Songs and Ballads of the Southern People Part 24

GONE TO THE BATTLE-FIELD.

BY JOHN ANTROBUR.

The reaper has left the field, The mower has left the plain; And the reaper's hook, and the mower's scythe, Are changed to the sword again; For the voice of a hundred years ago, When Freedom struck her mightiest blow, Thrills every heart and brain.

The way-side mill is still, And the wheel drips all alone, For the miller's brother, and son, and sire, And the miller's self have gone; And their wives and daughters, tarrying still, With smiles and tears about the mill, Wave, wave their heroes on.

The grain is full and ripe, And the harvest-moon is nigh, But the farmer's son is among the slain, And the father heard the cry; And his ancient eyes flashed fires of old, His h.o.a.ry head rose strong and bold, As, wild, he hurried by.

The corn is yet a-field, But many a stalk is red; Yet not with the autumn-ta.s.sel stained, But the blood of heroes shed; And their blood cries out from heaps of slain: Oh, brothers, leave the sheaves of grain; On, to the fields of the dead!

By every quiet farm, Whence father and son had gone, The fairest daughters of the land, Brave-hearted, cheer us on, With the tender smiles that shelter tears, And words to thrill a soldier's ears, When b.l.o.o.d.y fields are won.

Scarcely the form of man Was seen on the long highway; But patriot age, whose withered hands Stretched feebly up to pray, And children whose voices haunt us still, Gathered on every knoll and hill, Cheering us on our way.

Yonder, with feeble limbs, A matron, with silver hair, Knelt, trembling, down on the soldier's path, And breathed to heaven a prayer, With quivering lips, with streaming eyes: "O G.o.d! preserve these gallant boys; In battle, be Thou there!"

O, soldiers! such as these Like household memories come; For a thousand prayers ascend to-day From those we left at home; For the red, red field to-night may be Our couch, our grave--while Victory Shall shout above our tomb.

In battle's b.l.o.o.d.y hour These pictures shall arise, Of mothers, sisters, wives, and homes, And red and streaming eyes; And every arm shall stronger be, For home, for G.o.d, for liberty, And strike, while mercy dies.

HEADQUARTERS, _9th Regt. Virginia Vols._

RE-ENLISTMENT.

BY MRS. MARGARITA J. CANEDO.

What! shall we now throw down the blade, And doff the helmet from our brows?

_Now_ see our holy cause betrayed, And recreant prove to all our vows?

When first we drew these patriot swords, "A nation's freedom!" was the cry; Our faith was pledged in these proud words, And heaven has sealed the oath on high.

Since then on dear-bought battle-plains We've seen our martyr brethren die, While on the soil that drank those stains, Their native earth where now they lie, The foe now treads--th' exulting foe, And desecrates the hero-graves.

Say, can we peace or honor know While there the accursed banner waves?

Dear are our homes, that smile afar; Oft in the weary soldier's dreams, While resting from the toils of war, He sees the light that round them beams.

Dear are the loved and lovely maids Shrined in the patriot soldier's heart; Yet, while the foe our land invades, In vain the longing tear may start.

_No!_ let the despot's hireling band, Who feel not honor--know not faith, Who war not for their native land, Fly trembling from a dreaded death.

Our lives are to our country pledged, Until her last red field is won; For "liberty or death" is waged The war where fights her faithful son.

Then plant that flag-staff in the earth, And round it rally, every son Who loves the State that gave him birth, Till her proud sovereignty be won.

What though our limbs be weak with toil, What though we bear full many a scar; Huzza! here's to our native soil, _We re-enlist, and for the war_!

SOUTHLAND.

THE PRIZE SONG.[13]

They sing of the East, With its flowery feast, And clime of the North, with its mountains of snow; But give me the land Where the breezes blow bland, O'er realms of magnolia and myrtle below.

The land of the South, The fair sunny South, The flower-crowned South, In its _grandeur_ for me.

Her sons are aye brave, And no chains can enslave, Though countless the hordes of their foemen may be; Ah! see, even now, As with battle-stained brow, They vanquish the Northmen on land and on sea!

The land of the South, The young gallant South, The invincible South, In its _valor_ for me.

Her daughters are fair As the pure lilies there, And cheer her brave soldiers for freedom to die; Their smiles are the light Of the war-clouded night, Their tears are sweet dew-drops distilled from the sky.

The land of the South, The sweet rosy South, The starry-gemmed South, In its _beauty_ for me!

In green blossomed dales, And in violet vales, And fields white with cotton, its dwellings once stood; The spoilers now seek Their vile vengeance to wreak, And darken this Eden with ashes and blood!

The land of the South, The opulent South, The long-plundered South, In its _richness_ for me!

Oh, who would not stand With his life in his hand, To s.h.i.+eld such a land from the feet of the foe?

G.o.d made it thus free, And oh, perish must we, Before it can be in bondage laid low!

The land of the South, The proud sovereign South, The G.o.d-s.h.i.+elded South, In its _freedom_ for me!

BEYOND THE POTOMAC.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.[14]

They slept on the fields which their valor had won!

But arose with the first early blush of the sun, For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, When they pa.s.sed o'er the River.

They rose with the sun, and caught life from his light-- Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight-- And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, Marching swift for the River.

On! on! like the rus.h.i.+ng of storms through the hills-- On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills-- And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills, At the thought of the River.

On! the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes, It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies, O'er the path to the River.

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore, On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before, Like the wings of Death-angels swept fast to the sh.o.r.e, The green sh.o.r.e of the River.

As they march--from the hill-side, the hamlet, the stream-- Gaunt throngs, whom the Foeman had manacled, teem, Like men just roused from some terrible dream, To pa.s.s o'er the River.

They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair, And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, While a peal as of victory swells on the air, Rolling out to the River.

And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread, Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed, And the deep voice of pa.s.sion surged up from the dead-- Ay! press on to the River.