They were old songs of Ashby and Stuart; unpublished ditties of the
struggle, which the winds have borne away into the night of the past,
and which now live only in memory. There was one of Ashby,
commencing,--
"See him enter on the valley,"
which wound up with the words,--
"And they cried, 'O God they've shot him!
Ashby is no more!'
Strike, freemen, for your country,
Sheathe your swords no more!
While remains in arms a Yankee
On Virginia's shore!"
The air was sad and plaintive. The song rose, and wailed, and died away
like the sigh of the wind in the trees, the murmuring airs of evening
in the brambles and thickets of the Rowanty. The singers had fought
under Ashby, and in their rude and plaintive song they uttered their
regrets.
Then the music changed its character, and the stirring replaced the
sad.
"If you want to have a good time,
J'ine the cavalry!"
came in grand, uproarious strains; and this was succeeded by the
jubilant--
"Farewell, forever to the star-spangled banner,
No longer shall she wave o'er the land of the free;
But we'll unfurl to the broad breeze of heaven,
The thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!"
At that song--and those words, "the thirteen bright stars round the
Palmetto tree!"--you might have seen the eyes of the South Carolinians
flash.
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