Dedicated to Mrs. Basil Duke. Wild disorder, uproar, panic, Civil war with deeds Satanic Break Kentucky’s dream—Neutrality— Everywhere war’s stern reality Drum and fife and bugle-playing— Terrors breeding; fears allaying— For various hopes and fears are rife In the wild rage of civil strife; When son and sire in contest stand, Each loyal to his native land, Obeying many-voiced command; One loyal to the stripes and stars— One faithful to the stars and bars! There curls the smoke of burning train! There leaguered stockades fight in vain— War glows on hill and glen. Fat cattle to the camp are led, The farmer mourns his thoroughbred. They quickly came, as quickly fled; Swift as an Indian arrow sped— The Southron’s joy, the Federal’s dread— John Morgan and his men? Loved and obeyed by his command, With woman’s heart and lion’s hand— The Sydney of the Southern land John Harper’s thoroughbreds forsake The turf of Woodford’s old cane-brake; And walnut, oak and hackberry grove, To track the bridle paths that rove High o’er the caves of Edmonson— The treeless fields without a sun! And bear the bold Rough Riders on Where trains are seized and treasures won. Dark Echo River’s weeping wave Shall mourn beneath the warrior’s grave, The dauntless partisan who rode Right on through storm and snow and flood. The foe exclaims, “He’s here!” “He’s there!” Vanished like spectres in the air, Trackless, save for the empty stall, Or smoke wreath rising like a pall Over the commissary’s store, Where hungry comrades loud deplore The thunderbolt of Morgan’s raid— Chief of th’ Invisible Brigade, Vanished, like morning rainbow, spun By golden distaff of the sun. There is bustle and commotion to-night with “Ellen N,” Fair Ellen, maid of iron stays, beloved of many men, From a thousand fertile valleys, from many a teeming glen, She bears great stores on laboring trains to Thomas and his men The blue-coats down at Nashville have come to do or die, To battle for the old flag beneath the Southern sky, And to Ellen’s welcome ministry—they look most wistfully, She bears souvenirs and messages in her capacious trains, The maidens of the great Northwest send greetings to their swains, She has hard-tack, and tobacco, and bacon in her store, She has cod-fish and dried beef and gingerbread galore, From Keystone, Empire State, from Indiana’s plains Ellen speeds them all along in her wide flowing trains, Bibles and tracts and song-books, and sweet messages from home, And prayer-books from every church from Geneva to Rome, From many a Western Valley, from many a quiet glen, Comes goodly cheer from the kindly hands of buxom Ellen N. There is trouble on your road to-night, O dauntless Ellen N! There is panic, there is hurry—’tis John Morgan and his men, There are bridges burned—the track’s ripped up—some one has cut the wire And commissary stores go up by thousands in the fire, A sudden charge at midnight, the long train is in ashes, The magazine explodes with deafening roar and crashes, Millions go up like tinder in all-consuming flame, And Morgan and his men ride off, as quickly as they came. Nashville and Chattanooga rue, Divided rations cut in two. The horseman scathless burned and fled Their foes went supperless to bed. They might as well have fought the air They charged—but Morgan was not there. His baffled foe, always too slow To harass or inflict a blow, Muttered, “For sure the man’s a wizard, One might as well strike at a blizzard,” He’s here—he’s gone again—he’s there! Like exhalation of the air Waving its strange, uncanny light O’er grave or dismal swamp at night. One trait his hottest foe confessed, “A hero’s heart beats in his breast, He never strikes a foe when down, Nor woman ever saw him frown.” The mean poltroon of later days Who dons a mask in devious ways, Black mask and heart, in liver white, Fleet as a hare in coward flight And worthy of the hangman’s loop Ne’er found his like in Morgan’s troop. They lashed no helpless foeman’s back, No woman felt his brute attack. He burned no roof o’er matron’s head, While sleeping with her babes in bed, Nor scourged with thorns till shoulders bled. No town was burned in bandit flame Till the poltroon Night-riders came, With bloody threats in unsigned letters And switches to alarm their betters; An anarchist of basest soul, The gallows-tree his fitting goal Without a hope of reformation He forces this dilemma on the nation, Expatriation or Extermination. Bred in a home of luxury, The very flower of courtesy, The pet of good life’s merry whirl, The dread of many a Federal band, The darling of the Southern land, Rode Morgan like a Centaur’s self, But not for vulgar greed or pelf, Chivalrous men of force and pride, Sought brave adventures at his side, How shrewd he struck, how hard his blow The bravest Federal well might know, Even while their needed stores were brough Destruction came as quick as thought. Victim of Woman’s treachery, He perished not as the brave should die, Decoyed to death, unarmed he died. No friend nor weapon by his side, Without resistance or a blow, His death-doom came from heartless foe, And strong men of heroic heart Who stooped not to the assassin’s art Dropped at the news an honest tear When Morgan after bright career Unscathed by ball or battle-spear, Rested at last upon his bier, And unattended and unshriven The warrior’s soul went up to Heaven. No base Night-riders he bequeathed, When peace her joyful olives wreathed. Nor placed a mean banditti stamp Upon the soldiers of his camp. When truce was called by Grant and Lee ’Neath Appomattox apple tree, And ’mid the late conflicting bands Rejoicing Blue and Gray shook hands, And maidens by no fear oppressed Clasped warrior lovers to their breast, When Richmond’s hills echoed no more, The black-lipped cannon’s horrid roar, A scene was witnessed there sublime, A wonder in the halls of Time, Each soldier to his work returned, In whom the love of country burned Some to their shops or honest trade; Trained by the clinic of the camp Doctors relit the student’s lamp. Some to the courts, or in the States’ Grand forum joined the high debates, Others who learned in the late strife The vanity of mortal life, Proclaimed the Gospel’s “Old, old Story” Their mothers taught long passed to glory, Leading their audience to Christ Whose balm for every ill sufficed. Watering their flocks at Jordan’s springs, Whose doves bore healing in their wings Some of the band of Morgan’s fighters, Swapped swords for pens of ready writers, And Captains spruce and bearded Colonels Ruled Times, Gazettes, and Courier-Journals Some tossed the blazing torch aside, And ruled the tracks they once destroyed, Building steel railways far and near; And Duke who rode with Morgan’s men, Turns suitor now to “Ellen N.” Each man who followed Morgan’s fame Inspired by his heroic name, His living monument became. In Gotham’s mighty mart of trade, Which all of worth and brain invites The men of Morgan’s cavalcade Conspicuous walk as shining lights As walked the men of Washington When Revolution’s war was done. In posts of honor now they labor As when equipped with gun and sabre, And men exclaim on every hand “These rode in Morgan’s great Command. Nor lapse of years shall e’er dispel The love with which they fondly dwell On comrades who in battle fell, Who braved Stone River’s fiery scath, Or forward pressed on bloody path Of Shiloh’s field or Nashville’s wrath. |