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But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring "So, boss! so!"

Popular Songs and Ballads of the Civil War.

The following lyrics, for various and specific reasons, have been selected for arrangement under one head. Other notable poems of the Civil War will be found elsewhere in this work,-from the pens of Boker, Brownell, Duganne, Finch, Halpine, Hayne, Mrs. Howe, Longfellow, Lowell, Palmer, Randall, Ryan, Stoddard, Thompson, Ticknor, Whitman, Whittier, F. Willson, Winter, Work, and other writers of the period.

[Lyrics of Loyalty; Songs of the Soldiers; Personal and Political Ballads. Edited by Frank Moore. 1864.-Foetry of the Civil War. Edited by Richard Grant White. 1866. The Southern Poems of the War. Collected by Emily V. Mason. 1867.-The Southern Amaranth. Edited by Sallie A. Brock. 1869.-Songs and Ballads of the Southern People. 1861-65. Edited by Frank Moore. 1886.-Bugle Echoes. Edited by Francis F. Browne. 1886.-The Songs of the War. By Brander Matthews, in The Century Magazine. 1887.-Our War Songs, North and South. Compiled and Edited by C. S. Brainard. 1887.]

JOHN

NORTHERN. I.

UNION ARMY CHORUS.

OHN BROWN's body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave;

John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave;

His soul is marching on!

Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah!
Glory, halle-hallelujah!

His soul is marching on!

He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord! (thrice)
His soul is marching on!

John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back! (thrice)
His soul is marching on!

His pet lambs will meet him on the way; (thrice)
As they go marching on!

They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour-apple tree! (thrice)
As they march along!

Now, three rousing cheers for the Union! (thrice)

As we are marching on!

Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah!
Glory, halle-hallelujah!

Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!

THE RANK AND FILE. 1861.

WE

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.

E are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more,
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;
We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;
We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:

We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,
Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;
And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,
And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride;
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:
We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more!

If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast falling into line;
And children from their mothers' knees are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow, against their country's needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:
We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide
To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside;
Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,
And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:
We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more!

JAMES SLOAN GIBBONS. 1810

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.

"ALL

LL quiet along the Potomac," they say,
Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing-a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother; may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips-when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle . . . "Ha! Mary, good-bye!"
The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night;

No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-
The picket's off duty forever!

ETHEL LYNN BEERS. 1827-79.

THE FANCY SHOT.

"RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;

Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

66

Ah, Captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead;

There's music around when my barrel's in tune!"
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes and snatch From your victim some trinket to hansel first bloodA button, a loop, or that luminous patch

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"Oh, Captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette;
For he looked so like you as he lay on his back
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
"But I snatched off the trinket-this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”

"Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket-'tis she,

66

My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon
Was her husband-Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree;
We must bury him here, by the light of the moon!

But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtue-weakness a sin;

There's lurking and loping around us to-night;
Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in!”

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 1811-75.

YES,

THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM.

"ES, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom;

We will rally from the hill-side, we'll gather from the plain,

Shouting the battle cry 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 battle cry of Freedom.

We are springing to the call of our Brothers gone before,

Shouting the battle cry of Freedom,

And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.

We will welcome to our numbers the loyal true and brave,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom,

And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.

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