Читать книгу Campfire and Battlefield - John Clark Ridpath - Страница 33

TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP, THE BOYS ARE MARCHING.

This is one of the numerous war songs written by Mr. George F. Root. Among his others are "Just before the Battle, Mother," and the "Battle-Cry of Freedom." It is difficult to say which of these three was the most popular. There was a touch of pathos in "Just before the Battle, Mother," which made the words impressive and thrilling to the hearts of men away from home and fireside. Many a brave soldier considered death itself preferable to captivity and incarceration in prison pens. How sad, then, must have been the lot of the soldiers who sat in prison cells and heard the "tramp, tramp, tramp," of the marching boys! Mr. Root was the composer as well as the author of the three great songs mentioned above.

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.

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC TO-NIGHT.

One cool September morning in 1861, a young woman living in Goshen, Orange County, N. Y., read the familiar announcement from the seat of war near Washington, "All quiet on the Potomac," to which was added in smaller type, "A picket shot." These simple words were the inspiration of a celebrated war song, which is as popular now as when it first appeared. This song was first published in Harper's Weekly for November 30, 1861, and it has had many claimants; but after careful investigation, there appears to be no reason whatever for disputing the claim of Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers. She died in Orange, N. J., October 10, 1879.

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing—a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost—only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 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; 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 shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle … "Ha! Mary, good-by!" The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night; 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!

THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

Perhaps the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, may be considered the most lofty in sentiment and the most elevated in style of the martial songs of American patriotism. During the close of the year 1861, Mrs. Howe with a party of friends visited Washington. While there she attended a review of the Union troops on the Virginia side of the Potomac and not far from the city. During her stay in camp she witnessed a sudden and unexpected attack of the enemy. Thus she had a glimpse of genuine warfare. On the ride back to the city the party sang a number of war songs, including "John Brown's Body." One of the party remarked that the tune was a grand one, and altogether superior to the words of the song. Mrs. Howe responded to the effect that she would endeavor to write other words that might be sung to this stirring melody. That night, while she was lying in a dark room, line after line and verse after verse of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" was composed. In this way every verse of the song was carefully thought out. Then, springing from the bed, she found a pen and piece of paper and wrote out the words of this rousing patriotic hymn. It was often sung in the course of the war and under a great variety of circumstances.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He has 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 have read His righteous sentence in 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 you 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 the 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.