Cannoneer's Lament

"Gather up the fragments; let nothing be lost,
To show the coming ages what liberty cost" Anonymous


Texas Cannoneer's Lament

They say Texas folks are "full of themselves,"
And I'm considerably like all the rest.
Somehow we think we've "gotten an edge" --
More or less -- and are better than anyone's best.

We're dead certain that we have no superiors.
And da** few we regard as our peers.
The best of the best, so the story goes,
Find work as Reb cannoneers.

The pay's no good, and paydays are few.
And folks marvel that we continue at all.
But we calmly explain, as we load up again,
"Its the result of Adam and Eve's Fall."

Ha! I made it rhyme, like its 'sposed to. (A real "critic" could even "find some truth to it," which is definitely NOT there, as it was written by a Texian, written by "Hawk".)

Fighting Clergy

If memory serves me correctly, J.L. Chamberlain had been trained to become a missionary. He was very good at the languages and taught himself Greek (which was no small feat). Apparently, God had another mission in mind for him as he did teach religion after the War, but did not go into the mission field.

Robert E. Lee brought his Pastor into the army and put him in charge of artillery. The cannons in his first battery was named for the four gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. He was said to have urged his men to pray for their enemies' souls as they were killing their bodies.

Apparently, the Union blamed Southern Clergy for the war in general.

The clergy had a major role in both armies.


By Capt. Theodore O'Hara

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

Now weeps upon the wind,
No troubled thought at midnight haunts;
Of loved ones left behind.
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
Nor braying horn, nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral-tears have washed,
The red stains from each brow;
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are freed from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past.
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the flight.

The Soldier

Written by Charles M. Province

Submitted by Suzie Arnaud

It is the soldier, not the reporter,
who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the soldier, not the poet,
who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.

It is the soldier, not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the soldier,

who salutes the flag,
who serves under the flag,
and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
who allows the protester to burn the flag.

C. M. Wojahn


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