Beyond the darkening ocean burned And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, And Irish Nora's eyes are dim Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Bayard Taylor (1825-1878] REVEILLE THE morning is cheery, my boys, arouse! 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; 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! "I Give My Soldier Boy a Blade" 2215 From every valley and hill there come 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: I know not; but I hope to know, To guard no feeling base or low- Cool, calm, and clear-the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done; As calm, as clear, in wind and wood, 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! William Maginn [1793-1842] STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY COME, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, We see him now-the queer slouched hat The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! 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." 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." Music in Camp The sun's bright lances rout the mists Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before; Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn, Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on; 2217 John Williamson Palmer [1825-1906] MUSIC IN CAMP Two armies covered hill and plain, The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 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 When on the fervid air there came A strain,—now rich, now tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day's departing splendor. A Federal band, which, eve and morn, Down flocked the soldiers to the banks; One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," Then all was still; and then the band, The conscious stream, with burnished glow, Again a pause; and then again The trumpets pealed sonorous, The laughing ripple shoreward flew Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue And yet once more the bugles rang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang— There reigned a holy quiet. |