YES, MY BOY, THE BATTLE'S OVER.

BATTLE OF LITTLE RED RIVER, ARK.,
MAY 18TH, '62.

YES, my boy, the battle's over :

Brave men, by thousands, have been slain;
Your father's one, among the number;
We shall not see him here again;

He is well, but is not wounded,
Still he's one among the slain;
Yet the battle brings us sadness
To know he'll never come again.

Yes, dear Son, I'm always sighing
Of what I in the paper read;
You ask me: why I now am crying,
And why this cap is on my head?
You say, dear child, I cannot tell you,
Because you think your father's slain;
We know he loved us very dearly,
But he will never come again.

Yes, mother, my noble father,

It breaks my heart to think he's slain; Though, on earth, we shall not see him, In Heaven, I hope we'll meet again; His name will always be remembered

By those true Patriots to his cause, The cause of God and our dear Country; For, many loved ones now are gone.

ANONYMOUS.

THE MOTHERS OF 1862.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF BOTTOM'S BRIDGE, VA.,

Now there's our Roger, strong and stout, He'd beat his comrades out and out In feats of strength and skill-what then?

What then? why, only this: you see

He's made out of just that sort of stuff They want on battle-fields; enough! What choice was left for him and me?

So when he asked me yesterweek,

"Your blessing, mother!"-did I heed The great sob of my heart, or need Another word that he should speak?

Should I sit down and mope and croon,
And hug my selfishness and cry
"Not him, my first-born!"-no, not I!
Thank heaven I pipe a nobler tune.

And yet, I love him like my life,

This stalwart, handsome lad of mine! I'll warrant me, he'll take the shine Off half who follow drum and fife.

Now, God forgive, how I prate!
Ah, but the MOTHER will leap out
Whatever folds we wrap about
Our foolish hearts, or soon or late.

No doubt 'tis weakness-mother lip
Extolling its own flesh and blood-
A trick of weakly womanhood

That we should scourge with thong and whip.

No doubt—and yet I should not dare
Lay an unloved, cheap offering
Upon my country's shrine, nor bring
Aught but was noble sweet and fair.

And so I bring my boy-too glad
That he is worthy, and that I,
Who bore him once in agony,
Such glorious recompense have had.

Take him, my country! he is true

And brave and good; his deeds will tell More than my foolish words-'tis well; God's love be with the lad and you.

God's love and care-and when he comes

Back from the war, and through the street The crazy people flock to meet

My hero, with great shouts, and drums.

And silver trumpets braying loud,
And silken banners, starry, gay;
"Twill be to me no prouder day
Than this; nay, not half so proud.

And if God help me-if, instead

They flash this word from some red field;

"His brave sweet soul that would not yield Leaped upward, and they wrote him 'dead'”

-I'll turn my white face to the wall,
And bear my grief as best I may,
For Roger's sake, and only say,
"He knoweth best who knoweth all."

And when the neighbors come to weep,
Saying "Alas the bitter blow!"
I'll answer, Nay, dear friends, not so!
Better my Roger's hero sleep,

And nobler far such lot, than his

Who dare not strike, with heart and hand,
For Freedom and dear Fatherland,

Where death's dark missiles crash and whiz.

And Roger's mother has no tear

So bitter as her tears would be,

If from the battles of the free Her son shrank back in craven fear.

CAROLINE A. MASON.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF FRONT ROYAL.

MAY 24TH, '62.

I WANDERED o'er a battle-field,

One of a thousand such, or more, That blot the land. The trampled turf Was red and wet with slippery gore.

I scarce could pick my path among

The heaps of slaughtered men and brutes, Piled thick around me everywhere,

The bloody battle's rotting fruits.

And these were all-these broken things
Were all the fruits the battle had.

It was for this a thousand died;

For this ten thousand hearts are sad. No longer foemen, blues and grays

Lay stretched as they were stabbed or shot,

Whoever gained a victory there,

'Twas very plain that these did not.

They by the stoutest of all foes

Were stricken and were gathered in, A foe who wears no shoulder-straps, Whose triumphs need no bulletin. Two years ago, how full of life,

And strength, and hope, were all these dead!

How fresh and green this battle-field,

'Ere brother's blood had dyed it red!