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Browsing named entities in Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 3. (ed. Frank Moore).

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Missouri (Missouri, United States) (search for this): chapter 8
8. songs of the rebels. A call to Kentuckians. by A Southern rights woman. Sons of Kentucky, arise from your dreaming! Awake, and to arms! for the foe draweth nigh; Must ye wait till our land with their legions are teeming, Ere ye rise in your might to battle or die? Oh, list to the wail from Missouri's heart coming, As trampled and bleeding she shrinks from the foe; Oh, such is our fate if thus ye lie sleeping; Then wake from your slumbers, and shield us from woe. The spirits of those who in battle have fallen, Are weeping in shame at your cowardly fear; The watchword of fiends hath already been given To crush and destroy all your loved ones so dear. Has the day gone fore'er, when 'twere nobler to be A son of Kentucky than diadems wear? Be ye cowards and slaves? Are ye no longer free, That thus with your traitorous tyrants ye bear! Then rise in your might, and repel each invader, Nor let our loved land be disgraced by their tread; Let the watchword be, “Freedom and States' Ri
Louisville (Kentucky, United States) (search for this): chapter 8
se from your dreaming! Awake, and to arms! for the foe draweth nigh; Must ye wait till our land with their legions are teeming, Ere ye rise in your might to battle or die? Oh, list to the wail from Missouri's heart coming, As trampled and bleeding she shrinks from the foe; Oh, such is our fate if thus ye lie sleeping; Then wake from your slumbers, and shield us from woe. The spirits of those who in battle have fallen, Are weeping in shame at your cowardly fear; The watchword of fiends hath already been given To crush and destroy all your loved ones so dear. Has the day gone fore'er, when 'twere nobler to be A son of Kentucky than diadems wear? Be ye cowards and slaves? Are ye no longer free, That thus with your traitorous tyrants ye bear! Then rise in your might, and repel each invader, Nor let our loved land be disgraced by their tread; Let the watchword be, “Freedom and States' Rights forever!” Nor cease till each foe shall lie low with the dead. Louisville, Ky., June 24, 1
Kentucky (Kentucky, United States) (search for this): chapter 9
9. Southern war-song. by N. P. W. To horse! to horse! our standard flies, The bugles sound the call; An alien navy stems our seas-- The voice of battle's on the breeze; Arouse ye, one and all! From beauteous Southern homes we come, A band of brothers true, Resolved to fight for liberty, And live or perish with our flag-- The noble red and blue. Though tamely crouch to Northern frown, Kentucky's tardy train; Though invaded soil, Maryland mourns, Though brave Missouri vainly spurns, And foaming gnaws the chain. Oh! had they marked the avenging call Their brethren's insults gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valor, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave. Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom's temple born?-- Dress our pale cheek in timid smiles, To hail a master in our house, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land Come pouring as a flood; The sun that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabre's deadly sway, And set tha
Maryland (Maryland, United States) (search for this): chapter 9
9. Southern war-song. by N. P. W. To horse! to horse! our standard flies, The bugles sound the call; An alien navy stems our seas-- The voice of battle's on the breeze; Arouse ye, one and all! From beauteous Southern homes we come, A band of brothers true, Resolved to fight for liberty, And live or perish with our flag-- The noble red and blue. Though tamely crouch to Northern frown, Kentucky's tardy train; Though invaded soil, Maryland mourns, Though brave Missouri vainly spurns, And foaming gnaws the chain. Oh! had they marked the avenging call Their brethren's insults gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valor, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave. Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom's temple born?-- Dress our pale cheek in timid smiles, To hail a master in our house, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land Come pouring as a flood; The sun that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabre's deadly sway, And set tha
Missouri (Missouri, United States) (search for this): chapter 9
9. Southern war-song. by N. P. W. To horse! to horse! our standard flies, The bugles sound the call; An alien navy stems our seas-- The voice of battle's on the breeze; Arouse ye, one and all! From beauteous Southern homes we come, A band of brothers true, Resolved to fight for liberty, And live or perish with our flag-- The noble red and blue. Though tamely crouch to Northern frown, Kentucky's tardy train; Though invaded soil, Maryland mourns, Though brave Missouri vainly spurns, And foaming gnaws the chain. Oh! had they marked the avenging call Their brethren's insults gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valor, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave. Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom's temple born?-- Dress our pale cheek in timid smiles, To hail a master in our house, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land Come pouring as a flood; The sun that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabre's deadly sway, And set tha
August 27th (search for this): chapter 10
une--Poor Old Horse, Let Him Die. Virginia had a son, Who gathered up some fame; He many battles won, And thereby won a name; But now he's growing old, And nature doth decay, Virginia she does scold, And all can hear her say, Poor old Scott, let him die. He is old, and very mean, sir; He is dull, and very slow; And it can now be seen, sir, He still does meaner grow; He is not fit to fight, Nor will he ever pray; Then kick him out of sight, And let Virginia say, Poor old Scott, let him die. The sound of his war-whoop No one again will hear; In dread laps he his hasty soup, With hell-fire in his rear; I had rather be a hog, And wallow in the mud, Than be old Lincoln's dog, Or be his warrior stud. Poor old Scott, let him die. I had rather be a dog, And bay the stars and moon; I had sooner be a frog, With a dungeon for my doom, Than to be poor old Scott, To fill a traitor's grave, And there in silence rot, Without a soul to save. Poor old Scott, let him die. --Richmond Dispatch, Aug. 27.
Abe Lincoln (search for this): chapter 10
une--Poor Old Horse, Let Him Die. Virginia had a son, Who gathered up some fame; He many battles won, And thereby won a name; But now he's growing old, And nature doth decay, Virginia she does scold, And all can hear her say, Poor old Scott, let him die. He is old, and very mean, sir; He is dull, and very slow; And it can now be seen, sir, He still does meaner grow; He is not fit to fight, Nor will he ever pray; Then kick him out of sight, And let Virginia say, Poor old Scott, let him die. The sound of his war-whoop No one again will hear; In dread laps he his hasty soup, With hell-fire in his rear; I had rather be a hog, And wallow in the mud, Than be old Lincoln's dog, Or be his warrior stud. Poor old Scott, let him die. I had rather be a dog, And bay the stars and moon; I had sooner be a frog, With a dungeon for my doom, Than to be poor old Scott, To fill a traitor's grave, And there in silence rot, Without a soul to save. Poor old Scott, let him die. --Richmond Dispatch, Aug. 27.
Allen M. Scott (search for this): chapter 10
11. song on Gen. Scott. by N. B. J****. tune--Poor Old Horse, Let Him Die. Virginia had a son, Who gathered up some fame; He many battles won, And thereby won a nature doth decay, Virginia she does scold, And all can hear her say, Poor old Scott, let him die. He is old, and very mean, sir; He is dull, and very slow; And it r will he ever pray; Then kick him out of sight, And let Virginia say, Poor old Scott, let him die. The sound of his war-whoop No one again will hear; In dread laps wallow in the mud, Than be old Lincoln's dog, Or be his warrior stud. Poor old Scott, let him die. I had rather be a dog, And bay the stars and moon; I had sooner be a frog, With a dungeon for my doom, Than to be poor old Scott, To fill a traitor's grave, And there in silence rot, Without a soul to save. Poor old Scott, let him, Than to be poor old Scott, To fill a traitor's grave, And there in silence rot, Without a soul to save. Poor old Scott, let him die. --Richmond Dispatch, Aug. 27.
Yankee Doodle (search for this): chapter 11
't choose to live On codfish and potatoes. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- And soook another drink Of gunpowder and brandy. Yankee Doodle made a speech; 'Twas very full of feeling: cannot fight, But I am good at stealing.” Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- HurrahManassas' plain, And never got the brandy. Yankee Doodle soon found out That Bull Run was no triflew how to rifle. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- “'Tis very clear, I took too much Of that infernal brandy.” Yankee Doodle wheeled about, And scampered off at full run; And such as never seen, As that he made at Bull Run. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- “I ha stop just now To take a drop of brandy.” Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame; You're always intermeddlius things; You'd better stick to peddling. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- “Wheno Bully Run, I'll throw away the brandy.” Yankee Doodle, you had ought To be a little smarter; Ins[15
Abe Lincoln (search for this): chapter 11
ankee Doodle dandy;-- And so, to keep his courage up, He took a drink of brandy. Yankee Doodle said he found, By all the census figures, That he could starve the rebels out, If he could steal their niggers. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- And then he took another drink Of gunpowder and brandy. Yankee Doodle made a speech; 'Twas very full of feeling: “I fear,” says he, “I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing.” Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- Hurrah for Lincoln — he's the boy To take a drop of brandy. Yankee Doodle drew his sword, And practised all the passes; “Come, boys, we'll take another drink When we get to Manassas.” Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- They never reached Manassas' plain, And never got the brandy. Yankee Doodle soon found out That Bull Run was no trifle; For if the North knew how to steal, The South knew how to rifle. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy;-- “'Tis very clear, I took too much
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