I hear the good old songs, all about "Ashby,"
and the "Palmetto Tree," and the "Bonnie Blue Flag"--songs sung with
joyous voices in that dreary winter, as in other days, when the star of
hope shone more brightly, and the future was more promising.
At Lynchburg, where I encountered a number of old friends, songs still
sweeter saluted me--from the lips of my dear companions, Major Gray and
Captain Woodie. How we laughed and sang, on that winter night, at
Lynchburg! Do you chant your sweet "Nora McShane" still, Gray? And you,
Woodie, do you sing in your beautiful and touching tenor
to-day,--
"The heart bowed down by deep despair.
To weakest hopes will cling?"
Across the years comes once more that magical strain; again I hear your
voice, filled with the very soul of sadness, tell how
"Memory is the only friend
That grief can call its own!"
That seemed strangely applicable to the situation at the time. The
memory of our great victories was all that was left to us; and I
thought that it was the spirit of grief itself that was singing. Again
I hear the notes--but "Nora McShane" breaks in--"Nora McShane," the
most exquisite of all Gray's songs. Then he winds up with uproarious
praise of the "Bully Lager Beer!"--and the long hours of night flit
away on the wings of laughter, as birds dart onward, and are buried in
the night.
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