John Burns of Gettysburg

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,
He heard the low of his gathered kine,
And felt their breath with incense sweet;
Or I might say, when the sunset burned
The old farm gable, he thought it turned
The milk that fell like a babbling flood
Into the milk-pail, red as blood!
Or how he fancied the hum of bees
Were bullets buzzing among the trees.

But all such fanciful thoughts as these
Were strange to a practical man like Burns,
Who minded only his own concerns,

Troubled no more by fancies fine

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,—
Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,

Slow to argue, but quick to act.

That was the reason, as some folks say,

He fought so well on that terrible day.

And it was terrible. On the right
Raged for hours the heady fight,
Thundered the battery's double bass,—
Difficult music for men to face;

While on the left-where now the graves
Undulate like the living waves

That all that day unceasing swept
Up to the pits the rebels kept-
Round-shot ploughed the upland glades,
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;
Shattered fences here and there
Tossed their splinters in the air;
The very trees were stripped and bare;
The barns that once held yellow grain
Were heaped with harvests of the slain;
The cattle bellowed on the plain,

The turkeys screamed with might and main,

The brooding barn-fowl left their rest
With strange shells bursting in each nest.

Just where the tide of battle turns,
Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns.

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How do you think the man was dressed?
He wore an ancient long buff vest,
Yellow as saffron,-but his best;

And, buttoned over his manly breast,

Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar,
And large gilt buttons,-size of a dollar,-
With tails that the country-folk called "swaller."
He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat,
White as the locks on which it sat.

Never had such a sight been seen

For forty years on the village green,

Since old John Burns was a country beau,
And went to the "quiltings" long ago.

Close at his elbows all that day,
Veterans of the Peninsula,

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;
And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-
Clerks that the Home-Guard mustered in,—
Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,
Then at the rifle his right hand bore;

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore,

With scraps of a slangy repertoire:

"How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!” "Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!" Called him "Daddy,"-begged he'd disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer or scoff,

Stood there picking the rebels off,—

With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat,
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

'Twas but a moment, for that respect
Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand
Spake in the old man's strong right hand,
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe

Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,

Farragut

In the antique vestments and long white hair,
The Past of the Nation in battle there;
And some of the soldiers since declare
That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their oriflamme of war.

So raged the battle. You know the rest:
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed,
Broke at the final charge and ran.

At which John Burns--a practical man—
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,
And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns;
This is the moral the reader learns:

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In fighting the battle, the question's whether
You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather!
Bret Harte [1839-1902]

FARRAGUT

[MOBILE BAY, August 5, 1864]

FARRAGUT, Farragut,

Old Heart of Oak,

Daring Dave Farragut,

Thunderbolt stroke,

Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,

Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls,

Looms the black fleet.

Hark, deck to rampart calls

With the drums' beat!

Buoy your chains overboard,

While the steam hums;

Men! to the battlement,

Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricane
Hurtles in wrath

Squadrons of clouds amain
Back from its path!

Back to the parapet,

To the guns' lips, Thunderbolt Farragut

Hurls the black ships.

Now through the battle's roar
Clear the boy sings,
"By the mark fathoms four,”
While his lead swings.
Steady the wheelmen five

"Nor' by East keep her,"

"Steady," but two alive:

How the shells sweep her!

Lashed to the mast that sways
Over red decks,
Over the flame that plays

Round the torn wrecks,

Over the dying lips

Framed for a cheer,

Farragut leads his ships,

Guides the line clear.

On by heights cannon-browed, While the spars quiver;

Onward still flames the cloud

Where the hulks shiver.

See, yon fort's star is set,
Storm and fire past.

Cheer him, lads-Farragut,

Lashed to the mast!

Oh! while Atlantic's breast

Bears a white sail,

While the Gulf's towering crest

Tops a green vale,

Craven

Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
Old Heart of Oak,

Daring Dave Farragut,

Thunderbolt stroke!

William Tuckey Meredith [1839–

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CRAVEN

[MOBILE BAY, AUGUST 5, 1864]

OVER the turret, shut in his ironclad tower,

Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game.

There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,
A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign:
There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim

The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.

The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung
Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed;
Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;

Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed

Into the narrowing channel, between the shore
And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;
She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,
A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.

Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower,
Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly:
The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour,
For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.

They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,—
Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captain's pride:
"After you, Pilot." The pilot woke,

Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.