THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHES. ATTACK ON LEXINGTON, MO., THE dew laughs on the blossom'd grass, 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, 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- Now, soldiers, mow the rebels down Then home once more from tented plain, The whetting of the scythes! ANONYMOUS. MY MINIE RIFLE. AT THE FIGHT AT BALL'S CROSS ROADS, Va., August 30th, '61. THE finest friend I ever knew, And one with whom I dare not trifle, She gently rests upon my arm, And she is very fair to see, The most fastidious fancy suiting; Though used to many a firey spark, The heaviest load seems not to weigh ANONYMOUS. OUR DEAD SOLDIER BOY. AFTER THE REBEL ATTACK AT DENT CO., MO., He died before he had reached the field, Of the weeping mother that bore him, Not what is done but the wish and the will, When the strife is o'er in some future year, 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. HENRY MORFORD. DEAD IN HIS YOUTH. AT THE FIGHT at BOONE COURT HOUSE, VA., THE earliest ray of morn had brought The day that flushed the summer sky 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, See where the bullet pierced him through, Of life will settle there no more. This lad, he left his vine-clad hills To seek the treacherous battle-plain, He was the first within the 'fray, 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, O! how their hearts will beat and burn Alas! I wonder if that heart will break Who lonely waits his fond return! ANONYMOUS. |