Poetry and Prose of the Artillery

    `      In poetry and prose, we offer the honor due to our artillery compatriots. Others have offered the tribute due those men of our
            proud past in words crafted far better than those we might attempt to frame. For that reason, we give here the speeches, poetry,
            and comments of which we are aware that show a proper esteem for artillerymen of the past - the men who have created for us a
            proud heritage as artillerymen.

They Stand

            In small Southern towns and large, they stand. On the square by the courthouse, in a park, or in a lonesome field, they stand.
            Some large and ornate, others more the image of the hard times in which they were erected than the soldiers they honor. Remind-             ers of glorious deeds and sacrifices which often go beyond our ability to comprehend. They are silent, proud and patient. Waiting
           for the day when again they will be objects of affection, attention and care.

            They represent the heroes of the South - those who fought, those who died, and those who refuse to let the memory of our history
                            die. They are modest, but essential reminders of a people who sacrificed everything. They are a link, however tenuous,
                            to our past.

                                     Often names of the dead are etched in stone. They are indeed heroes, but there are so many more whose
                                     names do not appear. Those who fought and lived with the terrible images of war. Those who tried to
                                     keep a place where tired soldiers could once again become husbands and fathers. Those who lost
                                    husbands and brothers and fathers and sons. Those who were forced to watch as their country was
                                    destroyed town by town and farm by farm. Those who worked so hard to see that we could not forget.

Stop a moment, bow your head and honor them. Never let their battles be forgotten; never let their story be
forgotten; never let their banners be dishonored; never let their lives be cause for shame.

They stand; though some would tear them down.

They stand; though many turn their backs.

They stand; thank God, they stand.

One Day's Command
(Author Unknown)
- Honoring Franklin Butler Crosby -

The plumed staff officer gallops
Along the swaying line
That shakes as beaten by hailstones
Shake the loaded autumn vine;
And the earth beneath is reddened,
But not with the stain of wine.

The regular shock of a battery
The rattling tumult stuns;
And its steady thrill through the hillside
Like a pulse beneath it runs;
The many are dead around it,
But the few still work the guns.

"Who commands this battery?"
And Crosby his clear, young eyes
From the sliding gun-sights lifting
As the well-aimed death-bolt flies;
"I command it today, Sir!"
With a steady voice replies.

Answers as heroes answer,
With modest words and few;
Whose hearts and hands to duty
Even in death are true,
Though its awful light is breaking
Full on their blenchless view.

The officer passes onward
With a less troubled eye,
The words and the look unshaken
Bid every wild doubt fly;
He knows that the young commander
Is there to do or die.

To do or die; for the battle
And day of command are done,
While stands unmoved on the hillside
Each shattered, blackened gun,
And Crosby in death beside them
A deathless name has won.

                                  "The gun is the rallying point of the detachment, its point of honor, its flag, its banner. It is that to which the
                                    men look, by which they stand, with and for which they fight, by and for which they fall. As long as the
                                    gun is theirs, they are unconquered, victorious; when the gun is lost, all is lost. It is their religion to
                                    fight until the enemy is out of range, or until the gun itself is withdrawn, or until both it and the
                                    detachment are in the hands of the foe. An infantryman in flight often flings away his musket. I do not
                                    recall ever having heard of a confederated artillery detachment abandoning its gun without orders."

- Major Stiles, Adjutant, Cabell's Battalion

Hurrah For The Light Artillery!
Anonymous

On the unstained sward of the gentle slope,
Full of valor and nerved by hope,
The infantry sways like a coming sea;
Why lingers the light artillery?
"Action front!"

Whirling the Parrots like children's toys,
The horses strain to the rushing noise;
To right and to left, so fast and free,
They carry the light artillery.
"Drive on!"

The gunner cries with a tug and a jerk,
The limbers fly, and we bend to our work;
The handspike in, and the implements out -
We wait for the word, and it comes with a shout -
"Load!"

The foes pour on their billowy line;
Can nothing check their bold design?
With yells and oaths of fiendish glee,
They rush for the light artillery.
"Commence firing!"

Hurrah! Hurrah! our bulldogs bark,
And the enemy's line is a glorious mark;
Hundreds fall like grain on the lea,
Mowed down by the light artillery.
"Fire!"

"Fire!" and "Load!" are the only cries,
Thundered and rolled to the vaulted skies;
Aha! they falter, they halt, they flee
From the hail of the light artillery.
"Cease firing!"

The battle is over, the victory won,
Ere the dew is dried by the rising sun;
While the shout bursts out like a full-voiced sea:
"Hurrah for the light artillery!
Hurrah for the light artillery!"

The Pride Of Battery B
by Frank H. Gassaway

South Mountain towered on our right,
Far off the river lay;
And over on the wooded height
We held their line at bay.

At last the mutt'ring guns were stilled,
The day died slow and wan;
At last their pipes the gunners filled,
The Sergeant's yarns began.

When - as the wind a moment blew
Aside the fragrant flood
Our brierwoods raised - within our view
A little maiden stood.

A tiny tot of six or seven;
From fireside fresh she seemed
(Of such a little one in heaven
One soldier often dreamed.)

And as we started, her little hand
Went to her curly head
In grave salute; "And who are you?"
At length the Sergeant said.

"And where's your home?" he growled again.
She lisped out, "Who is me?
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane,
The pride of Battery B."

"My home? Why, that was burned away,
And pa and ma are dead,
And so I ride the guns all day
Along with Sergeant Ned."

"And I've a drum that's not a toy,
A cap with feathers too;
And I march beside the drummer-boy
On Sundays at review."

"But now our 'bacca's all give out,
The men can't have their smoke;
And so they're cross - why, even Ned
Won't play with me and joke."

"And the big Colonel said today -
I hate to hear him swear -
He'd give a leg for a good pipe
Like the Yanks have over there."

"And so I thought, when beat the drum
And the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come
Out here across the hill."

"And beg, good Mister Yankee men,
You'd give me some Lone Jack.
Please do - when we get some again
I'll surely bring it back."

"Indeed I will - for Ned," says he;
"If I do what I say,
I'll be a general yet, maybe,
And ride a prancing bay."

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er;
You should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store
Shook out a generous half.

To kiss that little mouth stooped down
A score of grimy men
Until the Sergeant's husky voice
Said "'Tention, squad!" - and then -

We gave her escort, till good-night
The pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight -
Or else 'twas tears that hid

Her tiny form - nor turned about
A man, nor spoke a word,
Till after while a far, hoarse shout
Upon the wind we heard.

We sent it back, then cast sad eye
Upon the scene around.
A baby's hand had touched the tie
That brothers once had bound.

That's all - save when the dawn awoke
Again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke
The screaming missiles fell.

Our Gen'ral often rubbed his glass,
And marveled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell
In the camp of Battery B.

"A battery of field artillery is worth a thousand muskets."
William Tecumseh Sherman

"God fights on the side with the best artillery."
Napoleon Bonaparte, a trained artilleryman

"Nothing is more destructive than the charge of artillery on a crowd."
Napoleon Bonaparte

"The best generals are those who have served in the artillery."
Napoleon Bonaparte

"Leave the Artillerymen alone, they are an obstinate lot."
Napoleon Bonaparte

"Do not forget your dogs of war, your big guns, which are the
most-to-be-respected arguments of the rights of kings."
Frederick the Great

"Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
Volley'ed and thundered."
- from "The Charge of the Light Brigade"

"The work for giants...to serve well the guns!"
Walt Whitman

"...Hush! I now hear the approach of battle. That low, rumbling sound in the west is the roar of
cannon in the distance."
Sam Watkins, 1st Tennessee Infantry, CSA

For the sad duty of turning over the guns of the Battery to the Federal Army on May 8th, 1865,
Dr. W. I. Bull prepared the following inscriptions for the guns:

Shouldst thou in thy Captor’s cause
Thy old comrades face,
Remember then honor’s laws -
And burst thy chase.

Loaded with shot and shell,
I’ve often reaped for death and hell.

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