Ballads : patriotic & romantic / by Clinton Scollard [electronic text]

PATRIOTIC BALLADS

THE DRUM OF LEXINGTON

But yesterday I saw the historic drum Which William Dimon beat, Upon that fateful far-off April morn, Along each winding street, And on the memorable Green of Lexington, Bidding the patriots come And face the banded hosts of tyranny; At the reveille was a nation born Pledged to the sacred rights of Liberty.

Now 'neath the rays of the same vernal sun Peace broods about the Green, But it remembers yet, Girdled with stately elms memorial, The hurtle of the deadly musket-ball, And how its sod was wet With sacrificial blood—the whole sad, ruthless scene!

Would that the drum of Lexington again Might sound its summoning call, Sound from the rocky coast of Maine Where Agimenticus, inland, fronts the seas, To where the long trades sweep and swell and fall Round the Floridian keys!

Aye, sound from Puget, on which Shasta's crown Majestically looks down, E'en to the borders of that stricken land Beyond the brown coils of the Rio Grande!

Have we grown sleek with sloth? Sloughed the old virile spirit, taken on Abasement for a garment? Are we loath To rouse us, and to don The rapt heroic valor once again That girdled us when men indeed were men? Caution and doubt and fear seem subtly crept Upon us, and, inept, We stumble, falter, palter, and we need Not the smooth word, but the swift, searching deed. If bleed we must, then rather let us bleed Than sit inglorious, rich in all the things Save those which honor brings!

Now every slope of our dear land is fair Beneath the azure of the April air; The impatient loam is ready for the seed. But we? Take heed, take heed, My brothers! And O you, brave wraith Of dauntlessness and faith, You, William Dimon, come! Come, sound the old reveille on your drum, The drum of Lexington, And make us all, in steadfast purpose, one!

WAYNE AT STONY POINT

THIS is a tale to tell your sons Of the craggy steeps that lie Where the tides of Hudson sweep and swing South by the Ferry of the King, And of those who did a dauntless thing On the noon of a night gone by.

'Twas Washington sat in his tent, And he scanned a writing well; And it was thus that the writing ran, — "I, Anthony Wayne, am ever your man; If you'll but plot, if you'll but plan, I'll storm the heights of Hell!"

The General smiled his slow grave smile That boded the foeman ill; And, as he bent his head and wrote,. The lyric trill of the tawny-throat Kept time, now near and now remote, To the scratching of his quill.

For it was the heart of the summertime, And the Highlands surged away, In gleaming billows of verdure dressed,

Great of girth and broad of breast, Vale on vale and crest on crest,Under the golden day.

It was the heart of the summertime, Suspense filled all the air, For armed men lurked amid the trees About Torn Mountain's rugged knees, And where Dean Forest swayed in the breeze Back from the Mount of the Bear!

And they were men of the north and south, Band on resolute band, Men of the Massachusetts line, Men who had fought at Brandywine, Men stanch as the Carolina pine, And the flower of Maryland.

'Twas Anthony Wayne sat in his tent With his hand cupped for his chin, His thoughts afar where an ensign flew From the rocky peak of a Point he knew, When a messenger, clad in buff and blue, From the droop of the dusk strode in.

He gave the leader a swift salute, As he stood there, heel to heel; "A letter, sir!" and the eyes of Wayne Lit as the skies do after rain,

And his heart was tuned to a martial strainAs he broke the letter's seal.

"To-morrow," he read, "at the noon of night, Be this the day and the hour!" And his laugh rang out as the laugh of one Who sees, with the first bright beam of the sun, The chrismal crown of glory won, And the dawn of victory flower.

Morn on a sickle beach of sand That a swerve of the Hudson made; And line on line, and rank on rank, Under the dip of the shelving bank, Powdered and shaven, fore and flank, The troops upon parade!

"Forward!" then through the stealthy noon They marched at a measured pace; The woodland paths at a swinging stride They trod, and Donderberg's frowning side, Till they came, at the edge of the twilight-tide, To the vale of Devil's Race.

Then each man shaped him a white cockade That the plan might have no flaw, While the hours crept by, and naught was heard Save only the breath of a whispered word, Or the frog's low croak, or the breeze that stirred O'er the bay of Haverstraw.

No beacon shone in the vast of the vault, And there was no bugle blown, When out from the shroud of beech and pine Onward they moved in a silent line, And the General gave them the countersign — "The fort's our own! — our own!"

It was file by left and file by right, And a narrow file to the fore, And there was Febiger, gallant Dane, Fleury and Butler, bold and fain, And over them all "Mad Anthony Wayne," The chief of the fighting corps.

Through the strangling grip of the marsh's mire With never a pause they pressed, And though the sound of the foeman's fire Rang like the strings of a battle-lyre, Higher they fought their way and higher Till they won to the cragged crest.

Hand to hand, and brand to brand, They grappled, with grisly scars, Till the banner that stood for the king and crown From the peak of Stony Point came down, And there floated the flag of new renown, — Our flag of the Stripes and Stars.

Though smitten sore by a hurtling ball As they upward charged from the fen,

Through the flame-rent murk of the midnight pall, And the clamor and stress of the conflict-thrall, "Bear me on!" was their leader's call; "I would die at the head of my men!"

But not his to die, and he heard the cry From bastion and breach back thrown,A sound that echoes and triumphs still From the crest of that memory-haunted hill, The exultant cry, with its olden thrill, — "The fort's our own! — our own!"

Our own! aye, every league of land From the east to the western main! Our own!—and may we never forget, Till the light of Liberty's sun be set, His dauntless deed, and our deathless debt To men like Anthony Wayne!

THE RIDE OF TENCH TILGHMAN

THEY'VE marched them out of old Yorktown, the vanquished red-coat host, — The grenadiers and fusiliers, Great Britain's pride and boast; They've left my Lord Cornwallis sitting gnawing at his nails, With pale chagrin from brow to chin that grim defeat prevails. Their banners cased, in sullen haste their pathway they pursue Between the lilied lines of France, the boys in Buff and Blue; At last their arms away are cast, with muttering and frown, The while the drums roll out the tune The World Turned Upside Down!

It's up, Tench Tilghman, you must ride, Yea, you must ride straightway, And bear to all the countryside The glory of this day, Crying amain the glad refrain, This word by field and town, — "Cornwallis' ta'en! Cornwallis' ta'en! The World Turned Upside Down!"

Roused Williamsburgh to hear the hoofs That loud a tattoo played, While back from doorways, windows, roofs, Rang cheers from man and maid. His voice, a twilight clarion, spoke By slow Pamunkey's ford; In Fredericksburg to all the folk 'Twas like a singing sword.

It thrilled while Alexandria slept By brown Potomac's shore, And, like a forest fire, it swept The streets of Baltimore. With it Elk Tavern's rafters shook As though the thunder rolled; It stirred the brigs off Marcus Hook From lookout to the hold.

When midnight held the autumn sky, Again and yet again It echoed through the way called High Within the burg of Penn. The city watch adjured in vain, —"Cease! cease! you tipsy clown!" Flung Tilghman out, — "Cornwallis' ta'en! The World Turned Upside Down!"

Where wrapt in virtuous repose The head of Congress lay,

A clamor welled as though there rose The Trump of Judgment Day. "What madness' this?" fierce called McKean, In white nightcap and gown; The answer came, — "Cornwallis' ta'en! The World Turned Upside Down!"

Then forth into the highways poured A wild, exultant rout, And till the dawn there swelled and soared Tench Tilghman's victory shout; Then bells took up the joyous strain, And cannon roared to drown The triumph cry, — "Cornwallis' ta'en! The World Turned Upside Down!"

In dreams, Tench Tilghman, still you ride, As in the days of old, And with your horse's swinging stride Your patriot tale is told; It rings by river, hill, and plain, Your memory to crown;— "Cornwallis' ta'en! Cornwallis' ta'en! The World Turned Upside Down!"

OLD HICKORY

A BALLAD FOR ANDREW JACKSON'S DAY

This is the day when we honor "Old Hickory,"Honor him, aye, for the name that he bore! Fierce as a fighter, and yet above trickery, Virile and valiant and leal to the core!

Forth from Jamaica came faring the foemen, Sixty stout sail of them, ships of the line. Who were to combat them? Patriot yeomen, Men of the forest as stanch as the pine!

Threading the bayou-ways, on pressed the barges, Ensigns a-flutter like birds on the wing; Sounded the cheers as they landed their charges, While the bands echoed with "God Save the King!"

Haply they thought they were out for a holiday, They who filed forward so proud into view; Sooth, but they found it was far from a jolly day Ere the morn's frolic of fighting was through!

For there was one who had thrilled with his bravery, For there was one who had filled with his fire All of his men, and they struck at enslavery With the old Concord and Lexington ire.

Pakenham might rage, and the cannon might crack again, Vain was his valor, our praise to it be! Thrice they made onset, and thrice they quailed back again, Thrice they reeled backward, then slunk to the sea!

Never since then has the land of our motherhood Known the encroach of hostility's tread; Now we clasp hands with past foes in fair brotherhood Over the gulf of a century dead.

This is the day when we honor "Old Hickory," Honor him, aye, for the name that he bore! Fierce as a fighter, and yet above trickery, Virile and valiant and leal to the core!

BALLAD OF JOHN BARRY

FATHER OF THE AMERICAN NAVY

John Barry was a Commodore in darksome times of trial; (No doubt they called him "Jack" upon the sea!) He raked the foemen aft and fore, of that there's no denial; "Jack" Barry is the Commodore for me!

Upon the little Lexington, the Stars and Stripes a-flying, He put out from the Delaware upon a winter's day; "Oh, there'll be fun for fourteen gun!" sooth, that was his replying To those who came to cheer him on the morn he sailed away!

Ah, there was snowy smother on the wild Atlantic surges, And long chill watches underneath the stars! The flaw it blew, the scud it flew, off bleak Virginian verges, But naught could cool the valor of those gallant Yankee tars.

And then at last there dawned an hour when in the south was sighted

A bark that flung the Union Jack upon the April breeze; "Lay to!" exclaimed the Commodore, "I'm sure they'll be delighted To meet another Lexington, this time upon the seas!"

Then there was fun for fourteen gun, all in the April weather, For they smashed her and they gashed her, masts and spars; And through the windy homeward run they held her fast in tether, The first to strike the Union Jack before the Stripes and Stars.

Then wrote my great Lord Howe to him, with words as sweet as honey: "Come! — here are golden guineas, and a stanch ship of the line!" Sent Barry back, "I would not come for all your Judas money, Nor for all your British navy that's afloat upon the brine!"

John Barry was a Commodore in darksome times of trial; (No doubt they called him "Jack" upon the sea!) He raked the foemen aft and fore, of that there's no denial; "Jack" Barry is the Commodore for me!

CHANT OF THE MOHAWK

Out of the brooding midnight, Out of the peering morn, Out of the spacious noonday, These mystic words were born; As with the rush of triumph, Rhythm and rune, they came, Touched with the torch of wonder, Swept with the wings of flame.

AND THE WATERS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE:

We are the singing children, — Lilt and ripple and run, —Wrought of the opal dewdrops, Shaped of the rain and sun; Sprung from the gray cloud-streamers, Pulse of the under earth, Rousing the roots of being, Kindling the shoots of birth; Lyric, loving and lavish, Free as the wind is free, We yield our wealth to the Hudson, And the Hudson yields to the sea!

AND THE HILLS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE:

We are the heights God moulded, We are the heights He planned, In days when the world was virgin, And marvel lay on the land; Still on our crests the glory Rests as it did of old; Still on our slopes gleams beauty, — Crimson and green and gold; Now through our open gateways Opulent commerce pours;. We are the ancient genii Guarding the Mohawk shores!

AND THE MEADOWS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE:

We are the long low levels, Reaches of fertile loam, Lush at the kiss of springtime, Rich when the year goes home; Ours are the breadth and bounty, — Span upon sweeping span,— That, through the harvest-magic, Work for the weal of man. Clothed with the winter's ermine. Sown with the summer's flowers, Ours are thy garths, Oneida! Herkimer's fields are ours!

AND THE VOICES OF THE PAST SPAKE:

We are the wraiths long gathered Into the bourn of sleep, Into the aisles of silence Deep as the dusk is deep; — Men of the smoking teepees, Of arrow and bow and spear; Ranger and cabin-builder, Rover and pioneer. We are the patriot yeomen Of brawn and bravery Who faced the tide of conflict At red Oriskany; We are the men who travailed To shape and save the State, Who gave their strength and substance Ungrudging long and late. The leash of love still holds us; Our spirits would not roam; Here, by the hallowed Mohawk, Forevermore is home!

AND THE VOICES OF THE PRESENT SPAKE:

We are the heirs of freedom, The sons of rugged sires, Who reared in the wild waste places The shrines for their worship-fires; The Dutch, the Celt, and the Saxon, Of the old stanch wander-strain,

We are stringing our gem-like cities On the Mohawk's silver chain. Gyve —there is none to bind us; Fear—there is none to thrall; Only the wide horizon, Only the sky's blue wall! Ours are the scenes elysian That gird us, fair and free; Ours are the vasts of vision Into the great To-Be! Ours is the noblest banner The sun has seen unfurled, First flung upon God's pure breezes In this garden of the world!

Out of the brooding midnight, Out of the peering morn, Out of the spacious noonday, These mystic words were born; As with the rush of triumph, Rhythm and rune, they came, Touched with torch of wonder, Swept with the wings of flame!

THE SCYTHE TREE

FARMER JOHNSON strode from the field With an eager step that was long and lithe; The summer sun, like a blazing shield, Burned on high, in the hazy sky. A forkèd bough, as he hastened by, Seemed a fitting place for his scythe. So he swung it up in the balsam tree; "There let it hang till I come!" said he.

Then he homeward hied him, humming a tune, But he heard a word at the farmstead gate Under the fervid heat of the noon, A ringing call to each volunteer, For all the land was alive with fear, Doubt and fear for the country's fate. So Farmer Johnson shouldered his gun, And left his scythe to the rain and sun.

Fifty years have sped since then, Fifty hastening years and more; By southern wood and brake and fen Faithful he fought, and in gallant wise, Fought and died, and now he lies By the far off Carolina shore,

Where the long trades blow, and the grasses wave Over the loam of his sunken grave.

"There let it hang till I come!" he said Of the scythe he left in the balsam tree, And they let it hang, as the fleet days fled, Till the small bole, fed by the kindly earth, Clasped the scythe with a mothering girth. To-day whoever so will may see The starry emblem of freedom flow Over the tip of the scythe below.

He gave his all, and he never came, He that was strong and young and lithe, But the balsam boughs seem to name his name, Name his name both late and long To the tuneful beat of a summer song, To the undulant sway-song of the scythe; And the banner swings to the rhythmic bars, The banner he loved, the Stripes and Stars.

BALLAD OF LIEUTENANT MILES

WHEN you speak of dauntless deeds, When you tell of stirring scenes, Tell this story of the isles Where the endless summer smiles, — Tell of young Lieutenant Miles In the far-off Philippines!

'Twas the Santa Ana fight! — All along the Tagal line From the thickets dense and dire Gushed the fountains of their fire;. You could mark their rifles' ire, You could hark their bullets whine.

Little wonder there was pause! Some were wounded, some were dead; "Call Lieutenant Miles!" He came, In his eyes a fearless flame. "Yonder block-house is our aim!" The battalion leader said.

"You must take it —how you will; You must break this damnèd spell!" "Volunteers!" cried Miles. 'Twas vain, For that narrow tropic lane

'Twixt the bamboo and the cane Was a very lane of hell.

There were five stood forth at last; God above, but they were men! "Come!" — exultantly he saith! — Did they falter? Not a breath! Down the path of hurtling death The Lieutenant led them then.

Two have fallen — now a third! Forward dash the other three; In the onrush of that race Ne'er a swerve nor stay of pace. And the Tagals —-dare they face Such a desperate company?

Panic gripped them by the throat, — Every Tagal rifleman; And as though they seemed to see In those charging foemen three An avenging destiny, Fierce and fast and far they ran.

So a salvo for the six! So a round of ringing cheers! Heroes of the distant isles Where the endless summer smiles, — Gallant young Lieutenant Miles And his valiant volunteers!

ON AN AMERICAN SOLDIER OF FORTUNE SLAIN IN FRANCE

YOU, who sought the great adventure That the blind fates hold in store, Have beyond our mortal censure Passed forever, evermore; Passed beyond all joy or sighing, Blush of eve or flush of dawn, Who beneath the sod are lying In the forest of Argonne.

What it was that lured and led you Who shall venture, who shall say? From the valley of the dead you Speak not, question as we may; Yet somehow our thoughts have flowed to The remembrance of the debt That. our land has so long owed to Rochambeau and Lafayette.

You, bereft of earthly raiment,. Brave as they and theirs were brave, Have made sacrificial payment For whate'er their valor gave. As they came, with aid unsparing, When both fears and foes were rife,

So you went with dreams of daring And the offering of your life.

We, who cling to freedom, hail you, Son of never vanquished sires, Knowing courage did not fail you When you faced the battle fires; Knowing that no vaunt of Vandal Daunted your determined aim, Though your breath failed as a candle 'Neath a flash of morning flame.

All the brown Atlantic beaches From far Fundy to the Keys, All the billowy prairie reaches Sweeping westward toward the seas, Mount Katahdin and Mount Rainier, Lake and river great of girth, Greet your spirit, bold disdainer Of the tyrannies of earth!

Thrones shall crumble, kings shall perish, Howsoe'er their legions strive, But the liberties men cherish, They shall triumph and survive. You, blithe wraith, shall be beholder Of the flowering of that dawn, Though your pulseless clay may moulder In the forest of Argonne!

SONG FOR MEMORIAL DAY

LET us to-day, Who breathe the final sweetness of the May, Bring the enwreathèd bay For those who trod the sacrificial way! O sacred sod, And O endearèd dust, Thus would we keep our trust, — Our trust which is remembrance, and the just Tribute to those who fought and found their God!

Not with Love's melting eyes Bending above them did they drop the mould Of their mortality, and watch unfold The bright celestial skies; The face they saw Was red-envisaged Battle, with the awe Of thunders round about him wide unrolled; Not upon fair white wings, but wings of flame, The summoning vision came.

In many a garden-close The year's first rose Opens its perfumed petals to the day;

Then twine these with the bay, These tokens redolent, that they may be As fires about the shrine of Memory, Making perennially sweet the airs Whereon are borne our prayers!

Our prayers! — Yea, let us lift them! Those that sleep Have won the last great conflict, gained the crown Of radiance and renown, Leaving us warders of their heritage; Be our beseechment, then, that we may keep The land for which they bled (Loyal and laureled dead!) Unsullied as their courage, a white light Of peace and purity in all men's sight For the unfolding age!

A SONG FOR FLAG DAY

SPIRITS of Drake and Key, inspire my song With something of the vital, living fire That thrilled you when your fingers swept along Our country's earlier lyre!

For I, in these red days of battle flame, When half the stricken world is mad with Mars, And lilied Peace seems a forgotten name, Would sing the Stripes and Stars!

Although begot in strife, and first unfurled O'er rude Fort Stanwix in the wilderness, Our flag before the wide eyes of the world Stands not for storm and stress.

Though we may glory that it waved on high When cheers at Yorktown rang from lip to lip, That it heard Lawrence's immortal cry Of "Don't give up the ship!"

That o'er Chapultepec's stark heights it tossed When valor upward urged to victory, And led, when an ill-fated cause was lost, With Sherman to the sea;

And that it fluttered proudly at the peak Above the challenging cannon's rage and roar, When Dewey swept defiant through the reek Past stern Corregidor;

Nor stripe nor clustered star has ever shone Save but for freedom, for the broader birth Of liberty, — the dearer, clearer dawn Of brotherhood on earth.

Wave, then, O banner! May thy mission be To heal the grievous wounds, the woeful scars, Triumphant over wrong and tyranny, Belovèd Stripes and Stars!