Texts: May 2010

SONGS FROM THE CIVIL WAR ERA

Hard Times Come Again No More
Words & music: Stephen C. Foster (1826–1864)

Let us pause in life’s pleasures and count its many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.

Chorus
‘Tis the song, the sigh of the weary;
Hard Times, Hard Times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.

‘Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
‘Tis a wail that is hear upon the shore,
‘Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave,
Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.

We Are Coming Father Abra’am 300,000 More
Words: James Sloane Gibbons (1810–1892);
Music: Luther O. Emerson (1820–1915)

We are coming, Father Abra’am,
three hundred thousand more,
From Mississippi’s winding stream
and from New England’s shore;
We leave our plows and workshops,
our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance,
with but a silent tear;
We dare not look behind us,
but steadfastly before,

Refrain
We are coming, Father, Abra’am,
three hundred thousand more!

Chorus
We are coming, we are coming, our union to restore,
We are coming, Father Abra’am, with three hundred
thousand more.

If you look all up our valleys,
where the growing harvests shine,
You may see our sturdy farmer boys
fast forming into line;
And children from their mother’s knees
are pulling at the weeds,
And learning how to reap and sow,
against their country’s needs;
And a farewell group stands weeping
at ev’ry cottage door,

You have called us, and we’re coming,
by Richmond’s bloody tide,
To lay us down for freedom’s sake,
our brother’s bones beside;
Or from foul treason’s savage group,
to wrench the murd’rous blade,
And in the face of foreign foes
its fragments to parade;
Six hundred thousand loyal men
and true have gone before,

The Voices That Are Gone
Words: Robert Campbell (1777–1844); Music: Stephen C. Foster (1826–1864)

When the twilight shades fall o’er me
And the evening star appears,
Mem’ry brings the past before me,
Joys and sorrows, smiles and tears;
Then again bright eyes are gleaming
With the love once in them shone,
Then like music heard when dreaming
Come the voices that are gone.

Chorus
Once again bright eyes are gleaming
With the light that in them shone,
Then like music heard when dreaming
Come the voices that are gone.

Sweet as wood dove’s note when calling
To her mate as night draws on,
Soft as snow flake lightly falling
Come the voices that are gone.
Voices heard in days of childhood
Softly at the hour of prayer,
Or loud ringing through the wildwood
When the young heart knew no care.

So when life’s bright sun is setting
And its day is well nigh done,
May there be no vain regretting
Over mem’ries I would shun;
But when death is o’er, to meet me
Some much-lov’d forms come on,
And the first sounds that shall greet me
Be the voices that were gone!

Bring My Brother Back to Me
Words: George Cooper (1838–1927); Music: Stephen C. Foster (1826–1864)

Bring my brother back to me,
When this war is done,
Give us all the joys we shar’d
Ere it had begun
O bring my brother back to me,
Never more to stray.
This is all my earnest prayer,
Thro’ the weary day.

Chorus
Bring him back! bring him back!
With his smiling healthful glee,
Bring him back! bring him back!
Bring my brother back to me.

All the house is lonely now,
And my voice no more
In the pleasant summer eves
Greets him at the door.
Never more I hear his step
By the garden gate,
While I sit in anxious tears
Knowing not his fate.

Bring my brother back to me,
From the battle strife,
Thou who watchest o’er the good,
Shield his precious life.
When this war has passed away,
Safe from all alarms
Bring my brother home again,
To my longing arms.

Tenting on the Old Camp Ground
Words & music: Walter Kittredge (1834–1905)

We’re tenting tonight on the old camp ground,
Give us a song to cheer
Our weary hearts, a song of home,
And friend we love so dear.

Chorus
Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,
Wishing for the war to cease;
Many are the hearts that are looking for the right
To see the dawn of peace.
Tenting tonight, tenting tonight, tenting on the old camp ground

We’re tired of war on the old camp ground,
Thinking of days gone by,
Of the loved ones at home that gave us the hand
And the tear that said “Goodbye!”

We’ve been fighting today on the old camp ground,
Many are dead and gone,
Of the brave and true who’ve left their homes,
Others been wounded long.

Final Chorus
Many are the heart who are weary tonight,
Wishing for the war to cease;
Many are the hearts that are looking for the right
To see the dawn of peace
Dying tonight, dying tonight, dying on the old camp ground.

Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming
Words & music: Stephen C. Foster (1826–1864)

Come where my lies dreaming,
Dreaming the happy hours away,
In visions bright redeeming
The fleeting joys of day;

Dreaming the happy hours away, (Dreaming,)
Come where my lies dreaming, (My own love is sweetly)
Dreaming the happy hours away.
Come where my lies dreaming, (My own love is sweetly dreaming)
Come with a lute toned lay; (Her beauty beaming;)
Come where my lies dreaming, (My own love is sweetly)
Dreaming the happy hours away.

Come with a lute, come with a lay,
My own love is sweetly dreaming,
(Come, come, come, come, come, come,)
Her beauty beaming;
(come, come, come, come, come;)
Come where my lies dreaming, (My own love is sweetly)
Dreaming the happy hours away.

Soft is her slumber;
Thoughts bright and free
Dance through her dreams
Like gushing melody;
Light is her young heart,
Light may it be;
Come where my love lies dreaming.

Dreaming the happy hours away.

The Girl I Left Behind Me
Traditional tune; Words: Samuel Lover (1797–1868)

The hours sad I left the maid
A lingering farewell taking,
Her sighs and tears my steps delayed,
I thought her heart was breaking;
In hurried words her name I blest,
I breath’d the vows that bind me,
And to my heart in anguish press’d
The girl I left behind me.

Then to the South we bore away
To win a name in story,
And there where dawns the sun of day
There dawned our sun of glory.
Both blazed in noon on Richmond’s height,
Wherein the post assign’d me,
I shared the glory of that fight,
Sweet girl I left behind me.

Full many a name our banners bare
Of former deeds of daring
But they were of the day of yore
In which we had no sharing.
But now our laurels freshly won
With the old ones shall entwined be,
Still worthy of our sires each son,
Sweet girl I left behind me.

The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning.
But should I n’eer return again,
Still with thy love thou’ll find me.
Dishonor’s breath shall never stain
The name I leave behind me.

Was My Brother in the Battle?
Words & music: Stephen C. Foster (1826–1864)

Tell me, tell me weary soldier
from the rude and stirring wars,
Was my brother in the battle
where you gained those noble scars?
He was ever brave and valiant,
and I know he never fled,
Was his name among the wounded
or numbered with dead?
Was my brother in the battle
when the tide of war ran high?
You would know his in a thousand
by his dark and dashing eye.

Refrain
Tell me, tell me weary soldier,
will he never come again?
Did he suffer ‘mid the wounded
or die among the slain?

Was my brother in the battle
when the noble Highland host
Were so wrongfully outnumbered
on the Carolina coast?
Did he struggle for the Union
‘mid the thunder and the rain,
Till he fell among the brave
on a bleak Virginia plain?
Oh, I’m sure that he was dauntless
and his courage ne’er would lag
While contending for the honor
of our dear and cherished flag.

Was my brother in the battle
when the flag of Erin came
To the rescue of our banner
and protection of our fame?
While the fleet from off the waters
poured out terror and dismay
Till the bold and erring foe
fell like leaves on Autumn day?
When the bugle called to battle
and the cannon deeply roared,
Oh! I wish I could have seen him
draw his sharp and glittering sword.

The Vacant Chair
Words: Henry S. Washburn (1813–1903); Music: George F. Root (1820–1895)

We shall meet but we shall miss him.
There will be one vacant chair.
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our ev’ning prayer.
When one year ago we gathered,
Joy was in his mild blue eye.
But a golden cord is severed,
And our hopes in ruin lie.

Chorus
We shall meet, but we shall miss him.
There will be one vacant chair.
We shall linger to caress him
When we breathe our ev’ning prayer.

At our fireside, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell
At remembrance of the story
How our noble Willie fell.
How he strove to bear the banner
Through the thickest of the fight
And uphold our country’s honor
In the strength of manhood’s might.

True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Evermore will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only,
Sweeping o’er our heartstrings now.
Sleep today, O early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed.
Dirges from the pine and cypress
Mingle with the tears we shed.

I’ll Be Home Tomorrow
Words & music: Stephen C. Foster (1826–1864)

I’ve wander’d far from those I love,
and many years have pass’d,
Since in my dear old cherish’d home
I saw their faces last;
But now I am returning
and my journey soon will end,
I’ll join the throng where happy smiles
and gentle voices blend.

Chorus
Farewell, farewell!
Ev’ry cloud of sorrow,
All my heart is fill’d with joy
For I’ll be home tomorrow!

How dear the hearts that dwell
within that sweet domestic realm!
I know that they have long’d for me
as I have long’d for them;
The thought that I am near them,
makes my lonely spirit yearn
To hear the burst of gladness
that will welcome my return!

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
Words & music: George F. Root (1820–1895)

In the prison cell I sit, thinking Mother, dear, of you,
And our bright and happy home so far away,
And the tears, they fill my eyes ‘spite of all that I can do,
Tho’ I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.

Chorus
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,
Cheer up, comrades, they will come.
And beneath the starry flag we shall breathe the air again,
Of the free land in our own beloved home.

In the battlefront we stood,
when their fiercest charge they made,
And they swept us off a hundred men or more.
But before we reached their lines,
they were beaten back dismay’d,
And we heard the cry of vict’ry o’er and o’er.

So within the prison cell, we are waiting for the day
That shall come to open wide the iron door.
And the hollow eyes grow bright,
and the poor heart almost gay,
As we think of seeing home and friends once more.

WORKS BY ERIC DAVIS

Psalms of Joy, Sorrow and Thanksgiving

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.
Serve the Lord with gladness:
come before God’s presence with singing. (Psalm 100)

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth:
make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise.
Sing unto the Lord with the harp;
with the harp, and the voice of a psalm.
With trumpets and sound of cornet
make a joyful noise before the Lord, the King. (Psalm 98)

Hear my prayer, O Lord
and let my cry come unto thee.
Hide not thy face from me
in the day when I am in trouble
incline thine ear unto me:
For my days are consumed like smoke
and my bones are burned as a hearth.
My heart is smitten, and withered like grass;
so that I forget to eat my bread.
By reason of the voice of my groaning
my bones cleave to my skin.
I have eaten ashes like bread,
and mingled my drink with weeping,
My days are like a shadow that declineth;
and I am withered like grass.
But thou, O Lord, shalt endure forever;
and thy remembrance unto all generations.
Thou shalt arise, and have mercy upon Zion:
for the time to favour her, yea, the set time, is come. (Psalm 102)

Bless the Lord, O my soul:
and all that is within me, bless his holy name.
Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all God’s benefits:
Who forgiveth all thine iniquities;
who healeth all diseases;
Who redeemeth thy life from destruction;
who crowneth thee with lovingkindness
and tender mercies; (Psalm 103)

Bless the Lord, O my soul.
O Lord my God, thou art very great;
thou art clothed with honour and majesty.
Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment:
who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain:
Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters:
who maketh the clouds his chariot:
who walketh upon the wings of the wind:
Who maketh his angels spirits;
his ministers a flaming fire:
Who laid the foundations of the earth,
that it should not be removed for ever. (Psalm 104)

O come, let us sing unto the Lord:
let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.
Let us come before God’s presence with thanksgiving,
and make a joyful noise unto the Lord with psalms. (Psalm 95)

Amen.

So White
Poetry: Ben Mazer (b. 1964)

So white, the sunlight on the buildings
Compels the eye inward to distances,
Obsolete voyages, longing to recall
The immaculate sojourn at the heart of time.

The crowds move light as flies or paper
Through streets that rise to meet the sun;
What is unique on which the gaze in strung
That finds enough in simply being here,
Is the illumined shutter through which are flung
The different worlds, of beauty and despair.

The Visitor
Poetry: Carolyn Forché (b. 1950)

In Spanish he whispers there is no time left.
It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,
the ache of some field song in Salvador.
The wind along the prison, cautious
as Francisco’s hands on the inside, touching
the walls as he walks, it is his wife’s breath
slipping into his cell each night while he
imagines his hand to be hers. It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.

Hospital Song
Poetry: Ben Mazer (b. 1964)

Back from the wars,
Without my wares,
But lying here,
Not quite sure where.
Permitted this,
Calm to the eyes,
A world of shadow,
Suited for widow.
Burnt smells no longer
In nostrils linger,
Yet others attack,
Slightly septic;
Difference is,
Most wise of laws,
And here no hurry,
But sanctuary.

Parade
Poetry: Ben Mazer (b. 1964)

These immensities of light there is no distance to
go as far as I would go, a bluejay on a wire.
There is no end to day, nor any end to light
that paints the buildings flat, mapped against themselves.
Through the brilliant trees, the tunnels momently
of avenue and ledge incite a new terrain
dim foreclosed from the crowd. The sweep and surge of things
extends only to you, the poplars’ exploded fuse.
Shielded in each view a witness is concealed.
High in the solitude above the slow parade
the fountain in the day seizes your going by.
There is no corner round the city, is no end
to what the will believes, thrills, relieves, reveals.
Windows black and dim burn in the summer day;
the rivers of the leaves exhort the ancient swells
of travelers within. This silence in the same
as that within the stone in sunlight in the field.
Each is facade, attends upon your return.

Thanksgiving for Heroes
Poetry: Edwin Markham (1852–1940)

O bugles, ripple and shine,
Calling the heroes home from the battleline.
Praise, praise, praise,
For the last of the desperate days!
Shake out the lyrical notes
From the silvery deep of your throats.
Burst into joy-mad carols: tell again
The story of heroic men.

Glad are the love-birds in the leafy tree,
But none so glad as we.
High leap the rock-flung billows to the sky,
But none leaps up so gladly and wildly high
As our jubilant hearts.
The Fear that crouched upon the world departs,
And Joy comes back pavilioned by the sun.
Let all the mountains clap their hands and run:
Let all the oceans from their throats of thunder
Shout to the streams and storms and stars the wonder!
Sing and be glad, O nations, in these hours:
Blow clarions from all towers!

Let bright horns revel and the joy-bells rave;
Yet there are lips whose smile is ever vain
And wild wet eyes behind the window pane,
For whom the whole world dwindles to one grave,
A lone grave at the mercy of the rain.
Sing softly, then, as though the mouth of Grief,
Remembering all the agony and wrong,
Should stir with mighty song.
Not all the glad averment of the guns,
Not all our odes, nor all our orisons,
Can sweeten these intolerable tears,
These silences that fall between the cheers.

Praise, praise, praise,
Praise for the living, honour for the dead—
Praise for the wreathed and the wreath-less head.
Praise and victorious peace
On hearts that beat and on the hearts that cease—
Peace on the mortal and the immortal way—
Peace on the heroes vanished from our day,
Called onward from these bounds of fleeting breath
To join the old democracy of death.

And yet our hearts must sing,
Carol and clamour like the tides of Spring.

Give thanks, O heart, for the high souls
That point us to the deathless goals—
For all the courage of their cry
That echoes down from sky to sky;
Thanksgiving for the armed seers
And heroes called to mortal years—
Souls that have built our faith in man,
And lit the ages as they ran.

The company of souls supreme,
The conscripts of the mighty Dream.
Give thanks for heroes that have stirred
Earth with the wonder of a word.
But all thanksgiving for the breed
Who have bent destiny with deed—
Souls of the high, heroic birth,
Souls sent to poise the shaken Earth,
And then called back to God again
To make heaven possible for men.

Take at our hands this humble wreath of praise
For all the toil and victory of your days.
Take this poor wreath: ‘tis all we have to give
To those that nobly serve and nobly live.