The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
    Wherever the darkey may go;
  A few more days, and the trouble all will end,
    In the field where the sugar-canes grow. 
  A few more days for to tote the weary load,—­
    No matter, ’twill never be light;
  A few more days till we totter on the road,—­
    Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!

          Weep no more, my lady,
          Oh, weep no more to-day! 
  We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,
          For the old Kentucky Home, far away.

S.C.  FOSTER.

The Black Regiment.

Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.

  Dark as the clouds of even,
  Ranked in the western heaven,
  Waiting the breath that lifts
  All the dread mass, and drifts
  Tempest and falling brand
  Over a ruined land;—­
  So still and orderly,
  Arm to arm, knee to knee,
  Waiting the great event,
  Stands the black regiment.

  Down the long, dusky line
  Teeth gleam, and eyeballs shine;
  And the bright bayonet,
  Bristling and firmly set,
  Flashed with a purpose grand,
  Long ere the sharp command
  Of the fierce rolling drum
  Told them their time had come,
  Told them what work was sent
  For the black regiment.

  “Now,” the flag-sergeant cried,
  “Though death and hell betide,
  Let the whole nation see
  If we are fit to be
  Free in this land; or bound
  Down, like the whining hound,—­
  Bound with red stripes of pain
  In our old chains again!”
  Oh, what a shout there went
  From the black regiment!

  “Charge!” Trump and drum awoke,
  Onward the bondmen broke;
  Bayonet and sabre-stroke
  Vainly opposed their rush. 
  Through the wild battle’s crush,
  With but one thought aflush,
  Driving their lords like chaff,
  In the guns’ mouths they laugh;
  Or at the slippery brands
  Leaping with open hands,
  Down they tear man and horse,
  Down in their awful course;
  Trampling with bloody heel
  Over the crashing steel,
  All their eyes forward bent,
  Rushed the black regiment.

  “Freedom!” their battle-cry,—­
  “Freedom! or leave to die!”
  Ah! and they meant the word,
  Not as with us ’tis heard,
  Not a mere party shout;
  They gave their spirits out,
  Trusted the end to God,
  And on the gory sod
  Rolled in triumphant blood. 
  Glad to strike one free blow,
  Whether for weal or woe;
  Glad to breathe one free breath,
  Though on the lips of death;
  Praying—­alas! in vain!—­
  That they might fall again,
  So they could once more see
  That burst to liberty! 
  This was what “freedom” lent
  To the black regiment.

  Hundreds on hundreds fell;
  But they are resting well;
  Scourges and shackles strong
  Never shall do them wrong. 
  Oh, to the living few,
  Soldiers, be just and true! 
  Hail them as comrades tried;
  Fight with them side by side;
  Never, in field or tent,
  Scorn the black regiment.