We thank Thee for the sabre's gash, We bless Thee for the widow's tears, We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit That for the songs of idle joy, Thou sendest war on earth: ill will We know that wisdom, truth and right To us and ours are given, That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath To do the work of Heaven. We know that plains and cities waste, Teach us to hate-as Jesus taught Give us Thy vengeance as our own— Where'er we tread may deserts spring, Till none are left to slay, And when the last red drop is shed, We'll kneel again and pray. DARLING. WILL THEY WEEP FOR ME AT HOME. AT THE BATTLE OF MOUNT SION, MO., DECEMBER 28TH, '61. WILL they weep for me at home, Do they wait at home for me, Farewell, dear beloved wife! For our Country's loved defence! WALTER WARREN. THE OLD THIRTEEN. BATTLE ON PORT ROYAL ISLAND, S. C., GOD bless the good old thirteen States; The old ones first our freedom gained, The young ones have their right maintained, No South or North, no East or West, One mother nursed them on her breast, And that was Liberty. And may the wretch whose hand shall first The bond that binds them shake, Be ever among men accursed— Oh, may Oh! may it never break! that banner wide extend O'er every land and sea, Without beginning, without end, And conquer to set free: Till Freedom's banner floats alone, A beacon in the sky, And man no other lord shall own But Him who rules on high. ANONYMOUS. OUR COMRADE. DESTRUCTION OF FORT BARRAncas, fla., WHERE tangled boughs of fadeless evergreen, The wind that through the tangled cedars sighed, No mother blessed him when his young life fled, But on the chilly earth his warm blood flowed, And on his couch of death no tears were shedTo his loved ones no farewell words were saidNo parting kiss bestowed. We laid him there within his narrow gravė, No more the startling bugle greets his ear; The rolling drum calls him to come no more, When its loud notes bespeak the foeman near; No more will he the shouts of victory hear— His warfare now is o'er. ELRINE MAY. MY COUNTRY-WOMEN. CAPTURE OF BIG BETHEL, VA., THINK ye to-night of the poor weary soldier For his country he left the dear home of his childhood Relaxed his strong muscles and fevered his brain. From the long weary march he rushed into battle Oh, Sisters! how holy and blessed our mission- To soldiers just resting, before their last call,— To fight the dread battle, where man must surrender To Death, his relentless, unchangeable foe, No fond arm of mother or sister upholds him, As he sinks in the anguish of silence and woe. ANONYMOUS. |