The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 10

A NEGRO MELODY.

The sun s.h.i.+nes bright in the old Kentucky Home; 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day.

The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy and bright; By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door,-- Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady, Oh, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home, For the old Kentucky Home, far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the c.o.o.n, On the meadow, the hill, and the sh.o.r.e; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door.

The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow, where all was delight; The time has come when the darkies have to part,-- Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go; A few more days, and the trouble all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow.

A few more days for to tote the weary load,-- No matter, 'twill never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road,-- Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady, Oh, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home, For the old Kentucky Home, far away.

S.C. FOSTER.

The Black Regiment.

Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread ma.s.s, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land;-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment.

Down the long, dusky line Teeth gleam, and eyeb.a.l.l.s s.h.i.+ne; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and h.e.l.l betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!"

Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment!

"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with b.l.o.o.d.y heel Over the cras.h.i.+ng steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,-- "Freedom! or leave to die!"

Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout; They gave their spirits out, Trusted the end to G.o.d, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood.

Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death; Praying--alas! in vain!-- That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty!

This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong.

Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true!

Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment.

G.H. BOKER.

Carolina.

The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines give shelter to his bands, Thy sons stand by with idle hands, Carolina!

He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy palm; Oh! who shall break thy craven calm, Carolina!

Thy ancient fame is growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds thy battle-hymn, Carolina!

Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, Carolina!

Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's heart, Carolina!

Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields, and fens, and meres Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, Carolina!

I hear a murmur as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina!

And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as, rolling to the land, An ocean broke upon thy strand, Carolina!

Shout! Let it reach the startled Huns!

And roar with all thy festal guns!

It is the answer of thy sons, Carolina!

H. TIMROD.

Dirge for a Soldier.

Close his eyes; his work is done!

What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley!

What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?

Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low!

Leave him to G.o.d's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by; G.o.d alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know!

Lay him low!

G.H. BOKER.