Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 27.
Reverend J. William Jones, Ed.

Told in verse.

He lived the life of an upright man,
     And the people loved him well;
Many a wayfarer came to his door,
     His sorrow or need to tell,
A pitying heart and an open hand,
     Gave succor ready and tree;
For kind and true to his fellow-man
     And a Christian was David Creigh.

But o'er his threshold a shadow passed,
     With the step of a ruffian foe;
While in silent words and brutal threats
     A purpose of darkness show;
And a daughter's wild, imploring cry
     Called the father to her side—
His hand was nerved by the burning wrong,
     And there the offender died.

The glory of autumn had gone from earth,
     The winter had passed away,
And the glad spring-time was merging fast,
     Into summer's ardent ray,
When a good man from his home was torn—
     Days of toilsome travel to see—
And far from his loved a crown was worn,
     And the martyr was David Creigh.

[185] The tramp of your men is at our door,
     On an evil errand come;
But for love of them whose garb you wear,
     I invite you to my home.
So spoke the Southron! the Chaplain thus:
     Though sick and weary I be,
I can't break bread 'neath a southern roof,
     Since the murder of David Creigh!

Here where he lived, let the end be told,
     Of a told of bitter wrong;
Here let our famishing thousands learn,
     To whom vengeance doth belong.
Short grace was given the dying man;
     E're led to the fatal tree,
And share the grace to our starving hosts,
     Since the murder of David Creigh!

Our hosts were stayed in their onward cry,
     Exulting in power and pride,
By an unseen hand—defeat and unrest,
     Our banners march beside;
And a heavier burden no heart hath borne,
     Than the one that came to me,
With the dying words and the latest sigh
     Of the martyr David Creigh.

The beast of the desert shields its young,
     With an instinct fierce and wild,
And lives there a man with the heart of a man,
     Who would not defend his child?
So woe to those who call evil good—
     That woe shall not come to me—
War hath no record of fouler deed,
     Than the murder of David Creigh.