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MUSIC OF THE WAR Soul Stirring Songs That Inspired the Soldiers PRODUCT OF FERVID PATRIOTISM Sentimental, Humorous and Purely Patriotic – The Authors of “The Battle Cry of Freedom”, “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, “My Maryland” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag” The songs of a nation are among the
most enduring of its memories, and in times of war are the most potent of its
moral influences. Frenchmen are moved
by “The Marseillaise,” Germans are aroused to fighting enthusiasm by “The Watch
on the Rhine,” Englishmen have marched to battle singing “Rule Britannia” and
“God Save the Queen,” and we have all read how “Annie Laurie,” begun by a
sentinel at his post, swept in grand chorus through the British camp in front
of Sevastopol. The favorite Italian is
known as “The Garibaldian Hymn” while we Americans recognize the loftiest and
purest patriotism in the stirring measures of our own “Star Spangled Banner.” Nevertheless it is noteworthy that
no great war song ever has been written by a great poet. Its melody and verse have been rather the
inspired product of fervid patriotism than of the studied effort of
genius. During the first three years of
the late war thousands of verses were composed by earnest men and women in both
the north and south, but how few among these winged messengers of the brain
survive! There were lyrics that timed
the march to battle, war slogans that rang out like the inspiring rat-a-tat of
a drum and elegies that recited the virtues of the hero dead, yet the memory of
most of them passed away with the generation that saw their birth. Of those that have lingered longest and bid
fair to become a permanent heritage of the struggle brief mention may be here
made. Opinions will vary as to the degree
of their popularity or order of merit, but several will always retain their old
ring and make the pulse beat faster wherever veterans of the war are
assembled. No one, for instance, will
deny a place of honor to “The Battle Cry of Freedom.” It was one of several songs written
by George F. Root, a composer and publisher of many other beautiful songs and
ballads prior to 1861, and was first sung by the celebrated Hutchinson family
at a mass meeting in the city of New York.
Mr. Root was born in Sheffield, Mass., Aug. 30, 1820, and as an evidence
of his virility the incident may be related that as recently as January of the
present year, at a mili-tary establishment in Chicago, the venerable maker of
the verse and music, gray and in a strong voice sang his own patriotic rallying
song. At the end of each verse he was
cheered to the echo, and not content with that the audience took the words out
of the mouths of the army of singers and joined enthusiastically in the chorus. The story has been printed that
during the desperate fight in the Wilderness, May 6, 1864, a Federal command
was driven back in disorder with heavy loss.
Reforming, it prepared once more to confront the enemy. At this mo-ment some of the men of the Forty-fifth
Penn-sylvania began to sing: We’ll
rally round the flag, boys, rally once again. The refrain was taken up by other
regi-ments in line of battle, and, with recovered spirits, the previously
disheartened boys dashed back into the thick of the fight. The original words are as follows: Yes, we’ll rally round the
flag, boys, We’ll rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom. We will rally from the
hillside, We will rally from the
plain, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom CHORUS The Union forever! Hurrah, boys, hurrah! Down with the traitors, up
with the stars, While we rally round the
flag, boys, Rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom. We are springing to the call Of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom, And we’ll fill the vacant
ranks With a million freemen more, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom. We are marching to the
field, boys, Going to the fight, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom, And we’ll bear the glorious
stars Of the Union and the right, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom. If we fall amid the fray,
boys, We will face them to the
last, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom, And our comrades brave shall
hear us As we are rushing past, Shouting the battle cry of
freedom. Another of the numerous war songs
written by Mr. Root and which acquired a popu-larity that has not yet passed
away is known wherever the English language is spoken is: “TRAMP,
TRAMP, TRAMP THE BOYS ARE MARCHING.” In the prison cell I sit, Thinking, mother, dear, of
you, And our bright and happy
home so far away, And the tears they fill my
eyes, Spite of all that I can do, Though I try to cheer my
comrades and be gay. CHORUS Tramp, tramp, tramp, the
boys are marching; Cheer up, comrades, they
will come, And beneath the starry flag We shall breathe the air
again Of the free land in our own
beloved home. In the battle front we stood When their fiercest charge
they made, And they swept us off, a
hundred men or more, But before we reached their
lines They were beaten back,
dismayed, And we heard the cry of
vict’ry o’er and o’er. So within the prison cell We are waiting for the day That shall come to open wide
the iron door, And the hollow eye grows
bright, And the poor heart almost
gay, As we think of seeing home
and friends once more. In a different strain, but with a
pathos that endeared the song to thousands of house-holds as well as the boys
in camp, the same composer wrote: “JUST
BEFORE THE BAT-TLE, MOTHER.” Just before the battle,
mother, I am thinking most of you. While upon the field we’re
watching With the enemy in view, Comrades brave around me lying, Filled with thoughts of home
and God, For well they know that on
the morrow Some will sleep beneath the
sod. CHORUS Farewell, mother, you may
never Press me to your heart
again, Oh, you’ll not forget me,
mother, If I’m numbered with the
slain. Oh, I long to see you,
mother, And the loving ones at home, But I’ll never leave our
banner Till in honor I can come. Tell the traitors all around
you That their cruel words we
know, In every battle kill our
soldiers By the help they give the
foe. Hark, I hear the bugle
sounding, ‘Tis the signal for the
fight. Now, may God protect us,
mother, As he ever does the right. Hear the “Battle Cry of
Freedom,” How it swells upon the air! Oh, yes, we’ll rally round
the standard Or perish nobly there. “JOHN BROWN’S BODY.” After the execution of John Brown at
Harper’s Ferry, in December, 1859, a song was adopted that speedily became a
part of the marching music of the armies of the north. Its catchy phrases were not only familiar
around the firesides of the country, but in all public gather-ings where music
was wont to inspire the multi-tude. It
relieved the tedium of camp life, and as it resounded through the columns of
men tramping patiently along the dusty highways it lightened the weariness of
their footsteps. It is said that the words, with the
excep-tion of the first stanza, were written by Mr. Charles S. Hall of
Massachusetts, but long be-fore the war the air, wedded to other words, was
familiar on every plantation in the south.
It was the favorite camp meeting melody of the Negroes and few
spectacles were more inspiring than when, with grotesque gestures, they joined
in singing (the women first): Say, my brudders, will we
meet yo’? Say, my brudders, will we
meet yo’? Say, my brudders, will we
meet yo’? On Ca-ni-yun’s happy sho’? Then
the men responding: Ya-a-s, my sistern, we will
meet yo’, Ya-a-s, my sistern, we will
meet yo’, Ya-a-s, my sistern, we will
meet yo’, Where partin’ is no mo’. CHORUS Glory, glory,
hallelujer! Glory, glory, hallelujer! Glory, glory,
hallelujer! On Ca-ni-yun’s happy sho’. The
war song is as follows: John Brown’s body lies
a-mouldering in the grave, John Brown’s body lies
a-mouldering in the grave, John Brown’s body lies
a-mouldering in the grave, His soul is marching on. CHORUS Glory,
halle-halleluiah! Glory,
halle-halleluiah! Glory, halle-halleluiah! His soul is marching on! He’s gone to be a soldier in
the army of the Lord He’s gone to be a soldier in
the army of the Lord He’s gone to be a soldier in
the army of the Lord His soul is marching on. John Brown’s knapsack is
strapped upon his back John Brown’s knapsack is
strapped upon his back John Brown’s knapsack is
strapped upon his back His soul is marching on. His pet lambs will meet him
on the way His pet lambs will meet him
on the way His pet lambs will meet him
on the way As they go marching on. We will hang Jeff Davis to a
sour apple tree We will hang Jeff Davis to a
sour apple tree We will hang Jeff Davis to a
sour apple tree As they go marching on. Now, three cheers for the
Union Now, three cheers for the
Union Now, three cheers for the
Union As we are marching on. Glory,
halle-halleluiah! Glory,
halle-halleluiah! Glory, halle-halleluiah! Hip, hip, hip, hurrah! “THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE
REPUBLIC” For loftiness of sentiment “The
Battle Hymn of the Republic” will easily take rank with the grandest of our
martial songs. Having been sung many
times during the war, and under a variety of circumstances, a description of
the manner in which it was composed by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe will be of
interest. Being in Washington near the end of
the year 1861, she witnessed a review of the Union troops on the Virginia side
of the Potomac and was deeply impressed by her experience. In the return journey to the city a number
of war songs were sung among others, “John Brown’s Body,” whereupon one of the
party suggested that so grand a melody deserved more worthy words, and that she
should write them That night, while Mrs. Howe was
rest-ing, she thought out line after line and verse af-ter verse of “The Battle
Hymn of the Republic,” and with the inspiration yet warm sprang from her bed
and committed the patriotic stanzas to paper.
They are as follows: Mine eyes have seen the
glory of the coming of the Lord. He is tramping out the vintage
where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful
lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the
watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening
dews and damps; I can read his righteous
sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel,
writ in burnished rows of steel; “As ye deal with my
contemners, so with ye my grace shall deal; Let the hero born of woman
crush the serpent with his heel,” Since God is marching on. He has sounded forth a
trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts
of men before his judgment seat. Oh, be swift, my soul, to
answer him; be jubilant, my feet, Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies
Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom
that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy,
let us die to make men free While God is marching on. “WE ARE COMING, FATHER
ABRAHAM” A stirring war song that was famous in its day and
generation, and which served its purpose at the time, was known by the above
title. It was in answer to the
proclamation of President Lincoln in 1862, calling for 300,000 volunteers to
swell the army, and it doubtless contributed to that result. At first the stanzas appeared
anony-mously in the New York Evening Post of July 16, 1862, and the authorship
was attributed to Julia Ward Howe.
Subsequently it became known that the author was Mr. James Sloane Gibbons,
a native of Wilmington, Del., but a resident of New York city. He was an ardent
abolitionist, and for at time was one of the editors of The Antislavery
Standard. The words are as follows: We are coming, Father
Abraham, Three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi’s winding
stream And from New England’s
shore. We leave our plows and
workshops, Our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for
utterance, With but a silent tear. We dare not look behind us, But steadfastly before – We are coming, Father
Abraham, Three hundred thousand more. CHORUS We are coming, we are
coming, Our Union to restore; We are coming, Father
Abraham, Three hundred thousand more; We are coming, Father
Abraham, Three hundred thousand more. If you look across the
hilltops That meet the northern sky, Long, moving lines of rising
dust Your vision may descry, And now the wind an instant Tears the cloudy veil aside And floats our spangled flag In glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight
gleam And bands brave music pour. We are coming, Father
Abraham, Three hundred thousand more. “MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA” Although written late in the war,
prob-ably no song commemorating the struggle or intended to inspire the troops
has a stronger foothold in the hearts of the people than “Marching Through
Georgia.” In the very melody is an
expression of enthusiasm that even after 30 years makes the song dear to the
hearts of the old soldiers and sets their feet to keeping time with the music. That the sentiment of the Grand Army of the
Republic is in its favor was well illustrated by an old backwoodsman in an Ohio
post. He was dressed, so the story
goes, in a faded suit of homespun, and his shaggy head was surmounted by a
greasy, broad brimmed hat. In his right
hand he was carrying a small sized cord
wood stick as a cane. But after he had
traveled a couple of miles it was plain that the strain was beginning to tell
on the old fellow. He was traveling at a
go-as-you-please rate, when his commander, anxious to make a good appearance
with his post on dress parade, stepped up to him and said, “Say, Tom, keep
step; you re throwing out the whole line.” “Cap, how kin a feller keep step to
that music!” he replied, pointing to the band leading the line with one of the
popular airs of the day. “Why don’t they
play something like this?” and he hummed, in a voice husky and scratchy and out
of tune, a strain from “Marching Through Georgia.” The captain laughed and turned away,
held a moment’s conversation with the leader of the band, and the introductory
notes of the next piece caused the old fellow to straighten up. His cudgel waved about like the baton on a
drum major, and a little later a thousand feet were coming down as one, the
fatigue of the march was forgotten, and a thousand voices were joined in the
rousing chorus. The words of the famous
song were written by Henry C. Work. He was born in Middletown, Conn., in 1832
and died in Hartford June 8, 1884: Bring the good old bugle,
boys, We’ll sing another song – Sing it with a spirit That will start the world
along- Sing it as we used to sing
it, Fifty thousand strong – While we’re marching through
Georgia. CHORUS Hurrah! Hurrah! We sing the jubilee! Hurrah! Hurrah! The flag that makes us free! So we sang the chorus, from
Atlanta to the sea, While we were marching
through Georgia. How the darkies shouted When they heard the joyful
sound! How the turkeys gobbled Which our commissary found! How the sweet potatoes even Started from the ground While we were marching
through Georgia! “Sherman’s dashing Yankee
boys Will never reach the coast!” So the saucy rebels said, And ‘twas a handsome boast, Had they not forgot, alas, To reckon with the host, While we were marching
through Georgia. So we made a thoroughfare For freedom and her train, Sixty miles in latitude, Three hundred to the main. Treason fled before us, For resistance was in vain, While we were marching
through Georgia. “WHEN JOHNNIE COMES MARCHING
HOME.” A favorite among the boys in the
army as well as in the social circles at home is known far and near by the
above title. The song was written by
the late Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore, famous as the leader of the band which
bears his name. It has also been
ascribed to Mr. Louis Lambert. Whatever
may be the merit of the words, however, the song owes its popularity to the
rollicking tune that has long been known as “Johnny, Fill Up the Bowl:” When Johnnie comes marching
home again, Hurrah! Hurrah! We’ll give him a hearty
welcome then, Hurrah! Hurrah! The men will cheer, the boys
will shout, The ladies they will all
turn out, And we’ll all feel gay When Johnny comes marching
home. The old church bell will
peal with joy, Hurrah! Hurrah! To welcome home our darling
boy, Hurrah! Hurrah! The village lads and lasses
gay, With roses they will strew
the way, And we’ll all feel gay When Johnny comes marching
home. SONGS OF AFFECTION. Brief reference has been made to
“Annie Laurie” as a sentimental song that became popu-lar in the English army
during the Crimean war. So, during our
own struggle, pathetic words were allied to touching music and sung around the
campfires and domestic firesides. One
of those, “Tenting on the Old Camp Ground,” is still remembered by the old
soldiers both of the north and south, and may yet be heard in many a home
circle. It was composed by Walter
Kitt-redge, who was born in Merrimac, N.H., Oct. 8, 1832, and known as a public
singer and writer of songs and ballads.
Having been to the front when the words and music occurred to him, and
in a few minutes he transcribed them to paper.
At first the song was refused by music publish-ers, but it is said that
when published its sale reached hundreds of thousands of copies: “TENTING ON THE OLD CAMP
GROUND.” We’re tenting tonight on the
old camp ground. Give us a song to cheer Our weary hearts – a song of
home And friends we love so dear. CHORUS Many are the hearts that are
weary tonight, Wishing for the war to
cease. Many are the hearts looking
for the right, To see the dawn of peace. Tenting tonight, tenting
tonight, Tenting on the old camp
ground. We’ve been tenting tonight
on the old camp ground Thinking of days gone by, Of the loved ones at home
that gave us the hand And the ear that said
“goodbye.” We are tired of war on the
old camp ground. Many are dead and gone Of the brave and true who
left their homes; Others have been wounded
long. We’ve been fighting today on
the old camp ground. Many are lying near; Some are dead and some are
dying; Many are in tears. Among the authors of the time was
the late Charles C. Sawyer of Brooklyn, to whom we are indebted for the
following, which quickly found its way across the lines and became popu-lar in
the south. It was written in the autumn
of 1861, and more than 1,000,000 copies have been sold: “WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS
OVER.” Dearest love, do you
remember When we last did meet, How you told me that you
loved me, Kneeling at my feet? Oh, how proud you stood
before me, In your suit of blue, When you vowed to me and
country Ever to be true. CHORUS Weeping, sad and lonely, Hopes and fears, how vain! Yet praying, when this cruel
war is over, Praying that we meet again! When the summer breeze is
sighing Mournfully along, Or when autumn leaves are
falling, Sadly breathes the song. Oft in dreams I see thee
lying On the battle plain, Lonely, wounded, even dying, Calling, but in vain. “WHO WILL CARE FOR MOTHER
NOW?” Why am I so weak and weary? See how faint my heated
breath. All round to me seems
darkness. Tell me, comrades, is this
death? Ah, how well I know your
answer! To my fate I meekly bow, If you’ll only tell me truly Who will care for mother
now? CHORUS Soon with angels I’ll be
marching, With bright laurels on my
brow; I have for my country
fallen. Who will care for mother
now? Who will comfort her in
sorrow? Who will dry the falling tear
– Gently smooth her wrinkled
forehead? Who will whisper words of
cheer? Even now I think I see her Kneeling, praying for me –
how Can I leave her in anguish? Who will care for mother
now? Let this knapsack be my
pillow, And my mantle be the sky. Hasten, comrades, to the
battle, I will like a soldier die. Soon with angels I’ll be
marching, With bright laurels on my
brow. I have for my country
fallen. Who will care for mother
now? Other touching songs of affection
that belong to this group are “Mother, I’ve Come Home to Die,” “Brothers Fainting at the Door,” and “The
Vacant Chair.” The latter, by Henry S.
Washburn, is still a favorite throughout the country: THE VACANT CHAIR. We shall meet, but we shall
miss him; There will be one vacant
chair; We shall linger to caress
him While we breathe our evening
prayer. When, a year ago, we
gathered, Joy was in his mild blue
eye, But a golden chord is
severed, And our hopes in ruins lie. CHORUS – We shall meet, etc. At our fireside, sad and
lonely, Often will the bosom swell At remembrance of the story How our noble soldier fell – How he strove to bear our
banner Through the thickest of the
fight And upheld our country’s
honor In the strength of manhood’s
might. True, they tell us wreaths
of glory Evermore will deck his brow, But this soothes the anguish
only Sweeping o’er our
heartstrings now. Sleep today, O early fallen, In they green and narrow
bed! Dirges from the pine and
cypress Mingle with the tears we
shed. Among the songs commemorative of the
death of Colonel Ephraim E. Ellsworth was the following: “DEATH OF ELLSWORTH.” Down where the patriot army, Near Potomac’s side, Guards the glorious cause of
freedom, Gallant Ellsworth died. Brave was the noble
chieftain, Who at his country’s call Hastened to the field of
battle And was the first to fall. CHORUS Strike, freemen, for the
Union; Sheathe your swords no more While remains in arms a
traitor On Columbia’s shore. First to fall, thou youthful
martyr, Hapless was thy fate; Hasten we as they avengers From thy native state. Speed we on from town to
city, Not for wealth or fame, But because we love the
Union And our Ellsworth’s name. HUMOR IN SONG. Humor had its place among the war
songs as well as sentiment and martial spirit.
Henry C. Work, the author of “Marching Through Georgia,” wrote: GRAFTED INTO THE ARMY Our Jimmy has gone to live
in a tent; They have grafted him into
the army. He finally puckered up
courage and went When they grafted him into
the army. I told them the child was
too young. Alas, At the captain’s
forequarters they said he would pass – They’d train him up well in
the infantry class – So they grafted him into the
army. CHORUS Oh, Jimmy, farewell! Your brothers fell Way down in Alabarmy; I thought they would spare a
lone widder’s heir, But they grafted him into
the army. Dressed up in his unicorn,
dear little chap! They have grafted him into
the army. It seems but a day since he
sat on my lap, But they have grafted him
into the army. And these are the trousies
he used to wear – Them very same buttons – the
patch and the tear But Uncle Sam gave him a
grand new pair When they grafted him into
the army. Rhymesters in the army were not only
numerous, but never without a theme.
Some-times it concerned a company, at others a regi-ment or
brigade. For instance, a certain
Chicago company, having distinguished itself at Shiloh, adopted a song the
refrain of which, sung to the rollicking air, “The Leg of a Duck,” announced to
their comrades that Company K has shown the way, Bully for you! Bully for you! Your turn’s coming some
other day, Bully for you! Bully for you! Every popular tune in vogue was
appro-priated that suited the passing whim of the mer-ry soldiers. “Oh Dear, What Can the Matter Be” “Vive l’ Amour,” “We Won’t Go Home Till
Morning,” “Such a Climbing Up Stairs,” “Phila-delphia Gals, Won’t You Come Out
Tonight?” “Shoo Fly,” “Old Uncle Ned” and a score of others are members of this
family. Here is one of the favorites
sung to the tune of “The Low Back Car,” by Miles O’Reilly: “SAMBO AS A SOLDIER.” Some tell us it is a burning
shame To make the naygurs fight, And that the trade of being
kilt, Belongs to but the white. But as for me, upon my sowl, So liberal are we here I’ll let Sambo be murthered
in place of myself On every day in the year. CHORUS On every day in the year,
boys, And every hour in the day, The right to be kilt I’ll
divide with him, And divil a word I’ll say! The men who object to Sambo Should take his place and
fight, And it’s better to have a
naygur’s hue Than a liver that’s wake and
white. Though Sambo’s black as the
ace of spades, His fingers a thrigger can
pull; And his eye runs straight on
the barrel sights From under his thatch of
wool. CHORUS So hear me all, boys,
darlings, Don’t think I’m tipping you
chaff, The right to be kilt I’ll
divide wid him, And give him the largest
half. “The
Year of Jubilee” was an especial favorite and many a time has beguiled the boys
on their march: “THE YEAR OF JUBILEE” Say, darkies, hab you seen
de massa, Wid de muffstash in his
face, Go long de road some time
dis morning Like he’s gwine to leave de
place? He seen de smoke way up de
ribber, Where de Lincum gunboats
lay; He took his hat, an he lef’
berry sudden, An I specs he’s runned away. CHORUS De massa run, ha, ha! De darky stay, ho, ho! It must be now de kingdom
comin An de y’ar eb jubilee. He’s six foot one way, two
foot tudder, An he weighs t’ree hundred
poun; His coat so big he couldn’t
pay de tailor, An it won’t reach half way
roun. He drills so much dey calls
him cap’n, An he gits so mighty tanned, I specs he’ll try to fool
dem Yankees For to t’ink he’s
contraband. De darkies got so lonesome
libbin In de log hut on de lawn, Dey moved dere t’ings in de
massa’s parlor For to keep it while he’s
gone. Dar’s wine and cider in de
kitchen, An de darkeies dey hab some. I specs it will all be
‘fiscated When de Lincum sojers come. De oberseer, he make us
trouble, An he dribes us round a
spell, We lock him up in the
smokehouse cellar, Wid de key flung in de well. De whip is lost, de lian’
cuff broke, But de massa hab his pay. He’s big an ole enough for
to know better Dan to went an run away. “OLD SHADY” Oh, yah, yah, darkies, laugh
wid me, Fur de white folks say Ole
Shady’s free, So don’t you see dat de
jubilee Is a-coming, coming – Hail
mighty day! CHORUS Den away, away, fur I can’t
wait any longer, Hooray, hooray, I’m going
home! Oh, mass’ got scared and so
did his lady, Dis chile breaks fur Ole
Uncle Aby; “Open de gates, out here’s
Old Shadey A-coming, coming” – Hail mighty
day! Goodby, Mass’ Jeff, goodby
Mis’r Stephens, ‘Sense dis niggah fur takin
his leavins, ‘Spect purty soon you’ll
hear Uncle Abram’s A-coming, coming – Hail
mighty day! Oh, I’ve got a wife and I’ve
got a baby, Livin up yonder in Lower
Canady, Won’t dey laugh when dey see
Ole Shady A-coming, coming – Hail
might day! SONGS OF THE SOUTH. With the advent of war, poetry and
song began in one shape or another to find their themes throughout the south –
the woman at her hearthstone and the soldier in the field; to repre-sent all
aspects of popular feeling – the enthu-siasm of victory, the despondency of
defeat, the pride that exulted in the hero and the grief that mourned his loss. Three distinctive songs, however,
quick-ly became sectional and were adopted as expressive of the popular feeling
– “Dixie,” “My Maryland,” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag.” The history of each is interesting, especially that of the first,
which appears to have taken a place with “The Star Spangled Banner” and “Yankee
Doodle.” Its author is Dan Emmett, who
still lives at the ripe old age of 79.
Recently, being asked to relate the circumstances of its composi-tion,
he said: “In the spring of 1859 I was in
the emply of the Bryant minstrels in New York, at 472 Broadway, and my particular
business was to invent ‘walk arounds.’
One Saturday night, Jerry Bryant came to me and asked if I couldn’t
write a ‘hurrah’ – something to make a noise with and get the people stirred
up. I told him I thought I could. Sunday being a rainy day, I remained at home
and composed what I then named ‘I Wish I Was In Dixie’s Land.’ Nobody ever knew how it came to be called
‘Dixie.’ Well, Jerry was so delighted
with it that he made us rehearse all day Monday for the evening’s
performance. The song was a ‘go’ right
from the start. Bands played it. Musical people in Cincinnati, Louisville and
New Orleans ‘crib-bed’ it, and lawsuits followed until Firth & Pond
published it under my own name and so settled the dispute as to
authorship.” It was first sung in New
Orleans in 1860, the original words, from which all other versions sprang,
being as follows: I wish I was in the land ob
cotton; Old times dar am not
forgotten; Look away, look away, look
away, Dixie land. In Dixie land, whar I was
born in, Early on one frosty morning, Look away, look away, look
away, Dixie land. Den I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray, hooray! In Dixie land I’ll took my
stand To lib and die in Dixie. Away, away, away down south
in Dixie; Away, away, away down south
in Dixie. Old missus marry “Will de
weaber,” William was a gay deceaber; Look away, etc. But when he put his arms
around ‘er, He smiled as fierce as a
forty pounder; Look
away, etc. Den I wish I was in Dixie,
etc. His face was sharp as a
butcher’s cleaber, But dat did not seem to
greatly greab ‘er; Look away,
etc. Old missus acted the foolish
part, And died for the man who
broke her heart; Look away, etc. Den I wish I was in Dixie,
etc. Now, here’s health to the
next old missus, And all the gals that want
to kiss us; Look away, etc. But if you want to drive
away sorrow, Come and hear dis nig
tomorrow; Look away, etc. Den I wish I was in Dixie,
etc. Dar’s buckwheat cakes and
Ingen batter, Makes you fat or a little
fatter; Look away, etc. Den hoe it down and scratch
your grabble; To Dixie’s land I’m bound to
trabble; Look away, etc. Den I wish I was in Dixie,
etc. When the war broke out, other lines
were written to fit the measure, and the stirring melody at once became the
chief war song of the south. It is said
that President Lincoln requested a band to play “Dixie” in 1865, a short time
after the surrender of Appomattox, remarking that “as we had captured the rebel
army we had captured also the rebel tune.” Of “My Maryland,” which James
Rus-sell Lowell pronounced the finest poem inspired by the civil war, the
following story is told: It was in
April, 1861, that James R. Randall, a native Marylander, then in Louisiana,
published “An Exiled Son’s Appeal” to his mother state to cast her fortunes
with the seceding common-wealths of the south.
Political feeling in Mary-land at the time was intense. The residence of Colonel William Miles Cary
was one of the many centers of Confederate feeling among the patrician element
of the population, the greater portion of which was ardently in sympathy with
the secession movement. It was here, one even-ing in June, 1861, during the
meeting of a musi-cal club, that Miss Hettie Cary, one of the daughters,
suggested that the words of “My Maryland” should be adapted to some music. In order to make the suggestion more
impressive she recited the poem. In a
moment Miss Jenny Cary, her sister, exclaimed as if inspired, “Lauriger
Horatius!” the well known college song that has resounded from the musical
throat of almost every college boy.
Thus the words found voice in the great hymn that has since been heard
around the world. A few months later a memorable scene
occurred at Manassas. While visiting
friends in the army the two sisters were serenaded by the now celebrated
Washington artillery of New Or-leans.
When the band ceased playing, one of the officers exclaimed, “Let’s hear
a woman’s voice.” Miss Jenny Cary,
standing, in the tent door, thereupon sang “My Maryland.” The refrain was speedily taken up by
hundreds of the southern soldiers, and from that moment the verses lived and
grew into power. It was the birth of
the song in the army. As the words may
not now be generally remembered, they are re-peated here: The despot’s heel is on thy
shore, Maryland! His touch is at thy temple
door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flocked the streets of
Baltimore, And be the battle queen of
yore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to thy wandering son’s
appeal, Maryland! My mother state! To thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe
and weal, Thy peerless chivalry
reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs
with steel, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not cower in the
dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall
never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll’s sacred
trust, Remember Howard’s warlike
thrust, And all thy slumbers with
the just, Maryland, my Maryland! Come, for they shield is
bright and strong, Maryland! Come, for thy dalliance does
thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic
throng That stalks with liberty
along, And give a new key to thy
song, Maryland, my Maryland I see the blush upon thy
cheek, Maryland! But thou wast ever bravely
meek, Maryland! But, lo, there surges forth
a shriek! From hill to hill, from
creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the
Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his
control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee
roll, Better the blade, the shot,
the bowl, Than crucifixion of the
soul, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder
hum, Maryland! The old line’s bugle, fife
and drum, Maryland! She is not dead nor deaf nor
dumb – Huzza, she spurns the
northern scum! She breathes, she
burns! She’ll come, she’ll come! Maryland, my Maryland! Next to “Dixie” in its power of
arousing enthusiasm and as a marching song is “The Bonnie Blue Flag.” I is a singular coincidence that, like
“Dixie,” it was written and first pro-duced on the stage, and both were presented
to the southern people in New Orleans.
The com-poser was an Irish Comedian, the late Harry Macarthy. A single verse will convey an idea both of
its spirit and swinging movement: We are a band of brothers
and native to the soil, Fighting for our liberty with
treasure, blood and toil, And when our rights were
threatened the cry rose near and far – Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue
Flag that bears a single star. CHORUS Hurrah, hurrah, for southern
rights hurrah! Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue
Flag that bears a single star. Many minor songs were written in
vari-ous parts of the south during the war, but all were adapted to familiar
melodies.
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