When on the fervid air there came

A strain, now rich, now tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day's departing splendor.

A Federal band, which, eve and morn,
Played measures brave and nimble,
Had just struck up with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks;
Till, margined by its pebbles,

One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"
And one was gray with "Rebels."

Then all was still; and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with "Dixie."

The conscious stream, with burnished glow,
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause; and then again

The trumpets pealed sonorous,

And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew
To kiss the shining pebbles;

Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue

Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugles rang

Above the stormy riot;

No shout upon the evening rang

There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,

All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees,

As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.

But Memory, waked by Music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart-
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines-
That bright, celestial creature,

Who still, 'mid War's embattled lines,

Gave this one touch of Nature.

John Reuben Thompson [1823-1873]

Larry an' Barry an' me;

Nothin' to see but the sky an' the plain,
Nothin' to see but the drivin' rain,

Nothin' to see but the painted Sioux,
Galloping, galloping: "Whoop-whuroo!
The divil in yellow is down in the mud!"
Sez Larry to Barry, "I'm losin' blood."

"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;
"Second Dragoons!" groans Larry;
Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop!
Whoop! ye divils-ye've got to whoop;
Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I—
"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"

All alone on the hillside

Larry an' Barry an' me;

Flat on our bellies, an' pourin' in lead-
Seven rounds left, an' the horses dead-
Barry a-cursin' at every breath;

Larry beside him, as white as death;

Indians galloping, galloping by,

Wheelin' and squealin' like hawks in the sky!

"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry; "Second Dragoons!" groans Larry; Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop! Whoop! ye divils—ye've got to whoop; Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"

All alone on the hillside

Larry an' Barry an' me;

Two of us livin' and one of us dead

Shot in the head, and God!-how he bled! "Larry's done up," sez Barry to me; "Divvy his cartridges! Quick! gimme three!" While nearer an' nearer an' plainer in view, Galloped an' galloped the murderin' Sioux.

Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;

"Cheer-" an' he falls on Larry. Alas! alas! for Egan's Grey Troop!

The Red Sioux, hovering stoop to swoop;

Two out of three lay dead, while I

Cheered for the troop that never shall die.

All alone on the hillside

Larry an' Barry an' me;

An' I fired an' yelled till I lost my head,
Cheerin' the livin, cheerin' the dead,
Swingin' my cap, I cheered until

I stumbled and fell.

Then over the hill

There floated a trumpeter's silvery call,

An' Egan's Grey Troop galloped up, that's all.

Drink to the Greys,-an' Barry!
Second Dragoons,-an' Larry!

Here's a bumper to Egan's Grey Troop!

Let the crape on the guidons droop;
Drink to the troopers who die, while I
Drink to the troop that never shall die!
Robert William Chambers [1865-

DANNY DEEVER

“WHAT are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. "To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on

Parade.

"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Color-Sergeant said.

For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can 'ear the Dead March play,

The regiment's in 'ollow square-they're hangin' him to-day;

They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Fileson-Parade.

"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Fileson-Parade.

"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Color-Sergeant said.

They're hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,

They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;

An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound

O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

"Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Color-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Color-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,

For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'-you must look 'im in the face;

Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard fur life," the Color-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-onParade.

"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Color-Sergeant said.

For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,

The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,

After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

Rudyard Kipling [1865

GUNGA DIN

You may talk o' gin an' beer

When you're quartered safe out 'ere,

An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter