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Page 142
Then the gallant McDowell
Drove madly the rowel
Of spur that had never been "won" by him,
In the flank of his steed,
To accomplish a deed,
Such as never before had been done by him;
And the battery called Sherman's
Was wheeled into line,
While the beer-drinking Germans,
From Neckar and Rhine,
With minie and yager,
Came on with a swagger,
Full of fury and lager,
(The day and the pageant were equally fine.)
Oh! the fields were so green and the sky was so blue,
Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view,
As the column pushed onward to Richmond.
Ere the march was begun,
In a spirit of fun,
General Scott in a speech
Said this army should teach
The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey,
And just before dusk of the third or fourth day,
Should joyfully march into Richmond.
He spoke of their drill
And their courage and skill,
And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave
O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave
In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air
At their morning parades on the Capitol Square.
But alack! and alas!
Mark what soon came to pass,
When this army, in spite of his flatteries,
Amid war's loudest thunder
Must stupidly blunder
Upon those accursed "masked batteries."
Then Beauregard came,
Like a tempest of flame,
To consume them in wrath
On their perilous path;
And Johnston bore down in a whirlwind to sweep
Their ranks from the field
Where their doom had been sealed,
As the storm rushes over the face of the deep;
While swift on the centre our President pressed.
And the foe might descry
In the glance of his eye
The light that once blazed upon Diomed's crest.
McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day.
When the Southrons you meet in their battle array;
To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel
'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel.
Oh! the generals were green and old Scott is now blue,
And a terrible business, McDowell, to you,
Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.
Richmond Whig.
Turner Ashby.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia
To the brave all homage render,
Weep, ye skies of June!
With a radiance pure and tender,
Shine, oh saddened moon!
"Dead upon the field of glory,"
Hero fit for song and story,
Lies our bold dragoon!
Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,
Braver, knightlier foe
Never fought with Moor nor Paynim--
Rode at Templestowe;
With a mien how high and joyous,
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us,
Went he forth we know.
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