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 MEN MAY COME AND MEN MAY GO. BUT 
 THE SONGS OF A NATION LIVE FOREVER 
 
 iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiy 
 
 In no section of our country has the 
 gentle muse found readier response 
 than in dear old Georgia. 
 
 In presenting these fragments from the 
 Immortals our embarrassment lay 
 mostly in selection. 
 
 Many of these were written in those 
 dark and troublesome days that tried 
 men's souls, yet they carry a ring of 
 patriotism that may be helpful to the 
 youth of this generation. 
 
 As such they are presented with the 
 compliments of 
 
 THE GRAND COMMANDERY 
 
 KNIGHTS TEMPLAR gf GEORGIA 
 
 1916 
 
 SiiiiiiiimSSi^SSiiS^SiiSSim^Si 
 
 Most of these poems are under copyright and are printed here 
 by courtesy of the publishers. \i^e are under special obligations 
 to the firm of D. Appleton &' Company of New York 
 
"Yet would I rather in the outward state 
 Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, 
 
 A beggar basking by that radiant gate, 
 Than bend beneath the haughtiest 
 empire's crown." 
 
 So wrote Paul U. Haifiie. of AuijuKta, <!a., at the close of a short 
 but tempestuous career. Died 1886. 
 
 PATIENCE 
 
 She hath no beauty in her face, 
 
 Unless the chastened sweetness there 
 
 And meek long suffering yield a grace 
 To make her mournful features fair. 
 
 Shunned by the gay. the proud, the young, 
 She roams through dim unsheltered ways, 
 
 Nor lovers' vows, nor flatterers' tongue. 
 Brings music to her sombre days. 
 
 Yet in her passionate strengtli supreme, 
 Despair beyond her ])athway lies. 
 
 Awed by the softly steadfast beam 
 Of sad but heaven-enamored eyes. 
 
 Who pause to greet her vaguely seem 
 Touched by fine wafts of holier air, 
 
 As those who in some mystic dream. 
 Talk with the nngels unaware! 
 
 Paul Hayne. 
 
 
LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE 
 
 Dr. P. O. Ticknor, a family physician near Columbus, Ga., found time 
 out of a busy plantation practice to tell the beautiful story of a wounded 
 soldier boy whom Mrs. Ticknor found in the hospital. Attracted by his 
 extreme youth, and despite the surgeons' answer of "hopeless", she took 
 him to her beautiful country home where with the Doctor's help she 
 mothered him back to life. 
 
 As soon a^ strong enough he returned to the front, again to offer 
 his life to his country. He wa.i never more heard from, but his story 
 will live forever. 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire. 
 Out of the hospital walls as dire, 
 Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
 (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen !) 
 Spectre! such as you seldom see. 
 Little Giffen, of Tennessee. 
 
 "Take him — and welcome!" the surgeons said; 
 "Little the doctor can help the dead !" 
 So we took him and brought him where 
 The balm was sweet in the summer air; 
 And we laid him down on a wholesome bed — 
 Utter Lazarus, heel to head! 
 
 And we watched the war with abated breath — 
 Skeleton boy against skeleton death. 
 Months of torture, how many such ! 
 Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; 
 And still a glint of the steel-blue rye 
 Told of a spirit that wouldn't die. 
 
 And didn't. Nay, more ! in death's despite 
 The crippled skeleton learned to write. 
 "Dear Mother," at first, of course; and then 
 "Dear Captain," inquiring about the men. 
 Captain's answer: "Of eighty-and-five. 
 GifFen and I are left alive." 
 
Word of gloom from the war, one day; 
 "Johnston pressed at the front, they say." 
 Little Giff'en was up and away; 
 A tear — his first — as he bade good-by, 
 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
 "I'll write, if spared!'' There was news of the fight; 
 But none of GifFen. He did not write. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that, were I king 
 
 Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, 
 
 With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, 
 
 And the tender legend that trembles here, 
 
 I'd give the best on his bended knee, 
 
 The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
 
 For Little Giffen, of Tennessee. 
 
 Francis Orray Ticknor. 
 
 Dr. Tk'knor wrote that beautiful /xiem no famiUar to the Templar, 
 
 THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY 
 
 The knightliest of the knightly race 
 That, since the days of old. 
 
 Have kept the lamp of chivalry 
 Alight in hearts of gold. 
 
 Who climbed the blue Virginian hills 
 
 Against embattled foes 
 And planted there, in valleys fair, 
 
 The lily and the rose. 
 Whose fragrance lives in many lands. 
 
 Whose beauty stars the earth 
 And lights the hearths of happy homes 
 
 With loveliness and worth. 
 
GEORGIA MINE 
 
 Th' almiglity sun that floods the isles 
 
 And continents with glory /^ 
 
 Upon no fairer region smiles ( 
 
 Than Georgia, famed in story. J 
 
 Where'er her sons in alien lands 
 
 Indulge the lust for roaming. 
 In fertile fields or desert sands. 
 
 Their hearts are still a-homing. 
 
 Born in response to human needs. 
 
 She struck from off the debtor 
 And from the victim of the creeds, 
 
 Oppression's galling fetter; 
 She rescued derelicts forlorn 
 
 And waifs misfortune hounded; 
 In charity divinely born, 
 
 Her commonwealth was founded. 
 
 Marietta, Ga. W. T. Dumas. 
 
 General Hevrif R. Jacfc^on of Sfivnmioh Jeff an imperishable monu- 
 ment in 
 
 THE RED OLD HILLS OF GEORGIA 
 
 The red old hills of Georgia 
 
 So bold and bare and bleak ! 
 Their memory fills my spirit 
 
 With thoughts I can not speak. 
 They have no rol)e of verdure. 
 
 Stripped naked to the blast; 
 And yet of all the varied earth 
 
 I love them best at last. 
 
Henry Timrod, though a son of South Carolina was a graduate of 
 the University of Georgia, which allows us to give his stirring War Song 
 that many consider the strongest English ever found in verse. It was 
 written in 1861 and brought every son of his beloved state "To the Col- 
 ors". It was well called: 
 
 A CRY TO ARMS 
 
 Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! 
 
 Ho, dwellers in the vales ! 
 Ho, ye who by the chafing tide 
 
 Have roughened in the gales! 
 Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, 
 
 Lay by the bloodless spade; 
 Let desk and case and counter rot, 
 
 And burn your books of trade! 
 
 Come with the weapons at your call — 
 
 With musket, pike, or knife; 
 He wields the deadliest blade of all 
 
 Who lightest holds his life. 
 The arm that drives its unbought blows 
 
 With all a patriot's scorn, 
 Might brain a t.vrant with a rose 
 
 Or stab him with a thorn. 
 
 Does any falter? Let him turn 
 
 To some brave maiden's eyes. 
 And catch the holy fires that burn 
 
 In those sublunar skies. 
 Oh. could you like your women feel, 
 
 And in their spirit march, 
 A day might see your lines of steel 
 
 Beneath the victor's arch! 
 
These lines found written upon the back of a new |500 bill have long 
 been classed anonymous and credited to many writers, but the identity 
 of the author is now established as Capt. I. S. Jonas, of Aberdeen, Miss. 
 Died early in 1916. 
 
 'THE CONFEDERATE NOTE** 
 
 1865. 
 
 Representing nothing on God's earth now, 
 
 And naught in the water below it. 
 As a pledge of a nation that's dead and gone, 
 
 Keep it, dear friend, and show it. 
 Show it to those that will lend an ear 
 
 To the tale this paper can tell. 
 Of liberty born, of the patriot's dream, 
 
 Of a storm-cradled nation that fell. 
 
 Too poor to possess the precious ore, 
 
 And too much of a stranger to borrow, 
 We issue today our "promise to pay" 
 
 And hope to redeem on the morrow. 
 Days rolled by, and weeks became years, 
 
 But our coffers were empty still; 
 Coin was so rare that the treasurer quakes 
 
 If a dollar should drop in the till. 
 
 But the faith that was in us was strong indeed, 
 
 And our poverty well we discerned, 
 And these little checks represented the pay. 
 
 That our suffering veterans earned. 
 We knew it had hardly a value in gold. 
 
 Yet as gold the soldiers received it; 
 It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay. 
 
 And each patriot soldier believed it. 
 
 But our boys thought little of price or pay. 
 
 Or of bills that were overdue; 
 We knew if it brought our bread today, 
 
 'Twas the best our country could do. 
 Keep it ! It tells all our history over. 
 
 From the birth of the dream to its last ; 
 Modest, and born of the angel Hope, 
 
 Like our hope of success it passeii! 
 
 7 
 
It has been stated that Georyia sent more volunteers according to 
 population to the Spanish War than any state in the Union. 
 
 The postscript was added in 1898 by a Georgian and used as a souve- 
 nir at the Louisville (frand Encampment. 
 
 "And when again 'midst war's alarms 
 There came our country's call to arms, 
 Who answered quite so quicii as they 
 Whose fathers bravely wore the Gray? 
 And as they proudly donned the Blue 
 To prove a patriot's bond well riven. 
 Forgot the past to show that you 
 By us had long since been forgiven ! 
 
 J. K. O. 
 
 ATLANTA 
 
 Majestic, beautiful, a shape of splendor. 
 With Beauty's magic cestus chastely crowned, 
 
 A Queen, to whom true hearts their homage render. 
 Upon her liills Atlanta sits enthroned. 
 
 How splendid is her smile ! Like sunshine raying 
 
 Its iridescent glory after rain. 
 As she looks forth with sparkling eyes surveying 
 
 The panorama of her vast domain. 
 
 Brave, proud, omni})otent in the innateness 
 
 Of powers that know not death, nor dull decay. 
 
 What bounds shall ever curb her growing greatness ? 
 What adverse force resist her sovereign sway? 
 
 Although the past and present of her story. 
 Seem like some fairy-tale of Orient lands, 
 
 What brain can dream, what tongue portray her glory, 
 When on her future's summit crowned she stands? 
 
 Charles W. Hubner. 
 
 Major Hubner, who is eighty years young, spends a few hours every 
 day in the classic atmosphere of the Carnegie Library of Atlanta. As he 
 puts it, "On duty from ten to three." 
 
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 
 
 {Written for the dedication of a monument to Kentucky volunteern 
 killed at Buena Vista, Mexico.) 
 
 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. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells 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 ; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell, 
 When many a vanished age hath flown. 
 
 The story how ye fell; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
 Shall dim one ray of glory's light 
 
 That gilds your deathless tomb. 
 
 Theodore O'Hara. 
 
 Theodore O'Hara died near Coliimbui^. On., in IH67. Buried at Dan- 
 ville, Ky. 
 
Frank L. Stanton has long had high place in Georgia's Temple of 
 Fame. He was born in Charleston, S. C, in 1858, but came to Georgia 
 ■when but a lad. He has been on the staff of the Atlanta Constitution 
 for nearly thirty years. 
 
 We can only give a few selections from his wonderful contribution to 
 the Poetry of the South, covering a wide range of rare and quaint philo- 
 sophy. For example: 
 
 "This world that we're a-livin' in 
 
 Is mighty hard to beat. 
 You git a thorn with every rose, 
 
 But ain't the roses sweet?" 
 
 KEEP A'GOIN' 
 
 If you strike a thorn or rose, 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 If it hails or if it snows, 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 'Tain't no use to sit an' whine 
 When the fish ain't on your line; 
 Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin'^ — 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 
 When the weather kills your crop, 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 Though 'tis work to reach the top. 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 S'pose you're out o' ev'ry dime, 
 Gittin' broke ain't any crime; 
 Tell the world you're feelin' prime — 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 
 When it looks like all is up. 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 Drain the sweetness from the cup. 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 See the wild birds on the wing. 
 Hear the bells that sweetly ring, 
 When you feel like singin', sing — 
 
 Keep a-goin' ! 
 
 Frank L. Stanton. 
 
 10 
 
His early memories clustered round the chimes of old Saint Michael's 
 Church in Charleston. Among his earliest poems we find: 
 
 SAINT MICHAEL'S BELLS 
 
 I wonder if the bells ring now, as in the days of old, 
 
 From the solemn star-crowned tower with the glittering cross of 
 
 gold; 
 The tower that overlooks the sea whose shining bosom swells 
 To the ringing and the singing of sweet Saint Michael's bells? 
 
 I have heard them in the morning when the mists gloomed cold and 
 
 gray 
 O'er the distant walls of Sumter looking seaward from the bay, 
 And at twilight I have listened to the musical farewells 
 That came flying, sighing, dying from sweet Saint Michael's bells. 
 
 Great joy it was to hear them, for they sang sweet songs to me 
 Where the sheltered ships rocked gently in the haven — safe from 
 
 sea. 
 And the captains and the sailors heard no more the ocean's knells, 
 But thanked God for home and loved ones and sweet Saint 
 
 Michael's bells. 
 
 Oh, ring, sweet bells, forever, an echo in my breast 
 Soft as a mother's voice that lulls a loved one into rest! 
 Ring welcome to the hearts at home — to me your sad farewells 
 When I sleep the last sleep, dreaming of sweet Saint Michael's 
 bells. 
 
 Frank L. Stanton. 
 
 II 
 
A SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER 
 
 Written just before the Spanish War. 
 
 Yes, sir; 1 fought with Stonewall 
 And faced the fight with Lee, 
 
 But if this old Union goes to war. 
 Make one more gun for me. 
 
 I didn't shrink from Sherman. 
 
 As he galloped to the sea. 
 But if this lierc Union goes to war, 
 
 Make one more gim for me. 
 
 1 was M-ith tin at Manassas, 
 
 The bully boys in gray, 
 I heard the tluinder's roarin', 
 
 Round Stonewall Jackson's way. 
 
 And many a time this sword of mine 
 Has blazed the route for Lee, 
 
 But if this old Union goes to war. 
 Make one more gun for me. 
 
 I'm not so full of fightin' 
 
 Nor half so full of fun. 
 As I was back in the sixties, 
 
 When I shouldered my old gun. 
 
 It may be that my hair is white, 
 Such things you know must be, 
 
 But if this old L'nion's in for fight 
 Make one more gun for me. 
 
 Fr.\nk L. Staxton. 
 
 12 
 
THE CONQUERED BANNER 
 
 Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; 
 Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary: 
 
 Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
 For there's not a man to wave it, 
 And there's not a sword to save it, 
 And there's not one left to lave it 
 In the blood which heroes gave it; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
 
 Furl it, hide it— let it rest I 
 
 Furl that Banner ! furl it sadly ! 
 Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousands wildly, madly, 
 
 Swore it should forever wave; 
 Swore that foeman's sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O'er their freedom or their grave! 
 
 Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gory, 
 Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
 And 'twill live in song and story, 
 
 Though its folds are in the dust: 
 For its fame on brightest pages. 
 Penned by poets and by sages. 
 Shall go sounding down the ages — 
 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Abram Joseph Ryan. 
 
 "Father Ryan" as he u'as familiarly known, was horn in Virginia, 
 and for years edited a paper in Augusta, Ga. Died 1886. 
 
 18 
 
SONG OF THE MYSTIC 
 
 I walk down the Valley of Silence — 
 Down the dim, voiceless valley — alone ! 
 
 And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
 Around me, save God's and my own; 
 
 And the hush of my heart is as holy 
 As hovers where angels have flown ! 
 
 Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 
 
 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
 And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
 
 And above me a voice said: "Be mine." 
 And there arose from the depths of my spirit 
 
 An echo — "My heart shall be thine." 
 
 In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
 I dream all the songs that I sing; 
 
 And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
 Till each finds a word for a wing, 
 
 That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
 A message of Peace they may bring. 
 
 Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
 Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? 
 
 It lieth afar between mountains. 
 
 And God and His angels are there: 
 
 And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
 And one the bright mountain of Prayer. 
 
 Abram Joseph Ryan. 
 
 14 
 
SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE 
 
 Out of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Down the valleys of Hall, 
 I hurry amain to reach the plain, 
 Run the rapid and leap the fall, 
 Split at the rock and together again. 
 Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, 
 And flee from folly on every side 
 With a lover's pain to attain the plain 
 
 Far from the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Far from the valleys of Hall. 
 
 And oft in the hills of Habersham, 
 
 And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
 The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone 
 Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
 
 And many a luminous jewel lone 
 
 —Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist. 
 Ruby, garnet and amethyst — 
 Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 
 
 In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 
 
 Macon, Ga., 1881. Sidney Lanier. 
 
 15 
 
TWO TALES IN ONE- 
 ONE TALE IN TWO 
 
 Folks think deyer smart, an' I speck it's so, 
 Kaze most anybody bleeze ter know what dey know, 
 But when you dig down ter der trufe an' all, 
 You feel like creepin' thoo a hole in de wall. 
 An' you don't want de hole fer ter be too wide, 
 Kaze you want a place whar you kin hide — 
 Fer'dat what you know mighty certain an' sho 
 Ain't mo' dan a thimbleful ter what you ain't know. 
 
 An' chillun like you better keep dey eyes skun 
 So dey '11 know what's mischief fum what's fun. 
 Kaze Flee-ter-my-Knee an' Tippity-Toe 
 Deyer watchin' you close wharsomever you go — 
 Wharsomever you go, whatsomever you do, 
 Deyer wid you all day an' de whole night thoo; 
 Dey '11 raise up de kivver when you're in bed. 
 An' pull at yo' toes an' tousel yo" head. 
 
 An' you'll whimper an' groan, and jump in yo' sleep, 
 An' be slidin' down places dat's slick an' steep, 
 An' Rawhead-an-Bloody-Bones'll be drivin' his teams 
 Bofe backerds an' forrerds thoo all er yo' dreams! 
 How you gwineter keep um off? Why, honey, whirl in 
 An' try ter be good — des ez good ez you kin. 
 
 Uncle Remus. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris, known round the world for his famous Uncle 
 Remus folk lore stories died at Atlanta 1908. 
 
 16