THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHES.
ATTACK ON LEXINGTON, MO.,
AUGUST 29TH, '61.
THE dew laughs on the blossom'd grass,
Like diamonds gem the flow'rs-
And over all the soft winds pass
All fresh from Night's cool bow'rs, While sharp and clear, upon the ear, Across the field, we list to hear
The whetting of the scythes!
The laugh and song may float along,
From festive heart and lip,
Where the belles and beaux in joyous throng
The cup of pleasure sip
But let me hear upon the air
A sweeter sound, more full of cheer-
The whetting of the scythes!
Now, soldiers, mow the rebels down
With blades of tempered steel-
Make, make our Union's power known,
Let them its vengeance feel-
Then home once more from tented plain,
You'll haste to hear in peace again—
The whetting of the scythes!
AT THE FIGHT AT BALL'S CROSS ROADS, Va.,
THE finest friend I ever knew,
And one with whom I dare not trifle,
Who in all danger sees me through,
Whose aim is ever good and true,
Is my sweet Minie Rifle.
She gently rests upon my arm,
Is always ready, always willing;
And though, in general, somewhat calm,
Wakes up, upon the first alarm,
To show she can be killing.
And she is very fair to see,
The most fastidious fancy suiting;
Her locks are bright as they can be,
And that her sight is good to me
Is just as sure as shooting.
Though used to many a firey spark,
She's never careless in her pleasure;
She always aims to hit the mark,
And when her voice the Sothrons hark,
They find she's no Secesher.
The heaviest load seems not to weigh
Upon her more than 'twere a trifle;
She's highly polished; and I'd pray,
Were I bereft of friend this day,
"Oh! leave my Minie Rifle!"
AFTER THE REBEL ATTACK AT DENT CO., MO.,
SEPTEMBER 1ST, '61.
He died before he had reached the field,
When the battle cry was sounding,
His dear young life he must sadly yield,
With his comrades in camp surrounding;
"Oh! had he lived" is the mournful cry
Of the weeping mother that bore him,
"Had he lived on some stricken field to die,
Less sad would our grief be o'er him."
Not what is done but the wish and the will,
Not the power but the heart of daring,
These make our pride when the dead lie still,
And our heaviest grief we're bearing;
He gave to his country the hopes of youth,
And he sleeps all darkly and lonely,
But our lov'd soldier boy has died for the truth.
And his patriot grave is holy.
When the strife is o'er in some future year,
And our nation's light is breaking,
Our soldier boys will be doubly dear,
Those who died when the land was waking; Let sweet roses bloom o'er his fair young head, And his tomb be honor'd in story,
For not one of the patriot army is dead,
But has part in the nation's glory.
AT THE FIGHT at BOONE COURT HOUSE, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 1sr, '61.
THE earliest ray of morn had brought
The din of arms to many an ear,
And many a life was quickly bought
And fitted for the narrow bier.
For hours the flash of muskets gleamed
Along our ranks, from line to line-
For hours our shining bayonets beamed.
Like shifting spray upon the brine.
The day that flushed the summer sky
At length had faded into night,
And many a star had risen high
And dropp'd on earth its rays of light; The pale moon rose above the hills, And coldly smiled upon the plain
Its rays were riding on each rill,
And resting on each battle-slain.
But one whose brow was young with years,
Lies where the moonbeams kiss his brow!
Oh! ye who never shed warm tears,
Come gaze-and shed them now.
See where the bullet pierced him through,
And laid him in the pool of gore!
Upon his brow the pearly dew
Of life will settle there no more.
This lad, he left his vine-clad hills
To seek the treacherous battle-plain,
Where flows the blood like mountain rills
From many a stalwart hero slain!
He was the first within the 'fray,
The dash, the charge, or fight,
But now his brow of marble clay
In death is ashy, cold and white.
Alas! that cruel death should take
The life that filled his noble breast,
And sad that such a heart should break
To take its last and only rest.
When parents watch for his return,
His vine-clad hills among,
O! how their hearts will beat and burn
To learn that he will ne'er come home.
Alas! I wonder if that heart will break
Within his aged mother's breast,
When she shall learn her son's sad fate,
And where he takes his lonely rest?
Alas! for her, the gentle maid,
Who lonely waits his fond return!
She soon shall know that 'neath the shade,
The pine tree is her lover's urn.
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