“Strange as it may seem,” says a soldier, “we made some very pleasant acquaintances among the prisoners we were sent to guard, some of whom we had helped to capture, and cared for when wounded on the field. One rebel–Maj. McKnight, of the rebel Gen. Loring’s staff–was an especial favorite. He was a poet, musician, and joker, and used to run ‘from grave to gay, from lively to severe,’ on almost all matters. I append a little morceau of his, under his nome de plume of Asa Hartz, entitled
MY LOVE AND I.
BY ASA HARTZ.
My love reposes on a rosewood frame;
A bunk have I;
A couch of feathery down fills up the same;
Mine’s straw, but dry;
She sinks to rest at night with scarce a sigh;
With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.
My love her daily dinner takes in state,
And so do I;
The richest viands flank her silver plate;
Coarse grub have I;
Pure wines she sips at ease, her thirst to slake;
I pump my drink from Erie’s limpid lake.
My love has all the world at will to roam;
Three acres I;
She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home;
So cannot I.
Bright angels watch around her couch at night;
A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.
A thousand weary miles now stretch between
My love and I.
To her this wintry night, cold, calm, serene,
I waft a sigh,
And hope with all my earnestness of soul,
To-morrow’s mail may bring me my parole.
There’s hope ahead! we’ll one day meet again,
My love and I.
We’ll wipe away all tears of sorrow then;
Her love-lit eye
Will all my many troubles then beguile,
And keep this wayward reb from Johnson’s Isle.
Originally posted 2008-11-18 16:03:57.