
     Every inch is a quarter mile;
     Ain't heard nobody sing;
     I ain't seen one livin' thing.
     
     Someone's waitin' on me;
     Honey sweet as can be;
     Want to hold her tight--
     Lord, make her be alright.
     
     Maybe 'round the next bend,
     All the ashes'll end;
     Valleys will be green
     Instead of what I've seen.
     
     I'm afraid for the scrubby pine,
     All the sweet honeysuckle vine;
     I'm afraid for my home,
     All the fields that I roam.
     
     Inchin' along down a homeward road,
     And your heart's gotta take the load;
     I'm afraid to go home;
     I'm afraid to go home.
     
     Sherman's been to my town;
     Burned it all to the ground;
     Now there's not a tree
     'Tween Memphis and the sea.
     
     Now there's not a tree
     'Tween Memphis and the sea...

    At today's HLO's "Veteran's Appreciation Day", I saw a book about 
    poems & songs of the Civil War:
    
    	Poems & Songs of the Civil War
    	ed. by Lois Hill
        1990
    	ISBN 0-517-69918-4
        Fairfax Press, New York, for Random House
    
    							Don

    Don,
    
       Does this book have the music (i.e., notes) for the songs?
    Or just the words?
    
         Thanks,
    
             Jay
    

    As I recall, the book has music.  I didn't have much time to look at
    it, just recorded the particulars and moved on.
    
    I wanted to enter it here as it contains *many* songs.
    
    							Don