USA > Tennessee > History of the Twentieth Tennessee regiment volunteer infantry, C.S.A > Part 41
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"Finally, when all hopes of exchange were gone, Colonel Ould, the Confederate Commissioner, offered, early in August, 1864, to deliver up all the Federal sick and wounded without
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requiring an equivalent in return, and pledged that the number would amount to ten of fifteen thousand, and if it did not, he would make up that number with well men. Although this offer was made in August, the transportation was not sent for them (to Savannah) until December, although he urged and implored (to use his own words) that haste should be made. During that very period, the most of the deaths at Andersonville occurred. Congressman Covode, who lost two sons in Southern prisons, will do well if he inquires who these 'skeletons ' were whom the Honorable Secretary of War did not want to exchange for healthy men. If he does, he will perhaps be less bitter here- after against the people of the South.
" But has the North treated her Southern prisoners so well that she should lift up her hands and cry, 'Anathema,' over the South? We used justly to procaim in former times, that ours was 'the land of the free and the home of the brave.' But when one half of the country is shrouded in a despotism which now finds a parallel only in Russian Poland; and when our generals and soldiers quietly permit their former adversaries in arms to be treated worse than the Helots of old, brave soldiers though they may be, who, when the forces and resources of both sections were more equal, have not seldom seen the backs of our best generals, not to speak of such as Butler and consorts ; then we may well question whether the star-spangled banner still waves over ' the land of the free and the home of the brave.' A noble and brave soldier never permits his antag- onist to be calumniated and trampled upon after an honorable surrender. Besides, notwithstanding the decision of the highest legal tribunal in the land that military commissions are uncon- stitutional, the earnest and able protestations of President John- son, and the sad results of military commissions, yet such military commissions are again established by recent legislation of Con- gress all over the suffering and starving South.
" History is just, and as Mr. Lincoln used to say, we cannot escape history. Puritanical hypocrisy, self-adulation, and self- glorification will not save those enemies of liberty from their just punishment.
" Not even a Christian burial of the remains of Captain Wirz
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. was allowed by Secretary Stanton. They will lie side by side with those of another and acknowledged victim of military commissions, the unfortunate Mrs. Surratt, in the yard of the former jail in Washington City.
" LOUIS SCHADE, Attorney at Law. "Washington, April 4, 1867."
Let me warn the parents of the children of the South that they should select the histories taught, that they may not be written by unfair hands; for
"A pebble in the streamlet scant Turned the course of many a river ; A dewdrop on the infant plant Warped the giant oak forever."
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SONGS OF THE SOUTH.
DIXIE.
A short history of this Marseillaise of the South will be inter- esting to all Southerners.
This soul-stirring, life-giving, patriotic song, that was worth thousands of soldiers to the Southern cause during our Civil War, was composed by a Northern man while in the North; its history is told thus :-
During the winter of 1859-60, business being a little dull, Dan Emmett, a member of Bryant's Minstrel Troop in New York City, was asked to get up something that would be quick and lively ; so when he sung 'Dixie," it took so well that it was copyrighted at once, and became a favorite negro, walk-around, minstrel song.
It was supposed by some that Emmett was inspired to write "Dixie " from his knowledge of the South, but this is absurd, for he was a Northern man, and had no special interest in the South, and that he could write a war song for the South one year and a half before hostilities broke out, was equally without foundation. He simply caught the word "Dixie," and thought it was a meaningless negroism that would catch the crowd, never dreaming that it would some day stand for the South and Cotton.
As a matter of fact, Emmett knew nothing of the Southern people or their institutions. In December, 1860, about the time South Carolina seceded, the minstrel troop of Rumsey and New- comb came to the city of Charleston to play for a week, and at the wind up of each performance they would play "Dixie." In a few days the negroes and boys were humming and singing it on the streets. And also at this time the bands of Charleston had repudiated the national airs, and the city was full of parading State troops, so they took up "Dixie," and the troops from South Carolina were the first from the South to enter Virginia in 1861 with the Charleston band playing " Dixie " at their head; the spirit of the young Confederacy was soon impregnated with this soul-inspiring music, that will forever awaken Southern en-
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thusiasm to the extent of an outburst whenever and wherever heard.
It is one of the legacies that we wish to bequeath to our chil- dren, and when our time comes, and we shall cross over and the Pearly Gates shall be left ajar, we hope that the first music to greet us will be "Dixie."
This work would not be complete without a few of those soul- searching songs that stirred the brave hearts of Southern boys.
I wish I was in the land of cotton, Old times dar am not forgotten,
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land. In Dixie land where I was born in, Early on one frosty mornin', Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.
Chorus:
Den I wish I was in Dixie, Hoorray, Hoorray, In Dixie land I'll take my stand, To lib and die in Dixieland - Away, away, away down south in Dixie - Away, away, away down south in Dixie.
Ole missus marry " Will-de-weaber," William was a gay deceaber ;
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land. But when he put his arms around 'er, He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder, Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land. Ole missus acted de foolish part, And died for the man dat broke her heart.
Now here's a health to the next ole missus, And all the gals that want to kiss us, Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land. But if you want to drive 'way sorrow, Come and hear this song to-morrow, Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.
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Dars buckwheat cakes and ingen batter, Makes you fat en a little fatter, Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land. Den hoe it down and scratch and grabble, To Dixie's land I'm bound to trabble; Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.
THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG.
During the month of September, 1861, when Terry's Rangers, which was afterward the gallant Eighth Texas Cavalry, was being mustered into the Confederate service at Houston, Texas, three of these companies started on horseback at once to New Orleans, under Captains (afterward General) Wharton, Holt, and Walker, and in a few days other companies that went to make up this gallant command, followed, under command of Lieut .- Col. T. S. Lubbock. On their arrival in New Orleans they found the city full of soldiers from Louisiana, Texas, and Arkansas, hurrying to the front.
On the night of September 18, at the Academy of Music, was held a public demonstration, and the house was packed from floor to gallery with the youth, beauty, and chivalry of the South. Harry McCarthy, a young Irish. boy, stepped upon the stage accompanied by a young lady, who bore a flag of dark blue silk with a single white star in its center, and began singing "The Bonnie Blue Flag that Bears a Single Star." Before the first verse was ended, the audience had gone wild, and hats by the hundreds were going into the air; and before he was through with the second verse, the boys rose to their feet, and yelled and yelled until the little Irishman could not be heard. By the time he got to the third verse, the audience had caught on to the chorus, and it was wafted into the streets, and the whole crowd was turned into a Hallelujah meeting, and soon this song was hummed in every city and hamlet in the South.
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After this high tension had somewhat subsided, there was an old Texan that belonged to Company B, Eighth Texas, that the
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boys called "Old Virg," and in his pent-up enthusiasm he con- tinued with his Texas yells until a policeman came and tapped him on the shoulder and ordered him to stop. Old Virg thought that the policeman was interfering with his rights, so as quick as a flash he dropped him to the ground. The policeman was at once reinforced by other policemen, and the Texans were determined to see that Old Virg should have fair play, so every Texan rushed in, and a general mix-up was the result, the police using their clubs in the most effective way, while the Texans with their long knives were carving the police in the most scien- tific style. About this time the mayor and Colonel Terry arrived upon the scene, the mayor called off the police, and Colonel Terry marched his sullen and defiant Rangers back to their camps.
This was the kind of greeting that the "Bonnie Blue Flag" received the first night that it was flung to the breeze. Gallant little Harry McCarthy was killed at the battle of Chickamauga.
THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG.
We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil, Fighting for the property we gain by honest toil;
And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far ; Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!
Chorus:
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!
As long as the Union was faithful to her trust,
Like friends and like brothers we were kind, we were just; But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar, We hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
First gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand, Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand; Next, quickly, Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida,
All raised on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
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Ye men of valor, gather round the Banner of the Right, Texas, and fair Louisiana join us in the fight ;
Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesman rare, Now rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
And here's to brave Virginia, the old Dominion State, With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate; Impelled by her example, now other States prepare
To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
Then here'e to our Confederacy - strong we are and brave; Like patriots of old we'll fight our heritage to save; And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer; So cheer for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.
Then cheer, boys, cheer! Raise the joyous shout;
For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out; And let another roaring cheer for Tennessee be given -
The single star on the Bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be eleven.
LORENA.
This was one of those charming old songs that was born in the dark days of the sixties, and tells in pathetic strains of dis- appointed love that will strike a tender cord in every loving soul. The composer of this song was a young Southern minister by the name of Homer Webster, who, just before our Civil strife, graduated in theology, and applied for and obtained a church in Pittsburg, Pa., where a number of wealthy miners and manufacturers with their families attended religious services. Young Webster was of good family, handsome and eloquent, such a one as would catch the eyes of the young ladies.
A wealthy glass manufacturer, who attended young Web- ster's church, had a daughter by the name of "Lorena " who fell in love with the young minister, and her love found a
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responsive chord in his heart, so she became an ardent co-worker in his church, and at every opportunity a soft squeeze of the hand and loving glances would be exchanged between this young couple.
Lorena had many suitors, who were the sons of wealthy miners, but she did not care for them, as secret vows of love had passed between herself and the young minister. They were engaged to be married, but here fate stepped in, and in an evil hour her father and grandmother persuaded her to marry a son of a millionaire that she did not love.
The young minister soon found that Pittsburg had no charms for him, so he sought consolation among the pine hills of his native Georgia. And when the guns of Sumter echoed round the world, Homer Webster was among the first to don the gray in defense of the Stars and Bars, and tried to smother the dying embers of a first and pure love amid the exciting scenes of camp life and the crash of gory battle. But no, he could not forget ; from the rippling rills and green vales of sweet lover's remem- brances, although the object of his affection had linked her fate with another, came to Homer Webster, a Confederate soldier, a rich reservoir of love's young dreams that were printed on the tablets of his young heart with the divine effect of never-fading love. He wrote this soul-inspiring song and it was sung at the camp fires of both armies, not only here, but all around the world.
LORENA.
The years creep slowly by, Lorena, The snow is on the grass again; The sun's low down the sky, Lorena, The frost gleams where the flowers have been ; But the heart throbs on as warmly now, As when the summer days were nigh; Oh, the sun can never dip so low, Adown affection's cloudless sky.
A hundred months have passed, Lorena, Since last I held that hand in mine,
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And felt that pulse beat fast, Lorena, Though mine beat faster far than thine; A hundred months -'twas flow'ry May, When up the hilly slope we climbed, To watch the dying of the day, And hear the distant church-bells chimed.
We loved each other then, Lorena, More than we ever dared to tell, And what we might have been, Lorena, Had but our loving prospered well - But then, 'tis past, the years are gone, I'll call not up their shadowy forms; I'll say to them, "Lost years, sleep on, Sleep on, nor heed life's pelting storms."
The story of that past, Lorena, · Alas, I care not to repeat, The hopes that could not last, Lorena, They lived, but only lived to cheat; I would not cause e'en one regret, To rankle in your bosom now; For "if we try we may forget," Were words of thine long years ago.
Yes, these were words of thine, Lorena, They burn within my memory yet; They touch some tender chords, Lorena, Which thrill and tremble with regret; 'Twas not thy woman's heart that spoke; Thy heart was always true to me - A duty, stern and pressing, broke The tie which linked my soul to thee.
It matters little now, Lorena, The past - is in the eternal past, Our heads will soon lie down, Lorena, Life's tide is ebbing out so fast ;
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There is a future - O, thank God - Of life this is so small a part ; 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod, - But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.
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THE HOME-SPUN DRESS.
This song was written in the spring of 1862, about the time that the Federal fleets began to blockade our Southern ports, but by whom we do not know.
Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl, And glory in the name, And boast it with far greater pride Than glittering wealth or fame; We envy not the Northern girl Her robes of beauty rare, Though diamonds grace her snowy neck, And pearls bedeck her hair.
Chorus:
Hurrah! Hurrah! For the Sunny South so dear, Three cheers for the home-spun dress, The Southern ladies wear.
The home-spun dress is plain, I know, My hat's palmetto, too; But then it shows what Southern girls For Southern rights will do; We send the bravest of our land To battle with the foe, And we will lend a helping hand - We love the South, you know.
Now Northern goods are out of date ; And since old Abe's blockade, We Southern girls can be content With goods that are Southern made;
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We send our sweethearts to the war, But, dear girls, never mind - Your soldier-love will ne'er forget The girl he left behind.
The soldier is the lad for me, A brave heart I adore; And when the Sunny South is free, And when the fighting is no more, I'll choose me then a lover brave From out that gallant band, The soldier-lad I love the best Shall have my heart and hand.
The Southern land's a glorious land, And has a glorious cause ; Then cheer, three cheers for Southern rights, And for our Southern beaux. We scorn to wear a bit of silk, A bit of Northern lace, But make our home-spun dresses up, And wear them, too, with grace.
And now, young men, a word to you ; If you would win the fair, Go to the field where honor calls, And win your lady there ; Remember that our brightest smiles Are for the true and brave, And that our tears are all for those Who fill a soldier's grave.
THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY.
This song was very popular with the young ladies of the South, and forced many would-be shirkers into the Confederate army.
Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart's name, He's off to the wars and gone;
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He's fighting for his Nannie dear, His sword is buckled on; He's fighting for his own true love, His foes he does defy ; He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy.
Chorus:
Yo, ho, yo, ho, yo, ho, ho, ho, He is my only joy, He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy.
When Bob comes home from war's alarms, We'll start anew in life, I'll give myself right up to him, A fond and loving wife ; I'll try my best to please my dear, For he's my only joy, He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy.
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Oh, if in battle he were slain, I am sure that I should die; But I am sure that he'll come back again, And cheer my weeping eye; But should he fall in this our cause, He still would be my joy ; For many a sweetheart mourns the loss Of a Southern soldier boy.
I hope for the best, and so do all Whose hopes are in the field ; I know that we shall win the day, For Southrons never yield; And when we think of those away, We'll look above for joy ; And I'm mighty glad my Bobby is A Southern soldier boy.
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GOOBER PEAS. While in the Georgia campaign, 1864, your writer often wit- nessed the scene as told by this song.
Sitting by the roadside on a summer day, Chatting with my messmates, passing time away, Lying in the shadow underneath the trees,
Goodness ! how delicious, eating goober peas.
Chorus:
Peas, peas, peas, peas, eating goober peas.
Goodness ! how delicious, eating goober peas.
When a horseman passes, the soldiers have a rule To cry out at their loudest, " Mister, here's your mule,"
But another pleasure, enchantinger than these, Is wearing out your grinders eating goober peas.
Just before the battle the General hears a row, He says, " The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now;" He turns around in wonder, and what do you think he sees? The Georgia militia are eating goober peas.
I think my song has lasted almost long enough, The subject's interesting, but the rhymes are mighty rough. I wish this war was over, when free from rags and fleas, We'd kiss our wives and sweethearts, and gobble goober peas.
I'M CONSCRIPTED, SMITH, CONSCRIPTED.
This poem is a parody on General Lytle's famous poem, "I Am Dying, Egypt, Dying," and was written by Albert Roberts (John Happy), who during the first year of the war was Captain of Company A Twentieth Tennessee Volunteer Infantry.
I'm conscripted, Smith, conscripted, Ebb the subterfuges fast, And the sub-enrolling marshals Gather with the evening blast;
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Let thine arms, O Smith, support me, Hush your gab and close your ears, Conscript-grabbers close upon you, Hunting for you far and near.
Though my scarred, rheumatic "trotters" Bear me limping short no more, And my shattered constitution Won't exempt me as before ; Though the provost guard surround me, Prompt to do their master's will, I must to the "front" to perish, Die the great conscript still.
Let not the siezer's servile minions Mock the lion thus laid low, "Twas no fancy drink that "slew" him, Whiskey straight-out struck the blow. Here, then, pillowed on thy bosom, E'er he's hurried quite away, He who, drunk with bust-head whiskey, Madly threw himself away.
Should the base, plebian rabble Dare assail me as I roam, Seek my noble squaw, Octavia, Weeping in her widowed home; Seek her, say the guards have got me Under their protecting wings, Going to make me join the army, Where the shell and minnie sings.
I'm conscripted, Smith, conscripted, Hark, you hear that Grabber's cry? Run, old Smith, my boy, they'll catch you, Take you to the front to die. Fare thee well, I go to battle, There to die, decay, and swell. Lockhart and Dick Taylor guard thee, Sweet Octavia-Smith-farewell.
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THE JACKET OF GRAY.
Fold it up carefully, lay it aside ; Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride ; For dear must it be to our hearts evermore, The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore.
Can we forget when he joined the brave band, That rose in defense of our dear Southern land, And in his bright youth hurried off to the fray, How proudly he donned it-the jacket of gray?
His fond mother blessed him, and looked up above, Commending to heaven the child of her love;
What anguish was hers mortal tongue cannot say, When he passed from her sight in the jacket of gray.
But her country had called, and she would not repine, Though costly the sacrifice placed on its shrine; Her heart's dearest hopes on its altar she'd lay,
When she sent out her boy in the jacket of gray.
Months passed, and war's thunder rolled over the land; Unsheathed was the sword, and lighted the brand; We heard in the distance the sounds of the fray, And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray.
Ah, vain, all in vain, were our prayers and our tears; The glad shout of victory rang in our ears;
But our treasured one on the red battle-field lay, While the life-blood oozed out on the jacket of gray.
His young comrades found him, and tenderly bore His cold, lifeless form to his home by the shore; Oh, dark were our hearts on that terrible day,
When we saw our dead boy in the jacket of gray.
Ah, spotted and tattered, and stained now with gore, Was the garment which once he so proudly wore; We bitterly wept as we took it away,
And replaced with death's white robe the jacket of gray.
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We laid him to rest in his cold, narrow bed, And engraved on the marble we placed o'er his head, As the proudest tribute our sad hearts could pay : "He never disgraced the jacket of gray."
Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside, Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride; For dear'must it be to our hearts evermore, The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore.
SOMEBODY'S DARLING.
Into a ward of the white-washed halls, Where the dead and the dying lay ; Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day. Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face, Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's. grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; Pale are the lips of delicate mould, Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow, Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Kiss me once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low, One bright curl from its fair mates take - They were somebody's pride, you know ; Somebody's hand hath rested there ; Was it a mother's, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light?
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God knows best-he has somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there, Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head ; "Somebody's darling slumbers here."
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