_Hang all Yanks to the end of a limb! One of us equals ten of him! What’s a Southern man to do But load his rifle and see this through? The Yankee Buell is miles away, While Sherman here on Shiloh creek, Has no entrenchments, so they say! Let’s hit the Yanks while they are weak! But winter is here and times are hard,— I wonder who’ll slaughter and render the lard With me in Corinth? Who’ll tend the mill, With corn on hand and orders to fill? Dragging guns through water and mud, With cotton to plant and rice to flood! The Army’s taken our horses and mules And the children walk to the parish schools! General Johnston’s almighty slow Gettin’ this army ready to go!_ _And who in hell made the Corinth road? Horse to leather, man to rope,— Slither, stagger with the load,— Through rain, the mud and darkness grope! Timber the ruts where the freshets run— Dam off the floods; move up, move on,— Live or die, but every gun Must reach the ridge with its caisson! Cover your powder from the wet; Keep hammers clean and barrels dry,— Wipe your pistol and bayonet! Tomorrow watch the Yankees die!_ THIRD VOICE (That of an old army sergeant) _Privates sleep where the rain pours down! Generals have a bed in town! Hayfoot, strawfoot never knows Whether his gun is loaded or not! Load again and if she blows ... Dead and buried, and soon forgot!_ (A ringing rifle volley is heard) _Volley fire! That’s what you hear! And that means more than a picket brush! Turn your head away from the rear And set yourself for their first rush! (Load your guns, if you know how, With your fingers stiff with fright! Northern boys from yard and mow, Southern boys from field and plow, God forbid, your time is now!) Dress your line! The guide is right!_ (The sounds of battle rise to a crescendo then fade to the silence of the woods) FOURTH VOICE (That of an elderly farmer) _Pray God they never march again Across my farm, tearing the land to bits,— Wheeling their guns and leaving broken men Blasted and burned wherever shell-fire hits! I have the papers now about the fight That rolled across my orchard, ridge and hill! Half of the truth is all they dare to write About what happens when men fight to kill!_ _Now this: “Cleburne advanced across the stream”! Advanced! He met a line that crashed and flamed Not loud enough to cover up the scream, As those in front fell over dead and maimed! Over the fallen who still shrieked and cried, The Mississippi troops moved in the flash Of Sherman’s powder, burning as they died, Meeting the fire with stab and saber slash!_