Songs of the American Civil War

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC

(LAMAR FONTAINE/JOHN HILL HEWITT) (1861)

All quiet along the Potomac tonight,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming,
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
O'er the light of the watch fires, are gleaming;

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, and his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother, may Heaven defend her.

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then
That night when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! Was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looks like a rifle -- "Ah! Mary, good-bye!"
And the lifeblood is ebbing and splashing.

All quiet along the Potomac tonight,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead --
The picket's off duty forever.

 

LINCOLN AND LIBERTY

(trad./JESSE HUTCHINSON) (1860)

Hurrah for the choice of the nation!
Our chieftain so brave and so true;
We'll go for the great reformation --
For Lincoln and Liberty, too!

We'll go for the son of Kentucky
The hero of Hoosierdom through;
The pride of the Suckers so lucky
For Lincoln and Liberty, too.

Then up with our banner so glorious,
The star-spangled red, white, and blue,
We'll fight till our cause is victorious,
For Lincoln and Liberty, too.

They'll find what by felling and mauling,
Our railmaker statesman can do;
For the people are everywhere calling
For Lincoln and Liberty, too.

 

LORENA

(H. D. L. WEBSTER/J. P. WEBSTER) (1800s)

The years creep slowly by, Lorena,
The snow is on the grass again.
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena,
The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been.

But the heart throbs on as warmly now,
As when the summer days were nigh.
Oh, the sun can never dip so low
A-down affection's cloudless sky.

A hundred months have passed, Lorena,
Since last I held that hand in mine,
And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,
Though mine beat faster far than thine.

A hundred months, 'twas flowery May,
When up the hilly slope we climbed,
To watch the dying of the day,
And hear the distant church bells chime.

We loved each other then, Lorena,
More than we ever dared to tell;
And what we might have been, Lorena,
Had but our lovings prospered well --

But then, 'tis past, the years are gone,
I'll not call up their shadowy forms;
I'll say to them, "Lost years, sleep on!
Sleep on! nor heed life's pelting storms."

The story of that past, Lorena,
Alas! I care not to repeat,
The hopes that could not last, Lorena,
They lived, but only lived to cheat.

I would not cause e'en one regret
To rankle in your bosom now;
For "if we try we may forget,"
Were words of thine long years ago.

Yes, these were words of thine, Lorena,
They burn within my memory yet;
They touched some tender chords, Lorena,
Which thrill and tremble with regret.

'Twas not thy woman's heart that spoke;
Thy heart was always true to me:
A duty, stern and pressing, broke
The tie which linked my soul with thee.

It matters little now, Lorena,
The past is in the eternal past;
Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena,
Life's tide is ebbing out so fast.

There is a Future! O, thank God!
Of life this is so small a part!
'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod;
But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.

 

Hey! How'd them Yankee songs git in here?!?

 

Hey! We fought in the Civil War too!

 

Massa's in de Cold, Cold Ground

ROUND de meadows am a-ringing
De darkeys’ mournful song,
While de mocking-bird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where de ivy am a-creeping,
O’er de grassy mound,
Dere old massa am a-sleeping,
Sleeping in de cold, cold ground.

Down in de corn-field
Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a-weeping,—
Massa’s in de cold, cold ground.

When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,
’T was hard to hear old massa calling,
Cayse he was so weak and old.
Now de orange tree am blooming
On de sandy shore,
Now de summer days am coming,—
Massa nebber calls no more.

Massa make de darkeys love him,
Cayse he was so kind;
Now dey sadly weep above him,
Mourning cayse he leave dem behind.
I cannot work before to-morrow,
Cayse de tear-drop flow;
I try to drive away my sorrow,
Pickin’ on de old banjo.

Down in de corn-field
Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a-weeping,—
Massa’s in de cold, cold ground.

Some of the older folks were singing this at the singing school I went to earlier this summer.

 

WE ARE COMING, FATHER ABRAHAM

(JAMES SLOAN GIBBONS/STEPHEN FOSTER) (1862)

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, coming our union to restore,
We are coming, Father Abraham, with 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 aloft 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.

If you look all up our valleys, where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;
And children from their mothers knees are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow, against their country's needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door,
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more.

You have called us and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide,
To lay us down for Freedom's sake, our brother's bones beside;
Or from foul treason's savage group to wrench the murd'rous blade,
And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade;
Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before,
We are coming Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more.

 

WAS MY BROTHER IN THE BATTLE?

(STEPHEN FOSTER) (1862)

Tell me, tell me, weary soldier from the rude and stirring wars,
Was my brother in the battle where you gained those noble scars?
He was ever brave and valiant, and I know he never fled.
Was his name among the wounded or numbered with the dead?

Was my brother in the battle when the tide of war ran high?
You would know him in a thousand by his dark and flashing eye.
Tell me. tell me, weary soldier, will he never come gain,
Did he suffer 'mid the wounded or die among the slain?

Was my brother in the battle when the noble Highland host
Were so wrongfully outnumbered on the Carolina coast?
Did he struggle for the Union 'mid the thunder and the rain,
Till he fell among the brave on a bleak Virginia plain?

Oh, I'm sure that he was dauntless and his courage ne'er would lag
While contending for the honor of our dear and cherished flag.
Was my brother in the battle when the flag of Erin came
To the rescue of our banner and protection of our fame,

While the fleet from off the waters poured out terror and dismay
Till the bold and erring foe fell like leaves on Autumn day?
When the bugle called to battle and the cannon deeply roared,
Oh! I wish I could have seen him draw his sharp and glittering sword.

 

THE VACANT CHAIR

(HENRY J. WASHBURN/GEORGE F. ROOT) (1861)

We will meet but we will miss him,
There will be his vacant chair;
We will 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 ruin lie.

CHORUS:
We will meet, but we will miss him,
There will be his vacant chair,
We will linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer.

At our fireside, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell
At remembrance of the story,
How our noble father fell;

How he strove to bear our banner
Through the thickest of the fight;
And uphold our country's honor,
In the strength of manhood's fight.

True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Ever more will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only,
Sweeping o'er our heartstrings now.

Sleep today, Oh early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed.
Dirges from the pine and cypress
Mingle with the tears we shed.

 

African American Military Band 1865




New York Drum Corps in Arlington, VA 1861




Drum Corps Infantry in Falmouth, VA 1863




Military Band of the Veteran Reserve Corps 1865

 

Anyone interested in "Civil War" era songs needs to know about Bobby Horton: Songs of the Civil War, Music and Memories of the Civil War, including Homespun Songs of Faith (religious songs popular in the Civil War era).

My favorite "secular" civil war song is All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight.

 

LONG AGO, COMRADES

Long ago we were boys in the ranks, comrades,
Our hearts light and happy as the day.
Cheeks were ruddy, eyes bright, locks dark, comrades,
As we marched from our homes far away.

Chorus:
But now we are aged and gray, comrades,
The trials of life are nearly done.
But to us life's as dear as it was, comrades,
When you and I were young.

Long ago we were marching away, comrades,
Our flags to the breeze gaily flung.
Our bosoms were bare to the foe, comrades,
When you and I were young.

Long ago we were camping in storms, comrades,
Our courage and muscles tautly strung.
Our hearts set on victory or death, comrades,
When you and I were young.

[Long ago we were falling fast, comrades,
Our ranks daily much thinner grew.
Our courage the cause could not win, comrades,
When the men in the ranks were so few.]

Staggering and bleeding alone, comrades,
Outnumbered three to one everywhere.
The world coldly watching our fates, comrades,
Not even a sigh or a tear.

[As fall heroes struggling for their homes, comrades,
So fell the soldiers in gray.
Their honor yet unsullied, comrades,
For that which ennobles brave men.]

We fell beneath the numbers of the foe, comrades,
We fell, but we are risen now again.
In falling we lost not our love, comrades,
For that which enables brave men.

Though now we are aged and gray, comrades,
And trials of life are nearly done.
To us life's as dear as it was, comrades,
When you and I were young.

In The Sacred Harp (1927 Cooper Edition, page 520), the song is attributed to Judge J. M. Carmichael of Ozark, Alabama. He was a veteran of the 15th Alabama Infantry. It is not clear whether they mean he wrote the words, arranged the tune for the book, or merely paired the words with the tune. The tune is "When You and I were Young, Maggie," by J. A. Butterfield. The two stanzas in brackets are different from those that appear in The Sacred Harp. As printed there, the chorus is sung after each stanza.

 

GOOD OL' REBEL SOLDIER
by Major Innes Randolph, C.S.A.

Oh, I'm a good old Rebel, now that's just what I am;
For this "Fair Land of Freedom" I do not give a d***!
I'm glad I fit against it, I only wish we'd won,
And I don't want no pardon for anything I done.

I hates the Constitution, this "Great Republic," too!
I hates the Freedman's Bureau and uniforms of blue!
I hates the nasty eagle with all its brags and fuss,
And the lying, thieving Yankees, I hates 'em wuss and wuss!

I hates the Yankee nation and everything they do,
I hates the Declaration of Independence, too!
I hates the "Glorious Union" -- 'tis dripping with our blood,
And I hates their striped banner, and I fit it all I could.

I followed old Marse Robert for four years, near about,
Got wounded in three places, and starved at Point Lookout.
I cotched the "roomatism" a'campin' in the snow,
But I killed a chance o' Yankees, and I'd like to kill some mo'!

Three hundred thousand Yankees is stiff in Southern dust!
We got three hundred thousand before they conquered us.
They died of Southern fever and Southern steel and shot,
But I wish we'd got three million instead of what we got.

I can't take up my musket and fight 'em now no more,
But I ain't a'gonna love 'em, now that's for sartain sure!
I do not want no pardon for what I was and am,
I won't be reconstructed, and I do not care a d***!

This old song may shock the sensibilities of all but the most un-reconstructed, but in a lively way it captures the bitter feelings of post-war southern veterans. The web site - Music of the War between the States - gives the following information: "Although the poor grammar and dialect evident in the lyrics to this song suggest otherwise, Innes Randolph was actually a learned man who achieved some fame in his post-war career as a Southern poet...The end of the War brought the miseries of Reconstruction to the South. As burdensome as the struggle to adapt to life in the newly reconstituted Union was for most Southerners, it was a near impossibility for many an ex-Confederate soldier. The sentiments expressed in this classic post-war song were probably fairly typical among embittered veterans. The song was sung to the old Irish tune 'Joe Bowers.'"