A Burning Shame

I certainly do not intend to turn this blog into a review of poems from and/or about the Civil War era, but if I find verses that interest me of that I think are worth sharing, I will post them here.

Today's poem comes from the antique Under Both Flags book that I had mentioned a couple of weeks ago. It is on page 211 and I thought it a bit humorous and amusing. Perhaps "reconciliation" is a theme of these lines too, though in a different format. I don't know if Dixie Wolcott is the suthor or the character in the poem

A BURNING SHAME

Dixie Wolcott

That there wasn't a saucier rebel

In all the sunny South,

'Twas easy to tell by the mischievous eyes

And the smile of her roguish mouth.

But how she hated the Yankees

She couldn't bear the name;

"How dared they come and whip us;

It was a burning shame!"

One of those self-same Yankees

Came to her Dixie one day,

And ere the week was over

She'd stolen his heart away.

But how should she treat her captive?

He couldn't be shot you know,

Because the war was ended

Two dozen years ago.

So in order to keep him prisoner

The rest of his life instead

She reckoned she'd have to marry him, tho'

"'Twas a burin shame," she said.

Secesh Poetry

These lines  come from the Covington Journal of July 4, 1862, providing another little bit of humor.

Secesh Poetry
A secesh girl writes to her cousin, who is a prisoner at Camp Morton, Indianapolis:
"I will bee for Jeffdavis till the tenisee river freezes over, and then be for him and scratch on the ice:"

'Jeffdavis rides a white horse,
and Lincoln rides a mule,
Jeffdavis is a gentleman,
and Lincoln is a fool.'

image from http://wbts-calendar.blogspot.com/

Is that Mother?

From The Civil War in Song and Story 1860-1865, collected and arranged by Frank Moore page 66

Is that mother bending o'er me
As she sang my cradle hymn -
Knelling there in tears before me?
Say? - my sight is growing dim.

Comes she from the old home lowly,
Out among the northern hills,
Tis her pet boy dying slowly
Of war's battle wounds and ills?

Mother! O, we bravely battled - 
Battled till the day was done;'
While the leaden hail storm r1ttled- 
Man to man and gun to gun.


But we failed - and I'm dying - 
Dying in my boyhood's years,
There - no weeping - self- denying,
Noble deaths demand no tears.


Fold your arms again around me;
Press again my aching head;
Sing the lullaby you sung me - 
Kiss me, mother, ere I'm dead

The First Guns of Sumter (poem)

The Covington Journal of April 20, 1861 has several articles and commentaries that I found interesting and will be posting this week. This first one is an attempt at a poem of the big event that had occurred too late for this weekly paper's previous edition.


Hark! The sound, O Southern brothers, that comes booming o'er the waves;
It is Sumter's deep-mouthed cannon, loud proclaiming you are slaves.
'Tis the thundering announcement of vile Abolition's horde, 
That Southern Rights can be sustained but by the crimson sword


How have we truly hoped for peace, have treated and have prayed;
Have trusted Abolitionism and meetly been betrayed!
Now throw the banner to the breeze - throw the fulchion of the free, 
And swear that while we trust in God, we'll bend no supplicant's knee.


Our wives, loves, sisters call on us - our mothers urge us too,
To seize our swords and take the field against our haughty foe; 
With more than Spartan heroism they bid us to go forth, 
And meet the slavish myrmidons thrown on us by the North.


We'll meet them too - and that like men - though numerous as the sands, 
With Right to lead and rifles in our steady, true right hands,
The God of battles shall decide in this our last appeal, 
If Liberty shall still be crushed beneath Oppression's heel.


Be our cities desolated and our rivers stained with blood,
Be our best and bravest hidden 'neath their verdant native sod.
But never let a Southerner who bows alone to God,
Debase his mother's teaching e'er, or kiss a tyrant's rod.


Sweet Liberty! can men resign or tamely give thee up,
Or listen to the siren's song, or taste the poisoned cup
Of proffered peace, when purchased by, what's dear to every heart -
The right to think, and feel, and speak, and act a manly part? 


No! spurn the siren, scorn the cup and strike oppression down,
And peace shall yet triumphant'y your brows with laurel crown!
Fear not - our God, when pleases Him, will give you his reward
And still remain, throughout all time, your anchor staff and guard.

Covington, Ky, April 17, 1861

Rebels: We Glory in the Name - a poem

It has been a while since I posted something from The Civil War in Song and Story 1860-1865 by Frank Moore, but I like the style and rhyme scheme of these verses. In my few attempts to write poetry, I never have been able to do anything other than have every other line rhyme.

I also have no doubt this represents the feelings of many Confederates (perhaps most, perhaps all) of the time. Perhaps the reference to"slavish fear" is a bit ironic since Confederate victory would have ensured the continuance of slavery, but that is just one line in this poetic message.

Rebels! 'tis a holy name!

The name our fathers bore,

When battling in the cause of Right,

Against the tyrant in his might, 

In the dark days of yore.

Rebels! 'tis our family name!

Our father, Washington,

Was the arch-rebel in the fight,

And gave the name to us - a right

Of father unto son

Rebels! 'tis our given name!

Our mother, Liberty,

Received the title with her fame,

In days of grief, of fear and shame,

When at her breast were we.

Rebels! 'tis our sealed name!

A baptism of blood!

The war - ay, and the din of strife - 

The fearful contest, life for life - 

The mingled crimson flood

Rebels! 'tis a patriot's name!

In struggles it was given; 

We bore it then when tyrants raved,

And through their curses 'twas engraved

On the doomsday book of heaven.

Rebels! 'tis our fighting name!

For peace rules o'er the land,

Until they speak of craven woe - 

Until our rights receive a blow,

From foe's or brothers' hand.

Rebels! 'tis our dying name!

For although life is dear, 

Yet, freemen born and freemen bred,

We'd rather live as freemen dead,

Than live in slavish fear.

Then call us Rebels if you will -

We glory in the name;

For bending under unjust laws,

And swearing faith to an unjust cause,

We count a greater shame.

Harper's Weekly reaction to Election Day - November 8, 1864

In honor of the recent election day 2010, I'm reprinting another period poem, this one from the November 26, 1864 edition of Harper's Weekly.

On the back page of the same edition is published the following illustration.

Long Abraham Lincoln a Little Longer

Here is the poem itself, a celebration of Lincoln's victory over George McClellan in the 1864 Presidential election, though it sounds more like a celebration of victory in a battle or the war. Apparently the author thought the former ensured the latter, and he or she may have been right.

November 8, 1864

We breathe more freely now the struggle's done, 

Now that the glorious victory is won;

The grandest civil triumph which shall stand

Recorded in the annals of the land.

We trusted in the cause - we knew that Right

Must conquer Wrong, however hard the fight;

That not in vain by patriots had been shed

The precious blood with which our soil is red.

No, not in vain; to-day the pledge we give.

that by that blood the Union yet shall live;

And from the strong lips of the loyal North

In thunder tones the promise now goes forth.

Faith in that promise makes my eyes to see

Peace rising through the smoke of victory;

And as the cloud of battle drifts away

I see the white dawn of a future day.

Above the din of war i seem to hear

From tower and roof the sweet-toned bells of cheer

Ring out the welcome tidings to the skies,

While joyful paeans on the air arise. 

I see bold Freedom with a giant's stroke

Hurl to the earth the bondman's heavy yoke; 

I see her strike from off his horny hands

The galling chains and fetters where he stands.

I see a temple; from its dome on high

A glorious banner greets the broad blue sky;

The starry emblem of a mighty land,

Whose people all are on in heart and hand. 

 

The Last Photograph, April 9, 1865: A Poem about Abraham Lincoln

A couple of months ago, I posted an entry about a poem written by Pulitzer Prize winner Paul Horgan about Abraham Lincoln, from his book Songs After Lincoln.

 Today, I feature another selection from this book, this one from pages 63 and 64, entitled "The Last Photograph, April 9, 1865."

From within his countenance

The weariness of war

Had made its withering advance

Hour after hour

All throughout those four years

Which bowed him as he grew, 

And turned the error of his fears

Into the lasting true.

It was like a runnelled hill, 

His face, and in his eyes

Lngered all the dying, till

Life seemed a stale surrise.

And then war's end, at last in view,

Erased death from his face,

And those who saw him lived anew,

And shared his autumn peace,

And thought how Indian Summer dweled

Hazy after frost, 

And how the bounty of its yield

Was worthy of its cost.  

Biography: A Poem about Abraham Lincoln

At a used book sale a  few weeks ago, one of the items I picked up was Songs After Lincoln, a book by Paul Horgan, an author of whom I knew nothing. (copyright 1960, 1965, Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

I still know little of him, but I have learned that he was a prolific author and historian, who won not one, but two Pulitzer Prizes in history, both for books about New Mexico history.  Here is a link to his wikipedia page, but for those looking for a more reliable source, this short biography should work.

This versatile writer wrote this particular volume "as a commemorative observance of an event that touched all Americans one hundred years ago," according to the dust jacket, which was referring to President Abraham Lincoln's assassination. Horgan, it continues, "returns to his earliest forms of expression as an author" in this book that was the "fruit of a life-long interest in the Civil War and its greatest hero."

I may return to this book from time-to-time with some of his writings, but tonight I will republish the one he entitled "Biography" from pages 59 and 60 of this volume.

Did you ramble in the wood, 

Abe, my boy?

I got lost within the wood, 

But there I listened as I stood

And I learned everything I could, 

Said Abe, the boy. 

Did you come round the river's bend,

Young Abraham?

I saw round the river's bend, 

I saw what we'd have to fend,

And how to steer until the end,

Said Abraham

Did you gaze at books, and wonder, 

As a hired man?

Any book seemed all of wonder,

Strong enough to set asunder

This from that, almost like thunder,

Said the hired man.

Did you measure our own land,

Mr Surveyor?

I legged my chains across the land,

I studied late on what I spanned,

And so discovered where I'd stand,
Said the surveyor.

Did you seek the word of law,

Mr. Attorney?

I saw nature in the law,

And fate weighed heavy by a straw,

And it was my own life I saw,

Said the attorney.

Did you ponder on the War,

Commander-in-Chief?

I never could escape the War

I knew what we were fighting for,

It beat within my very core,

Said the commander-in-chief.

Did you know what had to come,

Mr. President?

I often dreamed of what might come,

But not where it was coming from,

I knew the numbers, not the sum,

Said the President.

I admit I'm curious as to why there are not verses on Mary Todd (or Anne Rutledge) or emancipation, and this work will never be mistaken for Shakespeare, but I still found it an interesting way to summarize Lincoln's life in verse.

"The Beginning of Slavery's End": A poem

These verses were apparently published in London's Punch Magazine shortly after Abraham Lincoln's election as President of the United States. I don't know if any Northerner who favored the abolition of slavery could have summed up their thoughts and beliefs in verse much better than this.

I found it republished on page 133 of Abraham Lincoln: The Year of His Election, A Cartoon History by Albert Shaw (The Review of Reviews Corporation, 1929).  Unfortunately, as I did some brief research on it, I found a link to Google books that showed that the version I found was missing a few verses, only printing what this link showed to be the first, second, fifth and final verses. I have transcribed the entire poem from this link.

Thus far shall Slavery go, no farther;

That tide must ebb from this time forth.

So many righteous Yankees are there, 

Who Good and Truth hold something worth, 

That they outnumber the immoral

Throughout the States, on that old quarrel

That stands between the South and North.

The great Republic is not rotten

So much as half; the rest is sound.

Most of her sons have not forgotten

Her own foundation; holy ground!

The better party is the stronger,

And by the worse will now no longer

Bear to be bullied, ruled and bound.

The nobler people of the nation

The baser sort no more will stand,

Nor cringe to truculent dictation

Enforced with strength of murderous hand,

By ruffians, for example, brawling

To back slave-soil against free land.

Their higher-minded fellow creatures

Of all these brutes are tired, and sick

Of slavery's blaspheming preachers,

That snuffle texts with nasal trick

To justify the abomination

That's cherished by their congregation

Whose feet these canting parsons lick. 

Enough of frantic stump-haranguing,

Invectives of a rabid Press,

Tarring and feathering, flogging, hanging,

To stop free mouths; the mad excess

Of human-fleshmongers tyrannic

Who rant and revel in Satanic

Enthusiasm of wickedness!

This is America's decision.

Awakening, she begins to see

How justly she incurs derision

Of tyrants, while she shames us free;

Republican, yet more slaves owning

Than any under Empire groaning,

Or ground beneath the Papacy

Come, South, accept the situation; 

The change will grow by safe degrees.

If any talk of separation,

Hang all such traitors if you please.

Break up the Union? Brothers, never!

No; the United States for ever, 

Pure Freedom's home beyond the seas!

Conservative Chorus (poem)

Here's another entry from one of my favorite sources of interesting period material, The Civil War in Song and Story , written by Frank Moore. I take this from my copy, the 1882 edition.

Abraham, spare the South, 

Touch not a single slave;

Nor e'en by word of mouth

Disturb the thing, we crave.

'Twas our forefathers' hand

That Slavery begot; 

There, Abraham, let it stand; 

Thine acts shall harm it not. 

There is no date or author attributed to this ditty, but my guess is it was prior to the Emancipation Proclamation, when speculation about how the US government would handle the slavery question was still going around. I expect it would not have seemed so friendly after the announcement of his plans.

I guess if they wanted to re-title it, "McClellan's March" might be worthy of consideration, given his views on how the war was to be conducted.

Soldiers' Aid Societies (a poem)

I found this tribute on pages 55 and 56 of the 1882 version of The Civil War in Song and Story 1860-1865 by Frank Moore. This book actually has many fascinating stories and tales, some of which I have previously shared and more of which will follow over time.  I really like the perspectives such stories, tales, songs, poems and other prose pieces provide.


Soldiers' Aid Societies

To the quiet nooks of home,
To the public halls so wide,
The women, all loyal hurrying come,
And sit down side by side,
To fight for their native land,
With womanly weapons girt,
For dagger a needle, scissors for brand,
While they sing the song of the shirt

O women with sons so dear,
O tender, loving wives,
It is not money you work for now,
But the saving of precious lives.
'Tis roused for the battle we feel -
O for a thousand experts,
Armed with tiny darts of steel,
To conquer thousands of shirts!

Stitch - stitch - stitch
Under the sheltering roof,
Come to the rescue, poor and rich,
Nor stay from the work aloof:
To the men who are shedding their blood,
To the brave, devoted band,
Whose action is honor, whose cause is good,
We pledge our strong right hand.

Work - work - work,
With earnest heart and soul -
Work - work work,
To keep the Union whole.
And 'tis O for the land of the brave,
Where treason and cowardice lurk,
Where there's all to lose or all to save,
That we're doing this Christian work.

Brothers are fighting abroad,
Sisters will help them here,
Husbands and wives with one accord
Serving the cause so dear.
Stand by our colors to-day -
Keep to the Union true -
Under our flag while yet we may
Hurrah for the Red, White and Blue.