The Findlay Jeffersonian. [volume] (Findlay, Hancock County, Ohio) 1870-1881, 1876-11-24
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OLD FARMER BROWNS DREAM.

Hannah, l had dream last night that the
War again had come; .
/ heard the scream O the merry fife an
rattlin' O. the drum;
Once more our gallant Boys in Blue, with
their glitterin' guns, we're seen,
An our company formed in solid line
upon the village green.
There we're wimmin there with theil
little ones, an with faces pale an
white,
As they said "Good-by" to the men they
love who were startin' for the fight
There were lovers who parted forever
thenan' mothers who tried TO pray
There were little babies who clapped
their hands as their fathers march
ed away
Away from the peaceful village, with a
firm an a solemn tread,
An down to the fields O glory where the
burrows an streams were red;
Away in the merry Spring time, an into
the bloody fray.
While the silver-cresrcdf ds.inioS were q
bloomin' beside the way
With our war-drums a-wildly rollin'
with our voices jined in song,
An our Colors a-gayly fyin' as we proud
~ passed along.
Then followed the sultry Summer; our
faces grew dark and brown,
While over the dusty highway we tramp
ed from town to town;
Our feet we're blistered an weary, an our
bodies were racked with pain,
An some on us fell by the roadside, to
never rise again.
While the Autumn-leaves were a-fallin''
Law upon my bed,
With a I.ebel bullet in me, an both of
my boys were dead.
| could hear the loud guns boomin' with
out the Shiny wall,
An while hundreds died around me, |
struggled through it all.
Again at the dreary outposts, when the
fields were frozen hard
On the banks of the bleak Potomac, |
stood in the snow, on guard,
thought O. the ones that loved me, in
my home so far away,
While / watched the stars above me: an
waited the dawn o day.
dreamed stood on the battle field, with
the bullets a-whistling by,
With the smoke so thick about my head
that couldn't see the sky
With the cannon around me roarin', like
bursts O thunder-sound;
Where the dyin' an the dead together
lay in heaps upon the gDund;
Where many fallen hero, with his last
expirin' breath,
As his gallant comrades sweptalong in
their last wild charge O. death,
Rose up on his hands and cheGed 'em,
from the furrow where he lay,
with thirst an fever, while his
life blood ebbed away;
Where the horrible cry of the wounded
resounded through the air,
As the sun went down at the close o
day, with a red and awful glare:
Where, down in the dark raEines, in
trenches long an deep,
We buried our dead, an left EN- to their
last unbroken sleep.
Ny dream was changed. Above me /
saw a cloudy sky;
Once more in Southern prison in an
guish | seemed to lie,
With nothin' o'erhead for sheltr-on a
pile O moldy hay,
With hundreds around me starvin' an
a-dyin' every day.
[ was chilled BY the dews o. the erenin.:
was wet by the fallin' rain,
An with lips that we're parched with
fever prayed for death in vain.
We were tortured beyond endurance,
while Rebel fiends stood by,
Who gloated upon our anguish, an smiI-
ed to see as die.
l woke up from that awful
dream with the cold sweat on my
brow,
An L thank the Lord with all my soul
that the War is over now;
That over the country everywhere the
Old Flag still remains;
That the millions are freed from their
bondage who once were held in
chains;
That the terrible Southern slave pens
their prey no longer hold;
That the auction blocks have vanished
where human flesh was sold;
That no more amid the tangled swamps
we hear the baying hound;
That the whipping post is overthrown to
which the slave was bound.
Where are the Southern Traitors whom
we fought on many field?
Where are the Northern Copperheds
who were the last to yield?
Where are the wild guerrillas who
wrought such human wo,
Who murdered defenseless wimnin a
dozen years ago?
There are some who have served the
Devil so long an so very well
That, instead O bein' in Congress they
ought to be in Hell,
With leetle fire an birthstone to keep
'em kind O. warm;
There are some who are shooting mig
gers" an a-shoutin' for Reform;
There are some who are talkin' Treason,
an will until they die; /
And ALL are a-howlin for Tilden as load
as wolves can cry.
Under the wavin' Southern pines our
fallen heroes sleep,
Down in the darksome trenches, in many
molderin' heap;
An there, on the fields O. glory, they're
waitin' the Judgment-Day;
lust we tell our children's children that
those lives were thrown away?
-EiIneno Hall a, Ehinn 40 II,-ihIIne