Chapter 1 of 12 · 3975 words · ~20 min read

Part 1

[Illustration: The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898. (_See p. 141._)]

The Silver Series of English and American Classics

BALLADS

AMERICAN BRAVERY

_EDITED, WITH NOTES_

CLINTON SCOLLARD

AUTHOR OF “OLD AND NEW WORLD LYRICS,” “SONGS OF SUNRISE LANDS,” “THE HILLS OF SONG,” ETC.

[Illustration: colophon]

SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY

NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO

PREFATORY WORD

While it has been, in the main, the purpose of the Editor to include in the present collection only such poems as commemorate some signal act of valor historically verified, it has seemed best to widen the scope sufficiently to admit a few selections that must have been excluded were the lines rigorously drawn. To appeal to the student of American history has been the primary aim; yet, inasmuch as the chord played upon--that of heroism--finds a responsive echo in every heart, it is hoped that the book may prove of interest to the general public as well. Though there has been no attempt at an exhaustive selection, a natural desire to cover as wide a field as possible has led to the admission of some ballads of lesser literary value, though it is believed that none will be found that has not sufficient merit to warrant its presence.

The Editor desires to make grateful acknowledgment to Houghton, Mifflin & Company, Harper & Brothers, Charles Scribner’s Sons, The Funk & Wagnalls Company, The J. B. Lippincott Company, The Century Company, Herbert S. Stone & Company, John Lane, The Lothrop Publishing Company, and the _Youth’s Companion_, for courtesies extended, and also to thank most heartily the various authors whose work is included, or those representing them, for their cordial coöperation.

CLINTON, NEW YORK, March, 1900.

CONTENTS

IN TIME OF STRIFE

PAGE

1. Paul Revere’s Ride _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 3 2. Mary Butler’s Ride _Benjamin Franklin Taylor_ 7 3. The Surprise at Ticonderoga _Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury_ 13 4. Montgomery at Quebec _Clinton Scollard_ 17 5. The Maryland Battalion _John Williamson Palmer_ 19 6. Arnold at Stillwater _Thomas Dunn English_ 21 7. The Yankee Man-of-War _Anonymous_ 27 8. The Ride of Jennie M’Neal _Will Carleton_ 29 9. The Song of Marion’s Men _William Cullen Bryant_ 34 10. How We Burned the “Philadelphia” _Barrett Eastman_ 36 11. The “Shannon” and the “Chesapeake” _Thomas Tracy Bouvé_ 40 12. The Fight of the “Armstrong” Privateer _James Jeffrey Roche_ 43 13. The Men of the Alamo _James Jeffrey Roche_ 48 14. The Fight at the San Jacinto _John Williamson Palmer_ 51 15. Monterey _Charles Fenno Hoffman_ 54 16. The Defense of Lawrence _Richard Realf_ 55 17. Blood Is Thicker than Water _Wallace Rice_ 57 18. Bethel _Augustine Joseph Hickey 19. The Charge by the Ford _Thomas Dunn English_ 64 20. The Little Drummer _Richard Henry Stoddard_ 66 21. The Cumberland _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 70 22. Johnston at Shiloh _Fleming James_ 72 23. The River Fight _Henry Howard Brownell_ 77 24. Kearny at Seven Pines _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 81 25. The Unknown Hero _William Gordon McCabe_ 83 26. Barbara Frietchie _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 84 27. The Eagle of Corinth _Henry Howard Brownell_ 87 28. Ready _Phœbe Cary_ 90 29. The Battle of Charleston Harbor _Paul Hamilton Hayne_ 91 30. Keenan’s Charge _George Parsons Lathrop_ 93 31. The Hero of the Gun _Margaret Junkin Preston_ 97 32. An Incident of War _Maurice Thompson_ 99 33. The Black Regiment _George Henry Boker_ 101 34. Greencastle Jenny _Helen Gray Cone_ 104 35. John Burns of Gettysburg _Bret Harte_ 106 36. High Tide at Gettysburg _Will Henry Thompson_ 11O 37. Thomas at Chickamauga _Kate Brownlee Sherwood_ 113 38. The Smallest of the Drums _James Buckham_ 117 39. Little Giffen _Francis Orrery Ticknor_ 119 40. Ulric Dahlgren _Kate Brownlee Sherwood_ 121 41. Farragut _William Tuckey Meredith_ 122 42. Lee to the Rear _John Randolph Thompson_ 124 43. Craven _Henry Newbolt_ 128 44. Gracie of Alabama _Francis Orrery Ticknor_ 129 45. The Ballad of a Little Fun _Maurice Thompson_ 131 46. Sheridan’s Ride _Thomas Buchanan Reid_ 133 47. Down the Little Big Horn _Francis Brooks_ 135 48. The Bond of Blood _Will Henry Thompson_ 138 49. A Ballad of Manila Bay _Charles George Douglas Roberts_141 50. Dewey at Manila _Robert Underwood Johnson_ 143 51. The Men of the “Merrimac” _Clinton Scollard_ 147 52. The Charge at Santiago _William Hamilton Hayne_ 149 53. Spain’s Last Armada _Wallace Rice_ 150 54. Ballad of Paco Town _Clinton Scollard_ 155 55. Peace Hath Her Victories _Wallace Rice_ 161 56. In the Tunnel _Bret Harte_ 163 57. The Ballad of Calnan’s Christmas _Helen Gray Cone_ 165 58. How He Saved St. Michael’s _Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury_ 167 59. The Ride of Collin Graves _John Boyle O’Reilly_ 171 60. Jim Bludso _John Hay_ 174 61. George Nidiver _Anonymous_ 176 62. A Man’s Name _Richard Realf_ 178 63. The Man Who Rode to Conemaugh _John Eliot Bowen_ 180 64. Johnny Bartholomew _Thomas Dunn English_ 182 65. His Name _Margaret Junkin Preston_ 185 66. Old Braddock _John Vance Cheney_ 186 67. In Apia Bay _Charles George Douglas Roberts_189 NOTES 193

BALLADS OF AMERICAN BRAVERY

_Great Greece hath her Thermopylæ;_ _Stout Switzerland her Tell;_ _The Scot his Wallace heart--and we_ _Have saints and shrines as well._ _Richard Realf._

IN TIME OF STRIFE

PAUL REVERE’S RIDE

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm.” Then he said, “Good-night!” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The _Somerset_, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer’s dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

(By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.)

MARY BUTLER’S RIDE

Ebenezer Eastman, of Gilmanton, is dead;-- At least they had him buried full fifty years ago;-- The gray White Mountain granite they set above his head, With some graven words upon it, to let the neighbors know Precisely what it was that made the grasses grow So wondrous rank and strong: How they rippled in the wind, As if nobody ever died, nobody ever sinned! To that old Bible name of his what eloquence was lent When its owner marched to battle,--not a ration, not a tent, Nor a promise nor a sign of a Continental cent! Ho, Ebenezer Eastman! We’ll call the roll again,-- Ho, dead and gone Lieutenant of the old-time Minute-Men!

Plowing land for turnips, with awkward Buck and Bright, Was stout Lieutenant Eastman, one lovely day in June; He “hawed” them to the left and he “geed” them to the right, And they slowly came about in the lazy summer noon, He humming to himself the fragment of a tune, Which he would croon at night to the baby-boy who lay In basswood trough becradled first, a week ago that day!

* * * * *

All at a flying gallop a rider swings in sight, Pulls up beside the fallow and gives the view-halloo,-- His horse’s flanks are black, but his neck is foamy white:-- “Turn out, Lieutenant Eastman! There’s something else to do! The redcoats are a-swarming! Your summer plowing’s through!” No other word--away! And the rattling of the hoofs Was like the rain from traveling clouds along the cabin roofs. The plowman turned his cattle out; he saddled up the bay, And he rallied out the wilderness upon that summer day, And the Minute-Men of Gilmanton to Boston marched away. About the mother? Well, she watched beside the cabin door, And rocked the baby’s basswood boat upon the puncheon floor.

Days grew long in Gilmanton, and weeds among the corn; The quoiting ground was grassy, and louder rang the rill; The wrestling match was over,--the smithy was forlorn,-- The spiders in the empty door had swung their webs at will,-- The champions had gone to Bunker’s smoky Hill, To try the quaint old-fashioned “lock” they practiced on the Green, And such a game of tough “square hold” the world has seldom seen! About the father? Only this;--he fought in Stark’s brigade, On Charlestown Neck, that dusty day. A splendid mark he made; He never flinched a single inch when British cannon played, But foddered up an old rail fence with Massachusetts hay, Stood out the battle at the rack, and stoutly blazed away! Lo, through the smoky glory, that human flower-deluce, The gray-eyed Mary Butler, Lieutenant Eastman’s wife! Her pallid cheek and brow like a holy flag of truce, Her heart as sweet and red as a rose’s inner life, No murmur on her lips, nor sign of any strife. Four days before the fight. Has the little woman heard From anybody Boston way? Nobody--not a word!

Then up rose Mary Butler, and set her wheel at rest; She swept the puncheon floor, she washed the cottage pride,-- The cottage pride of three weeks old, and dressed him in his best,-- She wound the clock that told the time her mother was a bride, And porringer and spoon she deftly laid aside; She strung a clean white apron across the window panes, And swung the kettle from the crane, for fear of rusting rains; Then tossed her saddle on the bay and donned her linen gown, And took the baby on before,--no looking round or down! Full seventy miles to Cambridge town! Bring out your civic crown! I think ’twill fit that brow of hers who sadly smiled and said: “We’ll _know_ about your father, boy, and who is hurt or dead!” The maple woods that round her stand so solemn in the calm, Up and down are swaying slowly, like a singing-master’s palm, All together beating time,--not a soul to sing a psalm! “There’s been a dreadful battle!”--that’s what the neighbors said, “But when or where we cannot tell, nor who is hurt or dead.”

Rugged maples broke their ranks to let the rider by, Fell in behind her noiseless as falls the stealthy dew; Such heavy folds of starless dark in double shadow lie, The slender bridle path she treads can only just show through, And buried in the leafy miles was all the world she knew. By muffled drum of partridge and jaunty jay-bird’s fife, That mother made her lonely march,--that Continental wife. She never drew the bridle rein till forty miles were done, And on her ended journey shone the second setting sun, And round the Bay, like battle clock, tolled out the evening-gun. Talk not of pomps and tournaments! If only you had seen The royal ride from Gilmanton, the halt at Cambridge Green!

Dust-bedimmed and weary, with a look as though she smiled, She melted through the haze of the summer’s smoky gold! Some master’s faded picture of Madonna and the Child, Born full a thousand years ago, and never growing old! She heard old Putnam’s kennel growl, the bells of Charlestown tolled; She saw the golden day turn gray within an ashen shroud, That showed the scarlet regulars like lightning through a cloud. Forth from the furnace and the fire Lieutenant Eastman came,-- The smell of powder in his clothes and fragrance in his fame,-- And met her bravely waiting there, who bore his boy and name!-- She from the howling wilderness--he from the hell of men, The little woman called the roll; he called it back again!

Then lightly to the pillion the gray-eyed wife he swung, A bundle on the saddlebow all tenderly he placed, And, lost amid the leafy calms where cannon never rung, Away they rode to Gilmanton, her arm around his waist, No general’s sash of crimson silk so rarely could have graced! Ah, Mary Butler cannot die, whatever sextons say, While yet life’s azure pulses keep their old heroic play.

* * * * *

A million men have lingered long, a million men have died, Who never saw a deed so grand as Mary Butler’s ride!

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TAYLOR.

THE SURPRISE OF TICONDEROGA

’Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing Of every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,-- Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm, Or chanticleer’s shrill challenge from busy farm to farm.

But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise, Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his “Green Mountain Boys,”-- Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one, To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington!

“My comrades,”--thus the leader spake to his gallant band,-- “The key of all the Canadas is in King George’s hand, Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock, Good Yankee swords--God willing--may pick his rusty lock!”

At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way, Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray, As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feet To the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat.

The curtain of the darkness closed ’round them like a tent, When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent, They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain, And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain.

O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills! O bastions of old Carillon, the “Fort of Chiming Rills!” Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay, And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day!

In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore, Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar; The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake, Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake.

Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning gray Gave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay; Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before, And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more:

“Soldiers, so long united--dread scourge of lawless power! Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour. One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest-- To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test!

“I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill, Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will! There leads no pathway backward--’tis death or victory! Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!”

From man to man a tremor ran at their captain’s word,-- (Like the “going” in the mulberry-trees that once King David heard),-- While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line, Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine!

“Right face, my men, and forward!” Low-spoken, swift-obeyed! They mount the slope unfaltering--they gain the esplanade! A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate, Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm--too late!

They swarm before the barracks--the quaking guards take flight, And such a shout exultant resounds along the height, As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago, When brave Montcalm’s defenders charged on a British foe!

Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace, To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass! The bayonets’ lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes, And, in tones of sudden thunder, “Surrender!” Allen cries.

“Then in whose name the summons?” the ashen lips reply. The mountaineer’s stern visage turns proudly toward the sky,-- “In the name of great Jehovah!” he speaks with lifted sword, “And the Continental Congress, who wait upon His word!”

Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east, As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased, Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws, As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause.

Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise, Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise, And still, on Freedom’s roster, through all her glorious years, Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers!

MARY ANNA PHINNEY STANSBURY.

(By special permission of the author, and of _The Youth’s Companion_.)

MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC

Round Quebec’s embattled walls Moodily the patriots lay; Dread disease within its thralls Drew them closer day by day; Till from suffering man to man, Mutinous, a murmur ran.

Footsore, they had wandered far, They had fasted, they had bled; They had slept beneath the star With no pillow for the head; Was it but to freeze to stone In this cruel icy zone?

Yet their leader held his heart, Naught discouraged, naught dismayed; Quelled with unobtrusive art Those that muttered; unafraid Waited, watchful, for the hour When his golden chance should flower.

’Twas the death-tide of the year; Night had passed its murky noon; Through the bitter atmosphere Pierced nor ray of star nor moon; But upon the bleak earth beat Blinding arrows of the sleet.

While the trumpets of the storm Pealed the bastioned heights around, Did the dauntless heroes form, Did the low, sharp order sound. “Be the watchword _Liberty_!” Cried the brave Montgomery.

Here, where he had won applause, When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe, For a nobler, grander cause Would he strike the fearless blow,-- Smite at Wrong upon the throne, At Injustice giant grown.

“Men, you will not fear to tread Where your general dares to lead! On, my valiant boys!” he said, And his foot was first to speed; Swiftly up the beetling steep, Lion-hearted, did he leap.

Flashed a sudden blinding glare; Roared a fearsome battle-peal; Rang the gloomy vasts of air; Seemed the earth to rock and reel; While adown that fiery breath Rode the hurtling bolts of death.

Woe for him, the valorous one, Now a silent clod of clay! Nevermore for him the sun Would make glad the paths of day; Yet ’twere better thus to die Than to cringe to tyranny!--

Better thus the life to yield, Striking for the right and God, Upon Freedom’s gory field, Than to kiss Oppression’s rod! Honor, then, for all time be To the brave Montgomery!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE MARYLAND BATTALION

Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, Tidy and dapper and gallant were we; Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall, Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball; Prancing soldados so martial and bluff, Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff-- But our cockades were clasped with a mother’s low prayer, And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair.