(_From the Partisan._)
I.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, His friends and merry men are we; And when the troop of Tarleton rides, We burrow in the cypress tree.
The turfy hammock is our bed, Our home is in the red deer"s den, Our roof, the tree-top overhead, For we are wild and hunted men.
II.
We fly by day, and shun its light, But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, We mount and start with early night, And through the forest track our foe.
And soon he hears our chargers leap, The flashing sabre blinds his eyes, And ere he drives away his sleep, And rushes from his camp, he dies.
III.
Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed, That will not ask a kind caress, To swim the Santee at our need, When on his heels the foemen press,-- The true heart and the ready hand, The spirit stubborn to be free, The twisted bore, the smiting brand,-- And we are Marion"s men, you see.
IV.
Now light the fire, and cook the meal, The last perhaps that we shall taste; I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, And that"s a sign we move in haste.
He whistles to the scouts, and hark!
You hear his order calm and low-- Come, wave your torch across the dark, And let us see the boys that go.
V.
We may not see their forms again, G.o.d help "em, should they find the strife!
For they are strong and fearless men, And make no coward terms for life; They"ll fight as long as Marion bids, And when he speaks the word to shy, Then--not till then--they turn their steeds, Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.
VI.
Now stir the fire, and lie at ease, The scouts are gone, and on the brush I see the colonel bend his knees, To take his slumbers too--but hush!
He"s praying, comrades; "tis not strange; The man that"s fighting day by day, May well, when night comes, take a change, And down upon his knees to pray.
VII.
Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand The sly and silent jug that"s there; I love not it should idly stand, When Marion"s men have need of cheer.
"Tis seldom that our luck affords A stuff like this we just have quaffed, And dry potatoes on our boards May always call for such a draught.
VIII.
Now pile the brush and roll the log; Hard pillow, but a soldier"s head That"s half the time in brake and bog Must never think of softer bed.
The owl is hooting to the night, The cooter crawling o"er the bank, And in that pond the flashing light Tells where the alligator sank.
IX.
What! "tis the signal! start so soon.
And through the Santee swamp so deep, Without the aid of friendly moon, And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!
But courage, comrades! Marion leads, The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; So clear your swords, and spur your steeds, There"s goodly chance, I think, of fight.
X.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress tree, Our spurs are in our coursers" sides, And ready for the strife are we,-- The Tory camp is now in sight, And there he cowers within his den,-- He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion"s men.
[Ill.u.s.tration: [Handwriting: Most truly & aff^ly yours R E Lee]]
ROBERT EDWARD LEE.
~1807=1870.~
ROBERT EDWARD LEE was born at Stratford, Westmoreland County, Virginia, descended from a long line of ill.u.s.trious ancestors. He was educated as a soldier at West Point, served with great distinction under General Scott in the Mexican War, and commanded the troops which suppressed the John Brown Raid in 1859. When his State seceded in 1861, he resigned his commission of Colonel in the United States Army, and returned to Virginia. He was appointed commander-in-chief of the Virginia forces, and later of the Confederate Army. His course during the war has elicited the praise and admiration of all military critics. After the war he quietly turned to the duties of a citizen.
He became president of Washington College, which is now called in his honor Washington and Lee University. He stands with Washington a model for young men, and many monuments in marble and bronze attest the love and devotion of the South to her great Chief.
WORKS.
_Edited_ his father"s Memoirs of the Revolution.
Letters and Addresses.
General Lee was a soldier and a man who acted rather than spoke or wrote. When, however, it was his duty to speak or write, he did it, as he did everything else, excellently, striving to express in simplest language the right and proper thing rather than draw attention and admiration to himself by any effort at grace or beauty of style. Its simplicity reminds us of Washington.
His life has been written by John Esten Cooke, John William Jones, J. D. McCabe, Jr., and Fitz Hugh Lee, his nephew.
TO HIS SON.
Duty is the sublimest word in the English language.
At THE SURRENDER.
Human virtue should be equal to human calamity.
GENERAL LEE"S LAST ORDER.
(_Appomattox Court-House, April 10, 1865._)
After four years of arduous service, marked by unsurpa.s.sed courage and fort.i.tude, the Army of Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not tell the survivors of so many hard-fought battles, who have remained steadfast to the last, that I have consented to this result from no distrust of them; but, feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish nothing that would compensate for the loss that would have attended the continuation of the contest, I have determined to avoid the useless sacrifice of those whose past services have endeared them to their countrymen. By the terms of the agreement, officers and men can return to their homes, and remain there until exchanged.
You will take with you _the satisfaction that proceeds from the consciousness of duty faithfully performed_; and I earnestly pray that a merciful G.o.d will extend to you his blessing and protection. With an unceasing admiration of your constancy and devotion to your country, and a grateful remembrance of your kind and generous consideration of myself, I bid you an affectionate farewell.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ~Washington and Lee University, Lexington, Va.~]