THE SONG OF KILPATRICK'S TROOPERS. 217

THE SONG OF KILPATRICK'S TROOPERS.

Up from the ground at break of day,

When the bugle's note is heard,

From the cold, hard ground, where all night we lay,
To rise with the waking bird.
Right merrily our sabres ring

As we scour along on our steeds;
Oh, true and tried are the hearts of those
Whom the brave Kilpatrick leads!

Away, away, o'er the plain we go,
Away on our steeds so fleet!
Ah, well the foeman's path we know
By the print of the foeman's feet!
So on we ride while our sabres ring
A merrily sounding tune,

By field and river and wooded steep,
To the halt which comes with noon.

And then in the forest's welcome shade,
'Neath the pine-trees dark and high,
We rest till the burning heat is past
From the Southern noonday sky.
Then up and away o'er the rolling plain,
Away on our gallant steeds!

What foe is there whom we would not dare
When the brave Kilpatrick leads ?

Of Northern steel our good blades are,
Our carbines are true of aim;
The Southern traitor hears with dread
The sound of our leader's name.
Oh, wild is the life we troopers live,
But a merrier none may know,
To scour the plain on our gallant steeds
In search of the traitorous foe!

And when on the battle-field we meet,
And loud on the echoing air
The bugles sound, and quick in the sun
Our blades gleam bright and bare,
Away we go at the one word charge,
With a cheer, at the flying foe;

While the bullets sing, and our scabbards ring,
And the bugles loudly blow!

Oh, long shall the tale of our deeds be told
When this cruel war shall cease,

On winter eves, by the glowing hearth,
When the land shall be blessed with peace.
And long shall live in the hearts of all
Our valiant leader's fame,

And our children lisp with their infant lips
The brave Kilpatrick's name.

Harpers' Weekly.

THE SONG OF GRANT'S SOLDIERS.

PILE on the rails!

Come, comrades, all,

We'll sing a song to-night;

To-morrow, when the bugles call,

Be ready for the fight.

Be ready then with loud hurrah

To battle or to die;

When Grant shall yield, the Northern star
Will fade from out the sky.

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

Before us lies the rebel host,

Their watch-fires we can see;

THE SONG OF GRANT'S SOLDIERS. 219

We laugh to hear the traitor boast

Of Southern victory.

Three cheers for Grant, and one more cheer,

Until the woods ring back!

Ah, well the rebel chief may fear

The blood-hound on his track.

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

In Freedom's cause our blades were drawn:
The traitor yet shall feel

Before the day of Peace shall dawn
How strong is Northern steel.

Three cheers for Grant, my gallant men!

Give three loud, roaring cheers!

Until the foe within his den

Shall tremble while he hears.

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

Thus far we've come through fire and flood;
Still further on we'll press,
Although the way be red with blood
As through the wilderness.

Then cheer, brave comrades; let the night

Ring with your loud hurrahs

For Grant, who knows so well to fight,

And for the Stripes and Stars.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

Our longing eyes shall yet behold
Proud Richmond's slender spires;
Our children's children will be told
How fought their valiant sires.
Look well to cap and cartridge, too;
And as we onward press

We'll cheer for Grant, who brought us through

The bloody wilderness.

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

Brave soldiers of the Lord are we,
In solid ranks we come!
The Southern traitors yet shall see
How fight the Northern “scum.”
Be ready, then, with loud hurrah,
To battle or to die;

When Grant shall yield, the Northern star

Will drop from out the sky.

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

Harpers' Weekly.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass,
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows and over the hill,

He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go!

Two already were lying dead,

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.

Across the clover and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bats flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,

And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late;

221

He went for the cows when the work was done;
But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming, one by one.

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass-
But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swang in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew;

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;

*

* Yet there are twelve thousand nine hundred and nineteen graves of Union soldiers at the one rebel prison-pen of Andersonville; while from the comfortable quarters in which the rebel prisoners were kept, there went back into the rebel armies some of "the finest fighting material" the rebel Commissioner of Exchange ever saw.