The Thousand Thirty-Seven
by Private Miles O'Reilly
​
Three years ago today, we raised our hands to heaven
And on the rolls of muster, our names were thirty-seven
There were just a thousand bayonets,
and the swords were thirty-seven
As we took the oath of service
with our right hands raised to heaven
​
Oh ’twas a gallant day,
in memory still adored
That day of our sun-bright nuptials
with the musket and the sword

Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
and beneath a cloudless heaven
Twinkled a thousand bayonets, and the swords were thirty-seven
​
Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
two-hundred march today
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
and hundreds in Maryland clay

And other hundreds, less happy, drag
their shattered limbs around
And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep
of the battle-field’s holy ground
​
For the swords—one night, a week ago,
the remnant, just eleven
Gathered around a banqueting board
with seats for thirty-seven
There were two came in on crutches,
and two had each but a hand

To pour the wine and raise the cup
as we toasted “Our flag and land!”
​
And the room seemed filled with whispers
as we looked at the vacant seats

And, with choking throats, we pushed aside
the rich but untasted meats
Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,
as we stood up—just eleven
And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead

Who had made us THIRTY-SEVEN
The Lone Sentry
By James Ryder Randall
​
'Twas in the dying of the day the darkness grew so still
The drowsy pipe of evening birds was hushed upon the hill
Athwart the shadows of the vale slumbered the men of might
And one lone sentry paced his rounds to watch the camp that night
A grave and solemn man was he with deep and sombre brow
The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up some unaccomplished vow
The wistful glance peered o'er the plains beneath the starry light
And with the murmured name of God, he watched the camp that night
​
The future opened unto him its grand and awful scroll
Manassas and the Valley march came heaving o'er his soul
Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by with that tremendous fight
Which gave him to the angel hosts who watched the camp that night
We mourn for him who died for us with one resistless moan
While in the Valley of the Lord he marches to the throne
He kept the faith of men and saints, sublime and pure and bright
He sleeps -- and all is well with him, who watched the camp that night
​
Brothers! the midnight of the cause is shrouded in our fate
The demon Goths pollute our halls with fire and lust and hate
Be strong, be valiant, be assured -- strike home for Heaven and Right!
The soul of Jackson stalks abroad and guards the camp to-night
He’ll See It When He Wakes
By Frank Lee
​
Amid the clouds of battle smoke
The sun had died away
And where the storm of battle broke
A thousand warriors lay
A band of friends upon the field
Stood round a youthful form
Who, when the war cloud's thunder pealed
Had perished in the storm
Upon his forehead, on his hair
The coming moonlight breaks
And each dear brother standing there
A tender farewell takes
But ere they laid him in his home
There came a comrade near
And gave a token that had come
From her the dead held dear
A moment's doubt upon them pressed
Then one the letter takes
And lays it low upon his breast --
"He'll see it when he wakes."
0 thou who dost in sorrow wait
Whose heart in anguish breaks
Though thy dear message came too late
"He'll see it when he wakes."
No more amid the fiery storm
Shall his strong arm be seen
No more his young and manly form
Tread Mississippi's green
And e'en thy tender words of love --
The words affection speaks
Came all too late; but O thy love
Will "see them when he wakes!
No jars disturb his gentle rest
No noise his slumber breaks
But thy words sleep upon his breast --
"He'll see them when he wakes."
Marching Still
by Minna Irving
She is old, and bent, and wrinkled
In her rocker in the sun
And the thick, gray, woollen stocking
That she knits is never done
She will ask the news of battle
If you pass her when you will
For to her the troops are marching
Marching still.
Seven tall sons about her growing
Cheered the widowed mother's soul
One by one they kissed and left her
When the drums began to roll
They are buried in the trenches
They are bleaching on the hill
But to her the boys are marching
Marching still.
She was knitting in the corner
When the fatal news was read
How the last and youngest perished
And the letter, ending, said:
"I am writing on my knapsack
By the road with borrowed quill,
For the Union army's marching,
Marching still."
Reason sank and died within her
Like a flame for want of air
So she knits the woollen stockings
For the soldier lads to wear
Waiting till the war is ended
For her sons to cross the sill
For she thinks they all are marching
Marching still.
Christmas Night of '62
William Gordon McCabe
The wintry blast goes wailing by
the snow is falling overhead
I hear the lonely sentry's tread
and distant watch-fires light the sky
​
Dim forms go flitting through the gloom
The soldiers cluster round the blaze
To talk of other Christmas days
And softly speak of home and home
​
My saber swinging overhead
gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow
while fiercely drives the blinding snow
and memory leads me to the dead
​
My thoughts go wandering to and fro
vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then
I see the low-browed home again
the old hall wreathed in mistletoe
​
And sweetly from the far off years
comes borne the laughter faint and low
the voices of the Long Ago!
My eyes are wet with tender tears
​
I feel again the mother kiss
I see again the glad surprise
That lighted up the tranquil eyes
And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss
​
As, rushing from the old hall-door
She fondly clasped her wayward boy -
Her face all radiant with they joy
She felt to see him home once more
​
My saber swinging on the bough
Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow
while fiercely drives the blinding snow
aslant upon my saddened brow
​
Those cherished faces are all gone!
Asleep within the quiet graves
where lies the snow in drifting waves
And I am sitting here alone
​
There's not a comrade here tonight
but knows that loved ones far away
on bended knees this night will pray
"God bring our darling from the fight"
​
But there are none to wish me back
for me no yearning prayers arise
the lips are mute and closed the eyes
My home is in the bivouac
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The Blue and the Gray
By Francis Miles Finch
​
By the flow of the inland river, whence the fleets of iron have fled
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, asleep are the ranks of the dead
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment-day
Under the one, the Blue, under the other, the Gray
These in the robings of glory, those in the gloom of defeat
All with the battle-blood gory, in the dusk of eternity meet
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgement-day
Under the laurel, the Blue, under the willow, the Gray
​
From the silence of sorrowful hours the desolate mourners go
Lovingly laden with flowers alike for the friend and the foe
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgement-day
Under the roses, the Blue, under the lilies, the Gray
So with an equal splendor, the morning sun-rays fall
With a touch impartially tender, on the blossoms blooming for all
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment-day
Broidered with gold, the Blue, mellowed with gold, the Gray
So, when the summer calleth, on forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth the cooling drip of the rain
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment -day
Wet with the rain, the Blue, wet with the rain, the Gray
Sadly, but not with upbraiding, the generous deed was done
In the storm of the years that are fading, no braver battle was won
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment-day
Under the blossoms, the Blue, under the garlands, the Gray
No more shall the war cry sever, or the winding rivers be red
They banish our anger forever when they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment-day
Love and tears for the Blue, tears and love for the Gray
Dirge for a Soldier (Lay Him Low)
George Henry Boker
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 can not 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 can not 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 can not know
Lay him low!
Leave him to God's watching eye
Trust him to the hand that made him
Mortal love weeps idly by
God alone has power to aid him
Lay him low, lay him low
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he can not know
Lay him low!
The General’s Death
By Joseph O'Connor
The general dashed along the road
Amid the pelting rain
How joyously his bold face glowed
To hear our cheer's refrain!
His blue blouse flapped in wind and wet
His boots were splashed with mire
But round his lips a smile was set
And in his eyes a fire
A laughing word, a gesture kind --
We did not ask for more
With thirty weary miles behind
A weary fight before
The gun grew light to every man
The crossed belts ceased their stress
As onward to the column's van
We watched our leader press
Within an hour we saw him lie
A bullet in his brain
His manly face turned to the sky
And beaten by the rain
Always Stand On the Union Side
By M.C. Bisbee
​
"Always stand on the Union side
And battle for the right
With conscience clear, we'll laugh at fear
In the midst of the boldest fight"
​
Why turn against our native land
The mother whom we love?
Who ever rules with gentle hand
Till children recreant prove?
Always stand on the Union side
And "keep your powder dry"
We'll soon rejoice both far and wide
To see secession die
Tis better in defense of truth
To be both brave and bold
Than side with traitors and at last
Be left out in the cold
​
Always stand on the Union side
'Tis better, as you see
Heav'n will crown our gallant arms
With Union victory!
​
If you would have your children learn
To speak with holy pride
Of this their dear beloved land!
Stand on the Union side!
Send Them Home Tenderly
Author Unknown
​
Send them home tenderly, The sleepers at rest
With hands meekly folded on each silent breast
Let them come back to slumber beneath northern skies
Where true hearts may weep o’er them
And prayer incense rise
Send them home tenderly, the noble and true
Scarce gone from their hearthstones --
Scarce whispered "Adieu"
Gone forth for their country, it’s rights to sustain
But, all bleeding and lifeless, returning again
Send them home tenderly, our martyr'd and brave
With the stripes and stars round them
All robed for the grave
Bereaved mothers shall clasp them
In pride to their breast
And the good of our nation shall weep where they rest
​
Send them home tenderly, each wound gaping wide Shall send myriads of voices from the dark purple tide
And strong hands shall be grasping
The bright, unsheath'd sword
With fresh fervor to battle for right and the Lord
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