“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. 
  O, 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!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

* * * * *

THE C.S.  ARMY’S COMMISSARY.

  I.—­1863.

  “Well, this is bad!” we sighing said,
    While musing round the bivouac fire,
    And dwelling with a fond desire,
  On home and comforts long since fled.

  “How gayly came we forth at first! 
    Our spirits high, with new emprise,
    Ambitious of each exercise,
  And glowing with a martial thirst.

  “Equipped as for a holiday,
    With bounteous store of everything
    To use or comfort minist’ring,
  All cheerily we marched away.

  “But as the struggle fiercer grew,
    Light marching orders came apace,—­
    And baggage-wagon soon gave place
  To that which sterner uses knew.

  “Our tents—­they went a year ago;
    Now kettle, spider, frying-pan
    Are lost to us, and as we can
  We live, while marching to and fro.

  “Our food has lessened, till at length,
    E’en want’s gaunt image seems to threat—­
    A foe to whom the bravest yet
  Must yield at last his knightly strength.

  “But while we’ve meat and flour enough
    The bayonet shall be our spit—­
    The ramrod bake our dough on it—­
  A gum-cloth be our kneading trough.

  “We’ll bear privation, danger dare,
    While even these are left to us—­
    Be hopeful, faithful, emulous
  Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare!”

  II.—­1864.

  “Three years and more,” we grimly said,
    When order came to “Rest at will”
    Beside the corn-field on the hill,
  As on a weary march we sped—­

  “Three years and more we’ve met the foe
    On many a gory, hard-fought field,
    And still we swear we cannot yield
  Till Fate shall bring some deeper woe.

  “Three years and more we’ve struggled on,
    Through torrid heat and winter’s chill,
    Nor bated aught of steadfast will,
  Though even hope seems almost gone.