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Who? My wife Gertrude, that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they?

Cho.-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE SONG OF THE CAMP

"GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:

Each heart recalled a different name,

But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,—
The loving are the daring.

Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]

REVEILLE

THE morning is cheery, my boys, arouse!

The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,
And the sleepy mist on the river lies,

Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes.
Awake! awake! awake!

O'er field and wood and brake,

With glories newly born,

Comes on the blushing morn.

Awake! awake!

You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night;
You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so bright;
Come, part with them all for a while again,—
Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.

Turn out! turn out! turn out!

You have dreamed full long, I know.

Turn out! turn out! turn out!

The east is all aglow.

Turn out! turn out!

From every valley and hill there come
The clamoring voices of fife and drum;
And out in the fresh, cool morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.
Fall in! fall in! fall in!

Every man in his place,
Fall in! fall in! fall in!

Each with a cheerful face,

Fall in! fall in!

Michael O'Connor [1837-1862]

"I GIVE MY SOLDIER BOY A BLADE"

I GIVE my soldier boy a blade,

In fair Damascus fashioned well:

Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,

I know not; but I hope to know,
That, for no mean or hireling trade,

To guard no feeling base or low-
I give my soldier boy the blade!

Cool, calm, and clear-the lucid flood

In which its tempering work was done;

As calm, as clear, in wind and wood,
Be thou where'er it sees the sun!
For country's claim at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall—

I give my soldier boy the blade!

The eye which marked its peerless edge,

The hand that weighed its balanced poise,

Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,

Are gone with all their flame and noise;

Yet still the gleaming sword remains!
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by these heartfelt strains,
I give my soldier boy the blade!

William Maginn [1793-1842]

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY

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."

[blocks in formation]

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 off 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 [1825-1906]

MUSIC IN CAMP

Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its high embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made

No forest leaf to quiver;

And the smoke of the random cannonade

Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down

With cannon grimly planted,

O'er listless camp and silent town

The golden sunset slanted.

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