Read Ebook: Immortal Songs of Camp and Field The Story of their Inspiration together with Striking Anecdotes connected with their History by Banks Louis Albert

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For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken, To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie!

"Strong as lions, swift as eagles, Back to their kennels hunt these beagles! To arms! Cut the unequal bonds asunder! Let them hence each other plunder! To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie!

"Swear upon your country's altar Never to submit or falter! To arms! Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord's work is completed. To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie!

"Halt not till our Federation Secures from earth's powers its station! To arms! Then at peace, and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story! To arms! Advance the flag of Dixie!

"If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon will bring them gladness. To arms!

Exultant pride soon vanish sorrow; Smiles chase tears away tomorrow. To arms! To arms! To arms, in Dixie! Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! Hurrah! For Dixie's land we take our stand, And live or die for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie! To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie!"

Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom, We'll rally from the hillside, we'll gather from the plain, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom! The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star, While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!

We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; And we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!

We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!

So we're springing to the call from the East and from the West, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; And we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!

This inspiring rallying song was written by George F. Root, to whom we are indebted for so many songs of camp and field. Mr. Root also composed the music. Perhaps no hymn of battle in America has been sung under so many interesting circumstances as this. It was written in 1861, on President Lincoln's second call for troops, and was first sung at a popular meeting in Chicago and next at a great mass meeting in Union Square, New York, where those famous singers, the Hutchinson Family, sounded it forth like a trump of jubilee to the ears of thousands of loyal listeners.

"The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star, While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!"

The first company that passed responded to their captain with a will as he shouted, "Boys, give them three cheers and a tiger!" and the example was imitated by the regiments that followed; so that amid the singing of the children and the cheers of the soldiers, and the beating of the drums, the occasion was made memorable to all concerned.

"The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star, While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!"

Lift up your eyes, desponding freemen! Fling to the winds your needless fears! He who unfurl'd your beauteous banner, Says it shall wave a thousand years! "A thousand years!" my own Columbia, 'Tis the glad day so long foretold! 'Tis the glad morn whose early twilight, Washington saw in times of old.

What if the clouds, one little moment, Hide the blue sky where morn appears-- When the bright sun, that tints them crimson, Rises to shine a thousand years?

Tell the great world these blessed tidings! Yes, and be sure the bondman hears; Tell the oppressed of every nation, Jubilee lasts a thousand years!

Envious foes, beyond the ocean! Little we heed your threat'ning sneers; Little will they--our children's children-- When you are gone a thousand years.

Rebels at home! go hide your faces-- Weep for your crimes with bitter tears; You could not bind the blessed daylight, Though you should strive a thousand years.

Back to your dens, ye secret traitors! Down to your own degraded spheres! Ere the first blaze of dazzling sunshine, Shortens your lives a thousand years.

Haste thee along, thou glorious noonday! Oh, for the eyes of ancient seers! Oh, for the faith of him who reckons Each of his days a thousand years!

Henry Clay Work was born in Middletown, Connecticut, October 1, 1832. The family came originally from Scotland, and the name is thought to have come from a castle, "Auld Wark, upon the Tweed," famed in the border wars in the times made immortal by Sir Walter Scott. He inherited his love of liberty and hatred of slavery from his father, who suffered much for conscience' sake. While quite young, his family moved to Illinois, near Quincy, and he passed his boyhood in the most abject poverty, his father having been taken from home and imprisoned because of his strong anti-slavery views and active work in the struggles of those enthusiastic and devoted reformers. In 1845, Henry's father was pardoned on condition that he would leave the State of Illinois. The family then returned to Connecticut. After a few months' attendance at school in Middletown, our future song writer was apprenticed to Elisha Geer, of Hartford, to learn the printer's trade. He learned to write over the printer's case in much the same way as did Benjamin Franklin. He never had any music lessons except a short term of instruction in a church singing school. The poetic temperament, and his musical gifts as well, were his inheritance. He began writing very early, and many of his unambitious little poems found their way into the newspapers during his apprenticeship.

"Say, darkies, hab you seen de massa, Wid de muffstash on his face, Go long de road some time dis mornin', Like he gwine to leab de place? He seen a smoke way up de ribber, Whar de Linkum gunboats lay; He took his hat, an' lef' bery sudden, An' I spec he's run away! De massa run? ha, ha! De darkey stay? ho, ho! It mus' be now de kingdom comin', And de year ob jubilo!

"He's six feet one way, two foot tudder, An' he weigh tree hundred poun', His coat's so big he couldn't pay de tailor, An' it won't go half way roun'. He drill so much dey call him cap'an, An' he get so drefful tann'd,

I spec he try an' fool dem Yankees For to t'ink he's contraband.

"De darkies feel so lonesome Libing in de log house on de lawn, Dey moved dar tings to massa's parlor, For to keep it while he gone. Dar's wine and cider in de kitchen, An' de darkies dey'll hab some; I spose dey'll all be cornfiscated, When de Linkum sojers come.

"De oberseer he make us trubbel, An' he dribe us round a spell; We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar, Wid de key trown in de well. De whip is lost, de handcuff's broken, But de massa'll hab his pay; He's ole enough, big enough, ought to known better, Den to went an' run away."

"Nicodemus, the slave, was of African birth, And was bought for a bagful of gold; He was reckon'd as part of the salt of the earth, But he died years ago, very old. 'Twas his last sad request--so we laid him away In the trunk of an old hollow tree. 'Wake me up!' was his charge, 'at the first break of day-- Wake me up for the great jubilee!' The Good Time Coming is almost here! It was long, long, long on the way! Now run and tell Elijah to hurry up Pomp, And meet us at the gumtree down in the swamp, To wake Nicodemus to-day."

After his return from Europe, Work invested his fortune in a fruit-growing enterprise in Vineland, New Jersey. He was also a somewhat remarkable inventor, and a patented knitting machine, a walking doll, and a rotary engine are among his numerous achievements. These years were saddened by financial and domestic misfortunes. His wife became insane, and died in an asylum in 1883. He survived her only a year, dying suddenly of heart disease on June 8, 1884, at Hartford, Connecticut. His ashes rest in Spring Grove Cemetery in that city, and on Decoration Day the Grand Army of the Republic never fail to strew flowers on the grave of the singer whose words and melodies led many an army to deeds of heroism. May a grateful people keep his memory green, and cause his grave to blossom for "A Thousand Years!"

We're tenting to-night on the old camp ground; Give us a song to cheer Our weary hearts, a song of home, And friends we love so dear. Many are the hearts that are weary to-night, Wishing for the war to cease, Many are the hearts, looking for the right, To see the dawn of peace. Tenting to-night, tenting to-night, Tenting on the old camp ground.

We've been tenting to-night on the old camp ground, Thinking of days gone by, Of the loved ones at home, that gave us the hand, And the tear that said "Good-bye!"

We are tired of war on the old camp ground, Many are dead and gone, Of the brave and true who've left their homes Others been wounded long.

We've been fighting to-day on the old camp ground, Many are lying near; Some are dead, and some are dying, Many are in tears.

Walter Kittredge was born in Merrimac, New Hampshire, October 8, 1832. His father was a farmer, and though New Hampshire farms are proverbial for their stony hillsides, they were fertile for the production of large families in those days, and Walter was the tenth of eleven children. His education was received at the village school. Like most other writers of war songs, Kittredge had an ear for music from the very first. All of his knowledge of music, however, he picked up for himself, as he never had an opportunity of attending music schools, or being under a teacher. He writes: "My father bought one of the first seraphines made in Concord, New Hampshire, and well do I remember when the man came to put it up. To hear him play a simple melody was a rich treat, and this event was an important epoch in my child life."

"We're tenting to-night on the old camp ground; Give us a song to cheer Our weary hearts, a song of home! And friends we loved so dear."

That verse was like a prayer to God for comfort and the prayer was heard and answered.

Being a musician, a tune for the song easily came to Kittredge's mind, and after copying both words and music he went at once to Lynn, Massachusetts, to visit his friend, Asa Hutchinson, one of the famous Hutchinson family, who then lived at Bird's Nest Cottage, at High Rock. After they had looked it over together, they called in John Hutchinson, who still lives, the "last of the Hutchinsons," to sing the solo. Asa Hutchinson sang the bass, and the children joined in the chorus. Kittredge at once made a contract with Asa Hutchinson to properly arrange and publish the song for one-half the profits.

Like so many other afterward famous songs, it was hard to find a publisher at first, but the immense popularity which sprang up from the singing of the hymn about Boston soon led a Boston publisher to hire some one to write another song with a similar title, and a few weeks later the veteran music publisher, Ditson, brought out the original. Its sale reached many hundreds of thousands of copies during the war, and since then it has retained its popularity perhaps as completely as any of our war lyrics. It has been specially popular at reunions of soldiers, and every Grand Army assembly calls for it. Many a time I have seen the old veteran wiping away the tears as he listened to the singing of the second verse:--

"We've been tenting to-night on the old camp ground, Thinking of days gone by, Of the loved ones at home, that gave us the hand, And the tear that said 'Good-bye.'"

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 hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I have read his righteous sentence by 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.

This is, perhaps, the most elevated and lofty strain of American patriotism. Julia Ward Howe is a worthy author of such a hymn. She was the daughter of Samuel Ward, a solid New York banker of his time. Her mother, Julia Rush Ward, was herself a poet of good ability. Mrs. Howe received a very fine education, and, in addition to ordinary college culture, speaks fluently Italian, French, and Greek. In her girlhood she was a devout student of Kant, Hegel, Spinoza, Comte, and Fichte. Her literary work had given her considerable prominence before her marriage to Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, of Boston, just then famous for his self-sacrificing services in association with Lord Byron in behalf of the liberty of the Greeks, and henceforth to become forever immortal for his life-long devotion to the cause of the blind. America never produced a more daring and benevolent man than Doctor Howe.

"You ought to write some new words to go with that tune."

"I will," she earnestly replied.

She went back to Washington, went to bed, and finally fell asleep. She awoke in the night to find her now famous hymn beginning to form itself in her brain. As she lay still in the dark room, line after line and verse after verse shaped themselves. When she had thought out the last of these, she felt that she dared not go to sleep again lest they should be effaced by a morning nap. She sprang out of bed and groped about in the dim December twilight to find a bit of paper and the stump of a pencil with which she had been writing the evening before. Having found these articles, and having long been accustomed to jot down stray thoughts with scarcely any light in a room made dark for the repose of her infant children, she very soon completed her writing, went back to bed, and fell fast asleep.

What sublime and splendid words she had written! There is in them the spirit of the old prophets. Nothing could be grander than the first line:--

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."

In the second verse one sees through her eyes the vivid picture she had witnessed in her afternoon's visit to the army:--

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