Good Shot.

        At great reunion of the South,
        Of those had faced the cannon's mouth,
        Where each could show a glorious scar
        He had received in the war.

        And there was an artillery major,
        Said he, I am free to wager
        I fired the best shot in the war,
        And fame of it was heard afar.

        The Federals fired at us a shell,
        And near our battery it fell,
        It gave us momentary alarm,
        But it caused us little harm.

        For the fuse it ceased to burn,
        And I resolved shell to return
        To the same spot from whence it came,
        I put in fuse was sure to flame.

        From mortar's mouth it went forth
        Seeking for vengeance on the North,
        And this swift messenger from South
        It entered their great cannon's mouth.

        And blew the gun all into atoms,
        Which left desolate many homes,
        But North had justice on her side.
        In truth and virtue was her pride.

        And high Heaven had well decreed
        That the poor slave he should be freed,
        And even the South doth prosper more
        With freedom than she did before.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Birth Of Canada As A Nation, July First, 1867.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Prologue To South Ontario Sketches.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Indian Mutiny.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Prince Charlie's Grandsons.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Portsmouth Memorial Poem. - The Future Historian.

Oh the women of Old Portsmouth in their patience were sublime,
As in working and in praying they abided GOD's own time!
Marble saints in a stately Minster, in some land across the sea,
In a flood of Winter moonlight were not half so pure to me!
And your men in Grey were faithful! they were counted with the best!
And where they fought no shadow fell on Old Virginia's crest.
Rags in cold, bare feet in marches never turned your children back;
In retreat they loved the rearguard, in advance they loved attack!

Oh, my brothers! I see figures which all flit athwart my brain,
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Have ye heard of Fort Donelson's desperate fight,
Where the giant Northwest bared his arm for the right,
Where thousands so bravely went down in the slaughter,
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Where the Rebel Flag fell and our banner arose
O'er an army of captured and suppliant foes?
Lo torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder,
The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye of Shiloh, where fierce Beauregard
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Rebel Color-Bearers At Shiloh

A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox

The color-bearers facing death
White in the whirling sulphurous wreath,
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Their battle-flags about them blow,
And fold them as in flame divine:
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Round martyrs burning on the green--
And martyrs for the Wrong have been.

Perish their Cause! but mark the men--
Mark the planted statues, then
Draw trigger on them if you can.

The leader of a patriot-band
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Herman Melville

Arms And The Man. - The South In The Union.

An ancient Chronicle has told
That, in the famous days of old,
    In Antioch under ground
    The self-same lance was found -
    Unbitten by corrosive rust -
The lance the Roman soldier thrust
    In CHRIST'S bare side upon the Tree;
    And that it brought
    A mighty spell
    To those who fought
    The Infidel
    And mighty victory.

    And so this day
    To you I say -
Speaking for millions of true Southern men -
    In words that have no undertow -
    I say, and say agen:
    Come weal, or woe,
    Should this Republic ever fight,
    By land, or sea,
For present law, or ancient right
    The South will be
    As was that lance,
    Albeit not found
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Chattanooga

November, 1863

A kindling impulse seized the host
Inspired by heaven's elastic air;
Their hearts outran their General's plan,
Though Grant commanded there--
Grant, who without reserve can dare;
And, "Well, go on and do your will,"
He said, and measured the mountain then:
So master-riders fling the rein--
But you must know your men.

On yester-morn in grayish mist,
Armies like ghosts on hills had fought,
And rolled from the cloud their thunders loud
The Cumberlands far had caught:
To-day the sunlit steeps are sought.
Grant stood on cliffs whence all was plain,
And smoked as one who feels no cares;
But mastered nervousness intense
Alone such calmness wears.

The summit-cannon plunge their flame
Sheer down the primal wall,

Herman Melville

A Meditation

How often in the years that close,
When truce had stilled the sieging gun,
The soldiers, mounting on their works,
With mutual curious glance have run
From face to face along the fronting show,
And kinsman spied, or friend--even in a foe.

What thoughts conflicting then were shared,
While sacred tenderness perforce
Welled from the heart and wet the eye;
And something of a strange remorse
Rebelled against the sanctioned sin of blood,
And Christian wars of natural brotherhood.

Then stirred the god within the breast--
The witness that is man's at birth;
A deep misgiving undermined
Each plea and subterfuge of earth;
They felt in that rapt pause, with warning rife,
Horror and anguish for the civil strife.

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Herman Melville