BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)
She has gone,-she has left us in passion and pride
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a foe!
0 Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one,
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!
You were always too ready to fire at a touch;
But we said: "She is hasty,-she does not mean much."
We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;
But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget!"
Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?
Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain
That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil,
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,
And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:
In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow
Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;
Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!
Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,
The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!
O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
There are battles with Fate that can never be won!
The star-flowering banner must never be furled,
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!
Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof,
Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof,
But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,
Remember the pathway that leads to our door!
The Blue And The Gray
Francis Miles Finch (1827-1907)
By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray
These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day
Under the laurel, the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray.
From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day;
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.
So with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment -day,
Wet with the rain, the Blue
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done,
In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray
No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.
O, I'm a Good Old Rebel
NOTE: In the book Point Lookout Prison Camp for Confederates (page 101), Edwin Beitzell says,
"According to Herbert Quick, who printed an account of The Good Old Rebel in Colliers for April
14, 1914, its author was Major James Randolph, a Virginian and a member of General J.E.B.
Stuart's staff. Sung to the tune of Joe Bowers, a favorite of the forty-niners, it traveled beyond the
bounds of the Confederacy. Edward VII, the Prince of Wales, heard it at a reception in London and
called it 'that fine American song with the cuss words in it.'"
O, I'm a good old Rebel,
Now that's just what I am,
For this "Fair Land of Freedom"
I do not care at all;
I followed old mass' Robert
For four year, near about,
Got wounded in three places
And starved at Pint Lookout;
I'm glad I fit against it -I only wish we'd won,
And I don't want no pardon
For anything I done.
I cotch the rheumatism
A campin' in the snow,
But I killed a chance of Yankees,
I'd like to kill some mo'.
I hates the Constitution,
This Great Republic too,
I hates the Freedman's Buro,
In uniforms of blue;
Three hundred thousand Yankees
Is stiff in Southern dust;
We got three hundred thousand
Before they conquered us;
I hates the nasty eagle,
With all his brags and fuss,
The lyin', thievin' Yankees,
I hates 'em wuss and wuss.
They died of Southern fever
And Southern steel and shot,
I wish they was three million
Instead of what we got.
I hates the Yankee nation
And everything they do,
I hates the Declaration
Of Independence too;
I can't take up my musket
And fight 'em now no more,
But I ain't going to love 'em,
Now that is sarten sure;
I hates the glorious Union -'Tis dripping with our blood -I hates their striped banner,
I fit it all I could.
And I don't want no pardon
For what I was and am,
I won't be reconstructed
And I don't care a damn.
Six Years Ago.
Six years ago, the stars and stripes
Were floating proud and free.
Without an army on the land
Or navy on the sea;
The Constitution was our guide,
It hung upon the wall;
Life, liberty and justice, then,
Were free to one and all.
Six years ago, a wench would wed
With “Pomp” or “Sambo,” freely.
But now, she wants a “Stevens,”
A “Sumner” or a “Greeley;”
For, o’er the spirit of their dream
Has swept a mighty wave;
The negro is the master now,
The white man is the slave.
Six years ago, our State was free
From negro equality’s alarms,
And, in the place of national debts,
We cherished national charms;
Then the Union blessings came to us,
In place of “Union duns,”1
And Congress sent out garden seed,
In place of guarding guns.
Six years ago, the Sunny South
Had not been made a waste.
Nor had the flag of liberty
Been torn in angry haste,
But union, peace and harmony
Found refuge in our land,
And the warm, fond ties of fellowship
United us as a band.
Six years ago, we had no use
For “provost2 guards and clowns,”
With big brass eagles on their caps,
Parading through our towns;
A police sergeant, with his squad
Of half-a-dozen men,
Was quite enough, by day or night,
To quell a riot, then.
Six years ago, a note on bank
Was just as good as gold,
Nor did we have to put a stamp
On everything we sold;
But now, ‘tis stamps on all get,
Or give, or sell, or buy;
Thus tax us now, because we live,
And stamp us when we die.
Six years ago, the press was free,
And men could speak their mind,
Nor had the “habeas corpus writ”
Been kicked clear out behind.
We had no saucy negroes, then.
To crowd our Senate halls,
Nor did we ever read about
Amalgamation3 balls.
Six years ago the Democrats
Were masters in the House,
And every person, North and South.
Was quiet as a mouse;
But now, the Abolition crew,
Have undertook the job;
The negro is their “hobby-horse,”
Their object is to rob.
“Six Years Ago.” Columbia Daily Phoenix, 5 October 1866. Newspapers on Microfilm. Published
Materials Division, South Carolina Library, University of South Carolina, Columbia, South Carolina.
http://www.teachingushistory.org/ttrove/documents/SixYearsAgo.pdf
dun: something of a dull grayish-brown color
provost guard: a police detail of soldiers
3 amalgamation: joined, united, blended.
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