Come foul or fair,
    Come trouble and care—­
    No—­never a sigh
    Or a thought of despair! 
For my little bird sings in my heart to me, As he sang from his perch in the willow tree—­ Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee:  Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee;
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

ANTHEM

[APRIL, 1861.]

Spirit of Liberty,
  Wake in the Land! 
Sons of our Forefathers,
  Raise the strong hand! 
Burn in each heart anew
  Liberty’s fires;
Wave the old Flag again,
  Flag of our sires;
Glow all thy stars again,
  Banner of Light! 
Wave o’er us forever,
  Emblem of might;
God for our Banner! 
  God for the Right!

Minions of Tyranny,
  Tremble and kneel! 
The sons of the Pilgrims
Are sharpening their steel. 
Pledge for our Land again
  Honor and life;
Wave the old Flag again;
  On to the strife! 
Shades of our Forefathers,
  Witness our fright! 
Wave o’er us forever,
  Emblem of might;
God for our Banner! 
  God for our Right!

HURRAH FOR THE VOLUNTEERS

[May, 1861.]

Come then, brave men, from the Land of Lakes
  With steady steps and cheers;
Our country calls, as the battle breaks,
  On the Northwest Pioneers. 
Let the eagle scream, and the bayonet gleam! 
  Hurrah for the Volunteers!

CHARGE OF “THE BLACK-HORSE”

[First battle of Bull Run.]

Our columns are broken, defeated, and fled;
We are gathered, a few from the flying and dead,
Where the green flag is up and our wounded remain
Imploring for water and groaning in pain. 
Lo the blood-spattered bosom, the shot-shattered limb,
The hand-clutch of fear as the vision grows dim,
The half-uttered prayer and the blood-fettered breath,
The cold marble brow and the calm face of death. 
O proud were these forms at the dawning of morn,
When they sprang to the call of the shrill bugle-horn: 
There are mothers and wives that await them afar;
God help them!—­Is this then the glory of war? 
But hark!—­hear the cries from the field of despair;
“The Black-Horse” are charging the fugitives there;
They gallop the field o’er the dying and dead,
And their blades with the blood of their victims are red. 
The cries of the fallen and flying are vain;
They saber the wounded and trample the slain;
And the plumes of the riders wave red in the sun,
As they stoop for the stroke and the murder goes on. 
They halt for a moment—­they form and they stand;
Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band
Like the samiel that sweeps o’er Arabia’s sand. 
“Halt!—­down with your sabers!—­the dying are here! 
Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear.”