UNCLE SAM.

201

Whose eye

is the blue canopy,

And casts the pall of his great darkness over all the land

and sea.

UNCLE SAM.

Louisville Journal.

AIR-"Tom Brown."

THE king will take the queen,
And the queen will take the jack;
And down we march to Dixie's land,
With knapsacks at our back.
Chorus Here's to you, Uncle Sam,

And your flag shall be our chart;
Here's to you, with hand and heart;
And for you we'll win a battle or two,
And that before we part;

Here's to you, Uncle Sam! [Repeat.

The jack will take the ten,

And the ten will take the nine;
And over Richmond's rebel walls
The Stars and Stripes must shine.
Chorus Here's to you, etc.

--

The nine will take the eight,

And the eight will take the seven;
And out of Old Virginia's soil
Secession shall be driven.

Chorus - Here's to you, etc.

The seven will take the six,

And the six will take the five;
King Davis and his wretched crew
From Dixie's land we 'll drive.

Chorus - Here's to you, etc.

The five will take the four,

And the four will take the tray;
And all the ragged rebel rogues
We'll shortly sweep away.
Chorus - Here's to you, etc.

The tray will take the deuce,

But the deuce can't take the ace;
And so the Devil and Davis both
Must leave their power and place.
Chorus - Here's to you, etc.

WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME.*

WHEN Johnny comes marching home again,

Hurrah! hurrah!

We'll give him a hearty welcome then,

Hurrah! hurrah!

The men will cheer, the boys will shout,
The ladies, they will all turn out,

And we'll all feel gay,

When Johnny comes marching home.

CHORUS TO EACH VERSE.

The men will cheer, the boys will shout,
The ladies, they will all turn out,

And we'll all feel gay,

When Johnny comes marching home.

The old church-bell will peal with joy,
Hurrah! hurrah!

To welcome home our darling boy,

Hurrah! hurrah!

* A very popular street-song during the last two years of the war. It was sung to a kind of jig, in the minor key.

SONNET.

The village lads and lasses say,

With roses they will strew the way;
And we'll all feel gay,

When Johnny comes marching home.

Get ready for the jubilee,
Hurrah! hurrah!

We'll give the hero three times three,
Hurrah! hurrah!

The laurel-wreath is ready now
To place upon his loyal brow;
And we'll all feel gay,

When Johnny comes marching home.

Let love and friendship on that day,
Hurrah! hurrah!

Their choicest treasures then display,
Hurrah! hurrah!

And let each one perform some part,
To fill with joy the warrior's heart;
And we'll all feel gay,

When Johnny comes marching home.

Chorus

The men will cheer, the boys will shout,
The ladies, they will all turn out,

And we'll all feel gay,

When Johnny comes marching home.

209

SONNET.

BY GEORGE II. BOKER.

BLOOD, blood! the lines of every printed sheet
Through their dark arteries reek with running gore;
At hearth, at board, before the household door,
'Tis the sole subject with which neighbors meet.
Girls at the feast, and children in the street

Prattle of horrors flash their little store Of simple jests against the cannon's roar, As if mere slaughter kept existence sweet. Oh, Heaven! I quail at the familiar way

This fool the world - disports his jingling cap; Murdering or dying, with one grin agap! Our very Love comes draggled from the fray, Smiling at victory, scowling at mishap, With gory Death companioned and at play.

SONNET.

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

OH! craven, craven! while my brothers fall
Like grass before the mower, in the fight,
I, easy vassal to my own delight,

Am bound with flowers, a far too willing thrall.
Day after day along the streets I crawl,

Shamed in my manhood, reddening at the sight Of every soldier who upholds the Right, With no more motive than his country's call. I love thee more than honor; ay, above

That simple duty, conscience plain and clear To dullest minds, whose summons all men hear. Yet, as I blush and loiter, who should move In the grand marches, I cannot but fear That thou wilt scorn me for my very love.

THE BRAVE AT HOME.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE maid who binds her warrior's sash

With smile that well her pain dissembles,

WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER. 211

The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart shall shed a drop as dear
As ever dewed the field of glory.

The wife who girds her husband's sword
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And gravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder;
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of war around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon a field of battle.

The mother who conceals her grief

When to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor.

WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER.*

DEAREST love, do you remember
When we last did meet,

* Of all the songs which the war produced, this was the most sung, except, perhaps, the John Brown Song. At one time the air was heard out of doors and in public places constantly, - sung, whistled, hummed, or played on barrel-organs. Sitting with open windows one evening in the summer of 1863, I heard this air at intervals of not more than five minutes (it seemed without intermission) from eight o'clock until long after midnight.