They went to the blue lines gladly, and the blue lines took them in,
And the men who saw their muskets’ fire thought not of their dusky skin. 
The gray lines rose and melted beneath their scathing showers,
And they said, “’T is true, they have force to do, these old slave boys

                    of ours.”

Ah, Wagner saw their glory, and Pillow knew their blood,
That poured on a nation’s altar, a sacrificial flood. 
Port Hudson heard their war-cry that smote its smoke-filled air,
And the old free fires of their savage sires again were kindled there.

They laid them down where the rivers the greening valleys gem. 
And the song of the thund’rous cannon was their sole requiem,
And the great smoke wreath that mingled its hue with the dusky cloud,
Was the flag that furled o’er a saddened world, and the sheet that made

                    their shroud.

Oh, Mighty God of the Battles Who held them in Thy hand,
Who gave them strength through the whole day’s length, to fight for their
native land,
They are lying dead on the hillsides, they are lying dead on the plain,
And we have not fire to smite the lyre and sing them one brief strain.

Give, Thou, some seer the power to sing them in their might,
The men who feared the master’s whip, but did not fear the fight;
That he may tell of their virtues as minstrels did of old,
Till the pride of face and the hate of race grow obsolete and cold.

A song for the unsung heroes who stood the awful test,
When the humblest host that the land could boast went forth to meet the
best;
A song for the unsung heroes who fell on the bloody sod,
Who fought their way from night to day and struggled up to God.

THE POOL

By the pool that I see in my dreams, dear love,
I have sat with you time and again;
And listened beneath the dank leaves, dear love,
To the sibilant sound of the rain.

  And the pool, it is silvery bright, dear love,
    And as pure as the heart of a maid,
  As sparkling and dimpling, it darkles and shines
    In the depths of the heart of the glade.

  But, oh, I ’ve a wish in my soul, dear love,
    (The wish of a dreamer, it seems,)
  That I might wash free of my sins, dear love,
    In the pool that I see in my dreams.

POSSESSION

  Whose little lady is you, chile,
    Whose little gal is you? 
  What’s de use o’ kiver’n up yo’ face? 
    Chile, dat ain’t de way to do. 
  Lemme see yo’ little eyes,
    Tek yo’ little han’s down nice,
  Lawd, you wuff a million bills,
    Huh uh, chile, dat ain’t yo’ price.