Months passed, and war's thunders rolled over the land, Unsheathed was the sword and lighted the brand; We heard in the distance the noise of the fray, And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray. Ah! vain all--all vain were our prayers and our tears The glad shout of victory rang in our ears; But our treasured one on the cold battle-field lay, While the life blood oozed out on the jacket of gray. CHORUS. His young comrades found him and tenderly bore His cold, lifeless form to his home by the shore; Oh! dark were our hearts on that terrible day, When we saw our dead boy in the jacket of gray. Ah! spotted, and tattered, and stained now with gore, Was the garment which once he so gracefully wore; We bitterly wept as we took it away, And replaced with death's white robes, the jacket of gray. CHORUS. We laid him to rest in his cold, narrow bed, And graved on the marble, we placed o'er his head, As the proudest of tributes our sad hearts could pay, "He never disgraced the dear jacket of gray." Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside, Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride; For dear must it be to our hearts evermore, The jacket of gray our loved soldier boy wore. CHORUS. I'M A GOOD OLD REBEL. By J. R. T. [The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.] O, I'm a good old rebel, Now that's just what I am, For this "Fair Land of Freedom" I do not care a damn; I'm glad I fit against it, I only wish we'd won, And I don't want no pardon For anything I done. I hates the Constitution, This great Republic too, I hates the Freedman's Buro, In uniform of blue; I hates the nasty eagle, With all his bragg and fuss, The lyin', thievin' Yankees, I hates them wuss and wuss. I hates the Yankee nation And everything they do, I hates the Declaration Of Independence, too; I hates the glorious Union-- 'Tis dripping with our blood-- I hates their striped banner, I fit it all I could. [Illustration: "I'm a good old rebel."] Three hundred thousand Yankees Is stiff in Southern dust; We got three hundred thousand Before they conquered us; They died of Southern fever, And Southern steel and shot, I wish they was three million, Instead of what we got. I followed old mas' Robert For four year near about, Got wounded in three places, And starved at Pint Lookout; I cotched the roomatism, A campin' in the snow, But I killed a chance o' Yankees, I'd like to kill some mo'. I can't take up my musket And fight 'em now no more, But I ain't a-going to love 'em, Now that is sartin' sure; And I don't want no pardon, For what I was and am, I won't be reconstructed, And I don't care a damn. TRUE TO THE GRAY.