To Carolina
From one of her sisters

Sister Carrie my dear,
I am sorry to hear
That you are intending to leave us,
They say it’s a fact
That your trunk is all packed,
And you hope by such conduct to greive us.

You have always been naughty,
And wilful and saucy,
Like a spoiled minx as you are,
So vain of your beauty,
Forgetful of duty
You owe to indulgent papa.

I’m sure you can’t say
You’ve not had your way
In each of our family broils,
While I vow and declare
You’ve had your full share
In each of the national spoils.

Just wait for a Season,
And listen to reason,
Nor beleive what your false lovers say
For their prayers and their sighs
And their flattering lies
Will bring you to ruin some day.

Though they promise so fair,
Gay deceivers they are,
From the one whom last evening you kissed;
To Hammond and Rhett
And chivalrous Kelt,
Orr, Memminger, Piekens, and Gist.

Some day, all forlorn,
Bedraggled and torn,
Like the prodigial Son in his need;
You will knock at the door,
And come home once more,
Nor venture again to Secede.

Now be warned of your fate
Before it’s too late,
Like a dear little innocent lamb,
Come out of your pet,
And do not forget
All the kindness of good Uncle Sam.

The Palmetto tree
No shelter will be
When the dark clouds of anarchy tower;
You will long for the rest
Of your own eagles nest,
And the strong arm of Federal power.

Then dear little Sis,
Now give me a kiss,
To make up these family jars;
Secession shall never
This Union dissever;
Hurrah! for the Stripes and the Stars.

The Letter
by Annie Bramble

A letter; Ah ‘tis a simple thing,
Yet much of joy or woe ‘twill bring -
When sealed and bordered black we know,
Before ‘tis open, it breathes of woe;
But if the seals be red and bright,
We haste to break it with delight,
To hear what friends and neighbours say,
And if they’ve missed us while away.
I remember well ‘twas the winter time,
(I little thought then to put it in rhyme),
The winds whistled loud - through the keyholes I know.
And the ground was thick with the falling snow
A heavy knock on the door I heard,
And my heart it fluttered like some poor bird;
We stood on the sill as he loudly said;
“A letter”! One glance! Ah! He was dead!
Yes; he who was dearer than life to me,
Had fallen while battling for liberty,
A lock of hair its folds compressed,
That a comrade severed at his request.
A year have passed away since then,
Since I lost my all-my gallant “Ben”,
Yet, even now I thrill with fear
Whenever the postman’s knock I hear.

A Welcome To The General
by Dr. Laurence Reynolds, Surgeon 63rd N. Y. Regt.

Welcome, welcome, back again,
Chieftain, famed for sword and pen;
Welcome, hero of the sword -
Speaker of the burning word.
Like branches from the strong oak cleft,
We pined - of thee, our trunk, bereft;
Chief, for whom so long we’ve prayed,
Welcome to your old Brigade!

You come, we wake from life’s long trance,
Our longing eyes with rapturous glance,
And our hearts by thy presence blest,
Bound to burst the beating breast.
Welcome, echoes the high heaven,
By our joyous cheering riven;
Swells the shout on hill and glade,
Welcome to your old Brigade!
While he moves our ranks along;
Wave the banners- beat the drums,
Again to us our chieftain comes;
Banners spread, to guard the night;
Banners famed in many a fight,
Again, for aye, your folds o’ershade
The victor chief and his Brigade!

Welcome to your countrymen,
Lord of sword, and tongue and pen,
You who made our suppliant race
Straight of knee, and proud of face,
Taught by thee, our spirits soared;
Into us thy soul was poured,
Till we to do, or die, were made -
The gallant Meagher and his Brigade!

We have missed thee in the feast,
Where thy words would thrill each breast
We have missed thee in the fight
Soul of fire, and arm of might.
Now, like sunbeam, bright and warm,
Thou comest to chase dark sorrow’s storm;
Oh, never may thy presence fade
Again, loved chief, from thy Brigade!

Not till, led by gallant Meagher,
We honorably end this war;
And this great nation be again
One from the North to Southern main,
Not till our gallant patriot band
On Erin’s soil in arms shall stand,
And all her silent tears shall fade
Before the march of our Brigade.

This green flag, which our cheers now fill,
Shall float in pride o’er Tara’s hill;
And, undisgraced by Saxon crown,
On Dublin castle shall look down.
In Old or New world’s righteous war
We ask no nobler chief than Meagher
And greet with hearts, joys fountains made,
Our hero to his old Brigade.

The Privilege of a Freeman

To speak his thoughts is every freeman’s right,
In peace and war, in council, and in fight.

The Empty Sleeve
Henry H. Meacham
Company E, 32nd Mass. Volunters
Disabled in front of Petersburg, Va.
June 22, 1864

Strangers, when the fight was fiercest
Where my comrades round me fell,
I was wounded in the trenches,
By the bursting of a shell.

Hundreds dead, all crushed and mangled,
Some in agony and pain;
Bit the very dust beneath them,
Soaked with life - blood of the slain.

It was not my fate to perish
In the storm of iron hail,
But, a mutilated soldier,
I have come to tell this tale.

That ten thousand are repeating,
Through our peaceful land today;
How they fought, and how they suffered,
In that din and deadly fray.

Mine is but a simple story,
And I need not to make it long.
Strangers, pardon, if I ask you
To buy a one - arm soldier’s song.

The Tale Of The One Armed
by W. E. Credesly

His form was straight as the pine, whose peak
Pierces the Southern clouds.
As children group when their grandsires speak
Of some fairy scene, or some goblin’s freak,
We stood in list’ning crowds.
His sleeve hung shrunken and loose by his side,
His forehead was pale and wan;
But he eyed the stump with a warrior’s pride,
And his narrative began;
And we heard him tell, as our watch-fire bright
Threw a smile on the frowning brow of night,
The tale of the one-armed man.

“Where Hudson’s waves, with liquid song
The rocky heights caress,
My native cot the rocks among
O’er-hangs their loveliness;
But Freedom’s shriek through the nation rang-
I left my home for the bugle’s clang-
Myself and brothers three;
Left my mother, whose silver hair
Pressed my breast as her farewell prayer
Arose to Heaven for me.

Her eyes were dim with falling tears;
A mother’s love, a mother’s fears,
Were swelling in her heart;
But said “Good-bye” for her will was steel,
Though her heart would show the struggle real
To see her boys depart;
Saw the hopes of her years, three-score,
Leave her hearth for the battle’s din;
Her greatest grief - she had but four
To aid the land their home was in.

“My eldest brother loved to roam
On the breast of the ocean wave;
The navy gave a sailor’s home,
And he sleeps in a sailor’s grave;
Died at his post in Hampton Bay,
Where Cumberland’s thunders were vain,
Deep in the wave her torn hulk lay,
But her flag still waved o’er the main.

“Three of us pitched our tents on the sand
Skirting Port Royal Bay,
And leaped with glee as we trod the land,
Grasping our steel with a freeman’s hand,
While waved our banner gay.
But swamp-winds, heavy with chilly death,
Swept through the air with poisonous breath,
Opening graves by the score.

The youngest one of our little flock
Never lived to feel the battle shock;
He sleeps ‘neath pine trees hoar-
Sleeps till the last dread trumpet’s blast
Wakes the dead from their silent rest,
As earthquakes, shaking mountains vast,
Disclose the gems that deck their breast.

“Week after week rolled slowly by,
Like clouds athwart the sun,
Our thoughts were stained with a gloomy dye-
We mourned the buried one.
With guard and picket, and midnight scout,
Through the swamps and woods around about,
We waited coming spring.
When we saw the sun with ruddy glow,
Gleam bright on the shores of Edisto,
Smiling our welcoming.

“Now waved our banner on James’ isle;
The amorous Zephyrs gave
It’s silken folds to the sunbeam’s smile,
Raising them close to Heaven e’erwhile
As the staff would let them wave.
Our soldiers stood in a long dark line-
No bullet was in our guns-
Waiting to hear from our chief the sign
Of moving the still columns.
The rebel cannon frowned black and grim,
On breastworks high and large,
And Stevens smiled as we heard from him
The shout, “Prepare to charge.”
Forward, through Minie and bursting shell,
Cleaving the air with our battle yell,
While shining bayonets
Poured forth like a wave on the breastwork’s slope,
Glistening and sparkling, and dashing up
O’er earthen parapets.
But, ah! we saw another force
Come hastening on our right;
We looked in vain for fresh supports
To aid us in the fight;
While ceaseless through our thinning ranks
Ran death-shots to and fro;
Back in the steps of our advance
Marched we sullen and slow,
While spurting blood and crashing bones,
With cries of pain and stifled groans,
Rang in that sad retreat.
While marching on by my brother’s side,
I saw him fall, while his life blood dyed
The grass beneath my feet;
Saw the last of my brothers three
Cross the stream to eternity.
I felt a pang at my shoulder, and memory failed me then
And many days passed o’er my head e’er reason reigned again.

Now with his dust stained blouse he swept
One shining tear away,
That softly on his lids had crept,
To hear the mournful lay;
Then slowly from our eager gaze
His stalwart form he bore,
And ‘neath our watchfire’s cheerful blaze
We saw his face no more.