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Posts Tagged ‘between the states’

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Atlanta lost, like some prized wedding ring
Whose bride can ne’er recover from the sting,
Hood’s Rebel army marched to Tennessee
To search the western vales for victory.

And on the trek, Pat Cleburne saw a place
So beautiful a smile came on his face –
A church and cemetery, and Pat swore,
“Why, this is almost worth one’s dying for!”

Just two weeks later, it became his bed
For he, at Franklin, was among the dead.
And though he laid there, blind to e’en the stars,
The nations foolishly keep fighting wars.

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The picture is mine of a mural of General Pat Cleburne
that is on a wall of a building in downtown Cleburne, Texas.

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Cleburne was at first buried elsewhere, but someone
remembering his words urged that he be buried at that
site.  He was, but was later buried in his “hometown” of
Helena, Arkansas.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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gall-civil-war

The Southerners had Jackson
And Jeb-led cavalry,
And none who was as crafty
As gray fox Robert Lee.

The North looked for a hammer,
And Lincoln fired the soft,
Until Grant, made of metal,
Would lose, but battled oft.

The rebels had the leaders;
The Union had the men.
The war was thus attrition:
It was not which, but when.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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By Johnston led, Confederates
Were cats along the way
And crept up on the Union, Grant,
The unsuspecting prey

At Pittsburg Landing where they camped –
That’s not the name we know.
There, near a church called place of peace,
Was war – Oh, Shiloh! ohhh!

The unprepared were driven back;
Two miles of ground were lost –
And men! The South had gained that day
But Johnston was the cost.

The general, his many men,
And even more the foe
Had bled away the last of life
Near peace – Oh, Shiloh! ohhh!

Night fell and Grant, saved by the bell
(That is, by troops of Buell),
Though beaten badly would attack
The morrow with new fuel.

The first day was the Union’s ebb;
On Monday was its flow.
With greater force, they took the same
Two miles. Oh, Shiloh! ohhh!

The greater loss in men and land
Upon the second day
That balanced what the Union gave
Was suffered by the Gray.

Two thousand nearly, for each side,
Received a fatal blow.
And thousands more were casualties
For naught! – Oh, Shiloh! ohhh!

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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           Barbara Frietchie

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about the orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall; 

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down; 

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

“Halt!” – the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!” – out blazed the rifle blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

“Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word; 

“Who touches a hair of yon grey head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said. 

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet: 

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of freedom and union, wave! 

Peace, and order, and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

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………Confederate Graves

They fought and died and this is left –
The narrow space that’s for them cleft,
The ground they won while rest was lost
And this long rest is what it cost. 

The markers mark where men were placed,
Since memories of each erased
As mourners lived remaining years,
Remembering, with bitter tears. 

Then, like a distant cannon’s roar,
Their flowers faded, were no more,
E’en letters on the stones wear ‘way
With weather and the passing day. 

It was a life men could not bear
To part with, yet, they parted there
With slaves that were the warring cause.
And though there was the slightest pause,
Most men went on to live quite well,
Less why men suffered shot and shell.
Less men who suffered shot and shell.

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photo by rkirbycom (Roger) at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nVrgvTE/Confederate+Headstone

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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