Civil War Poetry

Hurrah for the Light Artillery!
Author Unknown

On the unstained sward of the gentle slope,
Full of valor and nerved by hope,
The infantry sways like a coming sea;
Why lingers the light artillery?
“Action front!”

.

Whirling the Parrotts like children's toys,
The horses strain to the rushing noise;
To right and to left, so fast and free,
They carry the light artillery.
“Drive on!”

.

The gunner cries with a tug and a jerk,
The limbers fly, and we bend to our work;
The handspike in, and the implements out -
We wait for the word, and it comes with a shout -
“Load!”

.

The foes pour on their billowy line;
Can nothing check their bold design?
With yells and oaths of fiendish glee,
They rush for the light artillery.
“Commence firing!”

.

Hurrah! Hurrah! our bulldogs bark,
And the enemy's line is a glorious mark;
Hundreds fall like grain on the lea,
Mowed down by the light artillery.
“Fire!”

.

“Fire!” and “Load!” are the only cries
Thundered and rolled to the vaulted skies;
Aha! they falter, they halt, they flee
From the hail of the light artillery.
“Cease firing!”

.

The battle is over, the victory won
Ere the dew is dried by the rising sun;
While the shout bursts out, like a full-voiced sea,
“Hurrah for the light artillery!
Hurrah for the light artillery!”

The Charge of the Light Brigade1
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

I
Half a league, half a league,
     Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
     Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!' he said:
Into the valley of Death
     Rode the six hundred.

II
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismayed?
Not through the soldier knew
     Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
     Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
     Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
     Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabers bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
     All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from saber-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
     Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon behind them,
     Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,2
     Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
     All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
     Noble six hundred!

Composed on: 2 December 1854.

Published on: 9 December 1854

¹ The charge took place on 25 October 1854, during the Crimean War. The poem was written 'a few minutes after reading…The Times in which occurred the phrase "someone had blundered".' Hallam Tennyson (son of Alfred), A Memoir, 1897.

² Only 195 returned.

The Artilleryman's Vision
Walt Whitman

While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath of my infant,
There in the room as I wake from sleep this vision presses upon me;
The engagement opens there and then in fantasy unreal,
The skirmishers begin, they crawl cautiously ahead, I hear the irregular snap! snap!
I hear the sound of the different missiles, the short t-h-t! t-h-t! of the rifle-balls,
I see the shells exploding leaving small white clouds,
I hear the great shells shrieking as they pass,
The grape like the hum and whir of wind through the trees (tumultuous now the contest rages),
All the scenes at the batteries rise in detail before me again,
The crashing and smoking, the pride of the men in their pieces,
The chief-gunner ranges and sights his piece and selects a fuse of the right time,
After firing I see him lean aside and look eagerly off to note the effect;
Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging (the young colonel leads himself this time with brandished sword),
I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys (quickly filled up, no delay),
I breathe the suffocating smoke, then the flat clouds hover low concealing all;
Now a strange lull for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either side,
Then resumed the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls and orders of officers,
While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a shout of applause (some special success),
And ever the sound of the cannon far or near (rousing even in dreams a devilish exultation and all the old mad joy in the depths of my soul),
And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions, batteries, cavalry, moving hither and thither,
(The falling, dying, I heed not, the wounded dripping and red I heed not, some to the rear are hobbling),
Grime, heat, rush, aide-de-camps galloping by or on a full run,
With the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the rifles (these in my vision I hear or see),
And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-colour'd rockets.

The Pride of Battery B
By: Frank H. Gassaway

South Mountain towered on our right,
Far off the river lay,
And over on the wooded height
We held their line at bay.

At last the mutt'ring guns were stilled,
The day died slow and wan.
At last their pipes the gunners filled,
The Sergeant's yarns began.

When, - as the wind a moment blew
Aside the fragrant flood
Our brierwoods raised, - within our view
A little maiden stood.

A tiny tot of six or seven;
From fireside fresh she seemed.
(Of such a little one in heaven
One soldier often dreamed.)

And as we started, her little hand
Went to her curly head
In grave salute; "And who are you?"
At length the Sergeant said.
"And where's your home?" he growled again.
She lisped out, "Who is me?
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane,
The pride of Battery B.

"My home? Why, that was burned away,
And pa and ma are dead,
And so I ride the guns all day
Along with Sergeant Ned.

"And I've a drum that's not a toy,
A cap with feathers too,
And I march beside the drummer-boy
On Sundays at review.

"But now our bacca's all give out,
The men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross - why, even Ned
Won't play with me and joke.

"And the big Colonel said to-day -
I hate to hear him swear -
He'd give a leg for a good pipe
Like the Yanks have over there.

"And so I thought, when beat the drum,
And the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come
Out here across the hill.

"And beg, good Mister Yankee men,
You'd give me some Lone Jack.
Please do - when we get some again
I'll surely bring it back.

"Indeed I will, for Ned, says he,
If I do what I say
I'll be a general yet, maybe,
And ride a prancing bay."

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er;
You should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store
Shook out a generous half.

To kiss that little mouth stooped down
A score of grimy men,
Until the Sergeant's husky voice
Said "'Tention, squad!" - and then

We gave her escort, till good-night
The pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight -
Or else 'twas tears that hid

Her tiny form - nor turned about
A man, nor spoke a word,
Till after while a far, hoarse shout
Upon the wind we heard.

We sent it back, then cast sad eye
Upon the scene around.
A baby's hand had touched the tie
That brothers once had bound.

That's all - save when the dawn awoke
Again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke
The screaming missiles fell,

Our Gen'ral often rubbed his glass,
And marveled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell
In the camp of Battery B.

Texas Cannoneer's Lament

They say Texas folks are "full of themselves,"
And I'm considerably like all the rest.
Somehow we think we've "gotten an edge" --
More or less -- and are better than anyone's best.

We're dead certain that we have no superiors.
And damn few we regard as our peers.
The best of the best, so the story goes,
Find work as Reb cannoneers.

The pay's no good, and paydays are few.
And folks marvel that we continue at all.
But we calmly explain, as we load up again,
"Its the result of Adam and Eve's Fall."

The Bivouac of the Dead
By Cpt. Theodore O'Hara

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

Now weeps upon the wind,
No troubled thought at midnight haunts;
Of loved ones left behind.
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
Nor braying horn, nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral-tears have washed,
The red stains from each brow;
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are freed from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past.
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the flight.

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