Behold our glorious banner floats gayly in the air,

But four hours hence base traitors swore we could not plant

it there;

But brave Dupont he led us on to fight the vaunting foe,

And soon the rebel standard was in the dust laid low.

Whack row de dow,

How are you, old Port Royal?

Whack row de dow,

How are you, Secesh?

When we were seen advancing they laughed with foolish pride,

And said that soon our Northern fleet they'd sink beneath

the tide;

And with their guns trained carefully they waited our advance,

And the gallant Wabash soon struck up the music of the

dance.

The Susquehanna next in line delivered her broadside,

With deadly aim each shot was sent and well each gun was

plied;

And still our gallant ships advanced, and each one, as she

passed,

Poured in her deadly messengers, and the foe fell thick and

fast.

Each ship advanced in order, each captain wore a smile,

Until the famed Vandalia brought up the rear in style,

And as our guns were shortest we balanced to the right,

And brought us to the enemy the closest in the fight.

Then round the room (Port Royal bay) we took a Highland

Fling,

And showed them in Fort Walker what loud music we could

sing.

And then we poured in our broadsides that brought their

courage low,

And o'er the rebel batteries soon our Union flag did flow.

Three cheers for gallant Haggerty, he led us safely through;

And three for our loved Whiting, he is the real true blue.

Success to every officer who fought with us that day;

Together may we pass unscathed through many a gallant

fray.

A health to every gallant tar who did his duty well,

Peace to the ashes of the dead who nobly fighting fell.

'T was in a glorious cause they died, the Union to maintain.

We who are left, when called upon, will try it o'er again.

Some of the disagreeable features of a soldier's duty and camp life were dealt with by the soldiers in the spirit of humorous exaggeration, which was as much an evidence of high spirits as the enthusiastic choruses. A camp poet thus relieves his feelings in regard to the exercise of "double quick:"—

Since I became a volunteer things have went rather queer;

Some say I'm a three months' man, and others a three years'

volunteer.

With plenty of likes and dislikes to all I have to stick;

There's plenty of pork, salt horse, and plenty of Double

Quick.

Oh, I'm miserable, I'm miserable,

To all I 'll have to stick.

The old salt horse is passable,

But d-n the Double-Quick.

If a friend should call to see you the men have a pretty game.

They call him paymaster, obstacle, or some such kind of a

name.

They chase him around the camp; it's enough to make him

sick

To try and teach him discipline by giving him Double-Quick.

You may feel rather hungry, almost in a starving state,

And you wish to get your dinner first, all ready with your

plate;

There's always others just the same, waiting for the lick;

To be the twentieth one, you must travel Double-:Quick.

Once upon every Sunday to church you must always go,

Your bayonet by your side in case you should meet the foe;

And when the service was ended it was called the moral trick

To drive you back to your camp at a pleasant Double-Quick.

Each day there are just twelve roll-calls to keep you in the

camp;

If off three rods the bugle sounds, back you will have to tramp,

And, if you chance to miss, why, you are a poor, gone chick,—

Fourteen bricks in your knapsack, and four hours Double

Quick.

Now, all you chaps who would enlist, don't leap before you

look,

And, if you wish to fight for the Union, go on your own hook,

For, if a soldier you become, it will be your last kick,

To the devil you will surely be drove headlong Double-Quick.

The Southern poetry of the civil war was even more rhetorical and stilted than that of the North. Its literary culture was more provincial, and its style a great deal more inflated and artificial. It was the "foemen" that they were to meet instead of the enemy, and "gore" instead of blood that was to be shed; and there was a great deal about the "clank of the tyrant's chain," and the "bloodstained sword," and such other fuliginous figures of speech. Sometimes there was a good deal of force behind this sounding rhetoric, as in Henry Timrod's A Call to Arms and in James R. Randall's There's Life in the Old Land yet, but for the most part it had an air of bombast and turgidity, which would have given a false impression in regard to the real spirit of determination among the Southern people, if one had only judged by its inflated expression. The pages of the Southern Amaranth, and other collections of rebel poetry, give the impression of having been written by school-boys, and contain little but sophomoric rhetoric of the most sounding and inflated description. That it had a fiery energy and an invincible determination behind it was abundantly shown, but the voice of the South in its polite literature was one of inflated extravagance. Nevertheless it produced the most manly and vigorous song of the whole war in Dr. J. W. Palmer's Stonewall Jackson's Way; and some verses appeared in a Richmond paper in 1861, entitled Call All, which have a fiery energy and directness unsurpassed, and were in the genuine language of the people: