THE OLD THIRTEEN.

BATTLE ON PORT ROYAL ISLAND, S. C.,

JANUARY 1ST, '62.

God bless the good old thirteen states;
God bless the young ones too;
Who cares for musty birth-day dates-
God bless them, old and new.

The old ones first our freedom gained,
In bloody fight of yore;

The young ones have their right maintained,
As the old ones did before.

No South or North, no East or West,
Twin sisters all they be;

One mother nursed them on her breast,
And that was Liberty.

And may the wretch whose hand shall first

The bond that binds them shake,

Be ever among men accursed-
Oh, may it never break!

Oh! may that banner wide extend
O'er every land and sea,
Without beginning, without end,
And conquer to set free:

Till Freedom's banner floats alone,
A beacon in the sky,

And man no other lord shall own

But Him who rules on high.

ANONYMOUS.

OUR COMRADE.

DESTRUCTION OF FORT BARRANCAS, FLA.
JANUARY 2D, '62.

Where tangled boughs of fadeless evergreen,

Their emerald canopy o'er earth out-spread,
Shielding his pale face from the sun's bright sheen,
Our Willie lay, with pale and bloodless mien,
There with the mangled dead.

The wind that through the tangled cedars sighed,
Back from his pallid brow, swept the brown hair,
And kissed his cheek, as oft, bending beside
His couch, his mother kissed her boy, her pride,
And blessed him, sleeping there.

No mother blessed him when his young life fled,

But on the chilly earth his warm blood flowed, And on his couch of death no tears were shedTo his loved ones no farewell words were saidNo parting kiss bestowed.

We laid him there within his narrow grave,
And heaped the damp earth o'er his lifeless form;
He sleeps beside a comrade true and brave,
Who with his last look saw our banner wave
In the fierce battle-storm.

No more the startling bugle greets his ear;
The rolling drum calls him to come no more,
When its loud notes bespeak the foeman near;
No more will he the shouts of victory hear-
His warfare now is o'er.

ELRINE MAY.

MY COUNTRY-WOMEN.

CAPTURE OF BIG BETHEL, VA.,
JANUARY 3D, '62.

THINK ye to night of the poor weary soldier

Lying wounded, and bleeding, far, far from his home? With the dreams of his youth, the hopes of his manhood, O'ershadowed, and chill'd by the gloom of the tomb. For his country he left the dear home of his childhood And wandered afar, over mountain and plain; The sun's burning rays and the cold dew of evening

Relaxed his strong muscles and fevered his brain.

From the long weary march he rushed into battle
To fight for our freedom-our Nation to save;
The carnage was fearful, and deadly the struggle,
Ere he fell as a warrior, so faithful and brave.

Oh, Sisters! how holy and blessed our mission-
To comfort the hearts that have bled for us all,
To whisper the words of Divine consolation

To soldiers just resting, before their last call,—

To fight the dread battle, where man must surrender To Death, his relentless, unchangeable foe,

No fond arm of mother or sister upholds him,

As he sinks in the anguish of silence and woe.

ANONYMOUS.

THE TWO SHARPSHOOTERS.

BATTLE OF HUTTONSVILLE, W. VA.,
JANUARY 4TH, '62.

Two men went out from the fire-lit camp
In the autumn midnight gray;

Over the quaking, croaking swamp

To the edge of the woodland still and damp,
With rifle and spade went they.

A hunting owl wailed out to its young,
And the picket stood as still

In the meadow below as the shadows flung
By the beaded tent lights thickly strung
On the silver-threaded rill.

'Twas long ere the picket moved away,
And there was no time to lose;

The pits must be dug by dawn of day :
Said one, "We are digging graves, I say;"
And the other whispered, "Whose?”

With the morning light a column of steel
Moved upward along the hill

Toward the hidden pits, but a double peal
Close in the front made the column reel
A moment, and then stand still.

The check won a battle-field that day;
On the morrow the dead were laid
Head to foot in a trench of clay;
But two apart in the front that lay
Were buried without a spade.

W. H. LONGFELLOW.

WHAT PA THINKS.

BEFORE THE BATTLE OF SILVER CREEK, MO.,
JANUARY 8TH, '62.

PA thinks of Bloomy toddling down
Before 'tis fairly light,

In his night-cap and loose night-gown,
And wishes for a sight.

With clean-washed face, smooth-combed hair,
Pa thinks 'twould him delight,

To see his Bloomy place each chair
Around the table right.

And then to see him seated there,
By pancake good and light,
Buttered and lassied, cut up square,
Pa thinks would be a sight.

Pa thinks of prayer time, and the kiss
That does each one delight,

And wishes he could share the bliss
Of taste as well as sight.

Or with Romy going to the barn,
To see if all is right,

And feed the geese a little corn,
Were worth a cent a sight;

Pa'd march thro' mud, march thro' rain,

By darkness and day-light,

If he could only get again

Of his two boys a sight.

A PRIVATE OF 110TH N. Y. S. V.