SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA.

[This popular song was written while its author, Adjutant Byers, of the Fifth Iowa Regiment, was a prisoner at Columbia, S. C. Of its origin he says: "There are hundreds of old comrades who remember the afternoon in the prison-pen at Columbia when our glee club said, 'Now we are going to sing something about Billy Sherman'!' and with what rousing cheers the song and the writer were welcomed. The rebel officers ran in to see what was loose among the prisoners, and they, too, had music in their souls, and said if the glee club would sing Dixie Land' they might sing Sherman's March to the Sea' also; and so for weeks our glee club-the only sunshine we had in prison-made the old barrack walls ring with songs of the blue and the gray." The piece attracted the attention of General Sherman, who sent for the author and attached him to his staff.]

OUR camp-fires shone bright on the mountain
That frowned on the river below,

As we stood by our guns in the morning,
And eagerly watched for the foe;
When a rider came out of the darkness
That hung over mountain and tree,
And shouted, "Boys, up and be ready!
For Sherman will march to the sea!"

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman
Went up from each valley and glen,
And the bugles re-echoed the music

That came from the lips of the men;

For we knew that the stars in our banner
More bright in their splendor would be,

And that blessings from Northland would greet us
When Sherman marched down to the sea.

Then forward, boys! forward to battle!
We marched on our wearisome way,
We stormed the wild hills of Resaca-
God bless those who fell on that day!
Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,

Frowned down on the flag of the free;

But the East and the West bore our standard,
And Sherman marched on to the sea.

Still onward we pressed, till our banners
Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls,
And the blood of the patriot dampened
The soil where the traitor-flag fails ;
We paused not to weep for the fallen
Who slept by each river and tree,
Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel,
As Sherman marched down to the sea.

Oh, proud was our army that morning,
That stood where the pine darkly towers,
When Sherman said, “Boys, you are weary,
But to-day fair Savannah is ours!"
Then sang we the song of our chieftain,
That echoed o'er river and lea,

And the stars in our banner shone brighter
When Sherman marched down to the sea.
SAMUEL H. M. BYERS

SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY.

A PILLAR of fire by night,

A pillar of smoke by day,

Some hours of march--then a halt to fight,
And so we hold our way;

Some hours of march-then a halt to fight,
As on we hold our way.

Over mountain and plain and stream,
To some bright Atlantic bay,

With our arms aflash in the morning beam,
We hold our festal way;

With our arms aflash in the morning beam,
We hold our checkless way.

There is terror wherever we come,

There is terror and wild dismay

When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum
Announce us on the way;

When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum
Beating time to our onward way.

Never unlimber a gun

For those villainous lines in gray;

Draw sabres, and at 'em upon the run!

'Tis thus we clear our way;

Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run,
As we hold our conquering way.

The loyal, who long have been dumb,

Are loud in their cheers to-day;

And the old men out on their crutches come,

To see us hold our way;

And the old men out on their crutches come,
To bless us on our way.

Around us in rear and flanks

Their futile squadrons play;

With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks,
We hold our checkless way;

With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks,
Our banner clears the way.

Hear the spattering fire that starts

From the woods and copses gray!

There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts, As we frolic along the way;

There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts,

As we rattle along the way.

Upon different roads abreast

The heads of our columns gay,

With fluttering flags all forward prest,

Hold on their conquering way;

With fluttering flags to victory prest,
We hold our glorious way!

Ah, traitors who bragged so bold
In the sad war's early day!

Did nothing predict you should ever behold
The Old Flag come this way?

Did nothing predict you should yet behold
Our banner come back this way?

By Heaven! 'tis a gala march,
'Tis a picnic or a play;

Of all our long war, 'tis the crowning arch,-
Hip, hip! for Sherman's way!

Of all our long war, this crowns the arch,-
For Sherman and Grant, hurra!

CHARLES G. HALPINE.

ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS.

WHO are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human,

With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet?

Why, rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet?

('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, Forth from thy hovel door, thou, Ethiopia, com'st to

me,

As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) Me, master, years a hundred, since, from my parents sundered,

A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught,

Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought.

No further does she say, but lingering all the day, Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye,

And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by.

What is it, fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red

and green?

Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen?

WALT WHITMAN.

SAVANNAH.

THOU hast not drooped thy stately head,
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Thou comest to thy battle bed,
Savannah! O Savannah !

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;
To thee the triple cords belong

Of woe and death and shameless wrong,
And spirit vaunted long, too long!
Savannah! O Savannah!

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;
Only the martyrs' blood is there;
It gleams upon thy bosom bier,
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,
Savannah! O Savannah !

Thy clean white hand is opened wide
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,
Savannah! O Savannah!