I wish my readers health and happiness during the holidays and for the New Year. A friend shared this with me and I thought it would be a good post on Christmas Day. I don’t know the original author to give proper credit, but if you know, send me his or her name and I’ll add it to this post.

There are reasons, good ones, that Sherman is the most hated man in the South. Nat Rudolph in his essay “Why America lost the ‘Civil War’ ” quotes Sherman as saying in a letter to Grant: “You and I and every commander must go through the war justly chargeable with crimes.” You should read Rudolph’s essay. You can find it here:

A Sherman Christmas

DECK THE HALLS (Sherman Style)

Burn the house with lots of torches,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Tis the season to make marches,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

On we move, our faces sullied,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.
Move the columns down the gullies,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

See the blazing homes before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Strike the tents and join the chorus.
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Follow me the food we gather,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
While I fill my bursting haver,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Fast away the landscape passes,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Hide your food, ye lads and lasses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Sing we joyous, Bummers merry,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Shermans coming, hide your berries
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

For now, this poem may be shared as long as my name, email and website are posted with it. I thought it would be a good Christmas Eve post.

The Little Confederate’s Night Before Christmas ©by Rickey E. Pittman

‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the South,
Folks waited for Santa
To come to their house.

The war was going on,
And folks were afraid,
That Christmas would be canceled
Because of the Yankee blockade!

The soldiers were weary
From marching in groups,
But all looked for Santa
From the old to the youth!

They sang Christmas carols,
Like “Silent Night,’
And set up Christmas trees,
With candles for lights.

Strings of popcorn,
On branches they wind,
Other ornaments were made
Out of what they could find.

Some were of glass,
Or of wood carved by hand,
Decked with ribbons and ivy,
The tree looked so grand!

As Mama sets the table
For Santa’s midnight snack,
She hopes the night is peaceful
And the Yankees don’t attack.

Then up in the sky
She hears the clatter and rattle
Of rifles and cannon,
She knows there’s a battle!

It must be Santa
Chargin’ through Yankee lines!
On his way to Dixie,
As he did in better times.

The Yankees fired their muskets,
And twelve-pounder cannons,
Mortars and Swamp Angels,
But Santa kept comin’!

He rode on a caisson,
Made of rough timber,
And sitting beside him
Was the orphan Jim Limber!

A team of eight mules,
Pulled them at great speed,
Antlers tied to their heads,
With Traveler in the lead!

Great Rebel Generals,
Gathered and gave him a salute,
Light glistened from their swords,
And their black polished boots!

Generals Lee and Stonewall,
Pickett and Kirby,
Forrest and Taylor,
Stand Watie and Early!

Santa stopped in Richmond
To greet Jefferson Davis,
And said, Feliz Navidad!
To Colonel Santos Benavides!

Santa urged his team on
Through all the Southern states,
He carried presents and cheer,
And he must not be late!

Down the stick and mud
Chimney he came,
Rolling and laughing
Like he was playing a game,

Soot and gunpowder
Had made his face black,
And he looked like a sutler
With that big sack on his back!

He was dressed in gray wool,
Brogans on his feet,
A kepi on his head,
Coated with icy sleet!

He sat down at the table,
And drank some iced tea!
Then a hot cup of coffee
With just a drop of whiskey,

He spotted the platter
Of gravy and steak,
Corn pones and biscuits,
Fried Okra and cake.

He ate all the food,
Like a starving young soldier,
He rose to his feet,
And nearly fell over!

He stuffed all the stockings
With all kinds of toys,
Whirli-jigs and tops,
For the good little boys.

The girls got dolls,
With calico dresses,
And candy and hairpins,
For their pretty long tresses.

And I heard Santa exclaim
As he sped out of sight,
Merry Christmas to Ya’ll,
And to all a goodnight!

While watching HBO’s True Blood series, I heard another song I wanted to learn for my Americana music songlist. Evidently I ‘m not the only one impressed with this series. I did recently purchase the whole Southern Vampire Series by Charlaine Harris and I’ve listened to two of them on audio CD. I dug a little on the Internet, and there’s a huge subculture of fanatical fans. Harris has changed the vocabulary of America with this series and altered the sensorium of an entire generation regarding the topics of the horror genre.

About Charlie Robison, whose song I wanted to post today: The native born Texan’s music is both brash and reflective. He has a ranch outside Bandera, and according to his website it’s a place “where Robison’s family has ranched for eight generations since the 1840s.” You can and should read more about this talented musician and songwriter here:

“Good Times” by Charlie Robison

Pick up a pizza, pineapple ham
And put it in the back of a Good Times van
Well go out and pick up the rest of the band
We’re gonna have a good time

Yeah Lilly of the valley, Lilly on a rug, Lilly drove here in a VW bug
Am I on the guest list, give her a shrug
We’re gonna have a good time

Yeah we gonna be like an icecream cone
Better eat it quick gonna be long gone
By me a whiskey, get yourself stoned
We’re gonna have a good time

Well sit on a table, sit on the floor
Act like a virgin, act like you’re sore
Winner or loser they’re both too fine
We’re gonna have a good time

When we see you in Atlanta or Abilene
The prettiest girls that I’ve ever seen
Be sweet as honey girl don’t be mean
We’re gonna have a good time

Yeah we gonna be like an icecream cone
Better eat it quick gonna be long gone
Buy me a whiskey, get yourself stoned
We’re gonna have a good time

Well, a lot of people talk can shut the hell up
Sneak out a beer in a styrofoam cup
I’m gonna start singing so don’t interrupt
We’re gonna have a good time

Well live in the country, live in the town
Come out tonight gonna burn them all down
Don’t let the bastards get yourself down
We’re gonna have a good time

Yeah we gonna be like an icecream cone
Better eat it quick gonna be long gone
Buy me a whiskey get yourself stoned
We’re gonna have a good time
I said buy me a whiskey, get yourself stoned
We’re gonna have a good time

Kate Cumming was a Confederate Nurse for the Army of Tennessee during the Civil War. Her journal has been used as a textbook for nursing schools. Scottish by ancestry, she deeply loved Scotland and the South. With my emphasis on writing about Celtic issues and people, I decided some posts devoted to this Mobile, Alabama resident would be appropriate.

Jed Marum: Lyrics and Chords (For more information on Jed Marum, go to http://www.jedmarum.com/)

Jed Marum has written two songs about Kate Cumming. He says this about the one I decided to post today: “The song was inspired by a poem I found in the diary of Kate Cumming – a nurse who worked the hospitals that followed the Confederate armies as they moved throughout the South during the American Civil War.

Kate was a bright, intelligent and eloquent woman, a Scottish immigrant and woman of deep faith. She is a genuine hero to me for her dedication to the young men who fought and died so bravely for their various causes during America’s most trying times. She left her thoughts and recollections for us in a book called; Kate Cumming: Diary Of A Confederate Nurse. You’ll find it still print at Amazon and elsewhere.”

CHICKAHOMINY RIVER
© Jed Marum 2004
Capo 2

1) You’re a (C)slow rolling (G)flood, Chicka(F)hominy (C)River
But your gentle face (G)troubles me (F)deep to my (C)soul
For your waters rode (G)easy, (F)serene and so (C)gentle
While the battle and (G)bloodshed (F)around you did (C)roll

2) If your tale could be (Am)told, Chicka(F)hominy (C)River
And your banks sing the (Am)song of our (F)young and our (G)brave
You’ve been (C)bathed in the (G)blood of our (F)husbands and (C)brothers
Now sacred you (G)keep them (F)alone in their (C)grave

3) Now for families and loved ones, Chickahominy River
Sad hearts will be breaking, so far from your shore
For our sons we have left here in trust to your keeping
Chickahominy River take care of thy store

4) May your banks guard them well, Chickahominy River
May the bones of our dear ones lie calmly at rest
til of the trump of the dead shall awake them to glory
forever to live in the realm of the blest

BRIDGE:
(Am)Husbands and fathers, (Am)brothers and sons
We (F)pass them in trust to your (G)care

Repeat verse 4)

If your tale could be told, Chickahominy River
And your banks sing the song of our young and our brave
For our sons we have left here in trust to your keeping
Chickahominy River take care of thy store

My friend, Jed Marum, will be at Enoch’s tonight in Monroe, Louisiana, so if you’re in town, do drop in and hear him. He is a great musician.

Today, in just a little while, I have a book signing at the Books-A-Million here in Sherman, Texas. I’ll have all three books, but of course, the Scottish Alphabet is the newest one that I’ll be promoting. Last time I wore my kilt. I spent the night with my parents, rose at 5:00 a.m for breakfast with them, then I drove to Paneras so I could drink coffee and wrap up my online classes I teach for Virginia College. (I have got to get Internet at my parents’ house!)

I always enjoy the drive to this part of the world, and coming in at dusk and driving here at sunrise reminded me of the beauty of the area this time of year–the big sky, the Christmas lights, the fallow fields and pastures full of cattle. Tomorrow, I’m taking my parents to Grapeland, Texas to visit one of my mom’s last remaining relatives, then we’ll drive on to Monroe to celebrate Christmas together. I’ve never been to Grapeland before, and I love going to places I’ve never seen. I must have a Viking ancestor who passed his wander-lust on to me.

Pardon the brief and rambling post today, but that’s just the way it is sometimes.  As usual, there is too much to do and too little time and money to do it.

Lyrics: “Never Gonna Fly” by Radney Foster

When it comes to music, sometimes I think I’ve got the compulsions and addictive personality of a drunk or a gambler. Once again, a song on the Americana station caught my attention. The artist was Radney Foster. After listening to his song, “Never Gonna Fly,” I quickly found his website: According to the site, “Radney Foster’s songs carry enough guts, depth and soul to deliver a knock out punch to any serious listener,” says fellow Texan and co-writer Pat Green. I would have to agree. I definitely want to learn more about this talented songwriter. I will likely purchase Foster’s CD soon, This World We Live In. The Texas songwriter (now in Nashville) has been writing songs since he was seventeen. Foster’s site quotes him as saying: “The best records I’ve done are about big transitions, things that have happened in my life that made me dig around in my soul.” This was a song that made me dig a little into my own soul, so I thought I’d better post the lyrics. If I got any of the lines wrong, let me know. (rickeyp@bayou.com)

“Never Gonna Fly” by Radney Foster

A young man full of pride don’t need much hope
He thinks he’s got it made even when he don’t
Thinks all he’s got to do is order up a beer or two
And make work what everybody tells him won’t

He don’t care what all those people say
He’s got to bend the world his own way
He’s got dreams, he’s got no doubts
You’re either in or you’re out
And it’s better to burn than it is to fail

You wanna feel the wind, you gotta take the ride
You better dream big, you wanna touch the sky
You can’t be scared to risk it all
You never gonna fly if you’re afraid to fall

An old man don’t waste time with regrets
He’s made mistakes along the way and yet
He smiles as he’s looking back
He says I’d do it all again
In fact, you learn something new
With every single scar you get

You wanna feel the wind, you gotta take the ride
You better dream big, you wanna touch the sky
You can’t be scared to risk it all
You never gonna fly if you’re afraid to fall

Guess it’s true that time, it really does slip away
You won’t elude the chances you don’t take

You wanna feel the wind, you gotta take the ride
You better dream big, you wanna touch the sky
You can’t be scared to risk it all
No, you’re never gonna fly if you’re afraid to fall
You’re never gonna fly if you’re afraid to fall

If you’re afraid to fall
If you’re afraid to fall
Go on son, you can fly

For today’s post, I  thought I’d use an excerpt from my anthology, Stories of the Confederate South. You can learn more of the book by clicking on the link on the sidebar. I chose the story, “Manhunter, “a story I constructed after reading the diaries of several Federal soldiers who were confined in Camp Ford, a post near Tyler, Texas, along what is now Highway 271. Up to 5,000 captured Yankees were imprisoned there late in the war. I think there’s a song lurking beneath the surface of the camp’s story, and I hope my research will lead me to it.  Chicolithe, the main character of the story, is based on a real person. Molly Moore, the poet mentioned later in the story, is also based on a real person.

“Manhunter”

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men

long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”—Ernest Hemingway

The thunderclap woke Chicolithe. He stretched his legs on the rope bed and listened to a surge of wind as it roared through the pine tops and to the rain as it pounded the wooden shingles and slid from the roof to slap puddles of water on the hard clay ground.  He sat up and looked out the cabin’s one window by his bed. The thunder echoed through the piney hills like enfilading cannon, and he heard a bolt of lightning crackle high above the earth, burning sky and air until it augured its tentacle downward into a pine.  He heard the tree split and crash into the ground.  As the storm moved eastward, the thunder eased into rumbles and the lightning into white-charcoal screens.  His bluetick hound stirred, and the dog’s tail thumped the bedpost. Chicolithe reached down and scratched the animal’s head.
“One of them will run tonight, Nimrod. Best get some rest, boy.”
The dog blew out a breath, licked Chicolithe’s hand, and rested his muzzle on his outstretched paws.
Chicolithe rose an hour later, let the dog outside, and then moved to the stool at the fireplace.  He threw pine kindling onto the embers and blew them into flame.  The blackened clay of the stick-framed clay chimney was cracked and thick with charred pine resin.  The smoke swirled and looped inside its black crypt, then spiraled up the flu into the gray sky.  After the logs caught, he let Nimrod back inside and made coffee and a small boiler of cornmeal mush.  As he ate, he stared into the flames, his thoughts taking him to earlier pursuits of these erratic and desperate men in blue coats.
He heard the splash of brogans wading through the mud and puddles outside his cabin.  A small hand, not a man’s fist, pounded on the door.  It would be one of the guards from Camp Ford.  Slipping his suspenders over his shoulders as he rose, he opened the dilapidated pine-board door.  “Come on in, boy. Get dried off.”
The fifteen-year-old stepped inside, removed his slouch hat, and squeezed the water out of it. “I’d like to visit a while, Mr. Chicolithe, but I got to get back to the fort. Colonel Allen wants you to come right away with your dogs. Some Yankees run away last night.”
“How many this time?”
“Colonel said a half-a-dozen of ’em.”
Chicolithe ciphered the silver dollars he would earn if he could catch them all.
The boy held his hands over the fireplace. “It’s rained like thunder all night long. A cold rain, too.  I reckon they thought the rain would cover their trail.”
“They thought wrong.” Chicolithe studied the boy who had already worked the camp for a year. The boy was one of about two dozen militiamen on guard duty at Camp Ford—all of them boys, old men, or stove-up soldiers—who guarded the 2,000 Federal troops inside the stockade.  If the war lasted another year, this boy would be sure to sign on with regular Texas infantry or cavalry.  A couple of the other boys guarding the fort seemed a bit addled and thickheaded to Chicolithe.  He doubted they would ever be accepted for regular service, but this boy—he would be absorbed quickly.
A half-dozen. That meant that it wasn’t the impulsive blind run of a few soldiers who seized an opportunity, but it reflected a planned escape. Likely, they had weapons and food stored up and a route planned.  Maybe some help from someone outside the stockade.  If the escapees stayed together, they would be easy enough to catch, but if they split up, Chicolithe knew he would have a devil of time catching them all.
“Well, boy, help me load up the dogs, and we’ll be on our way. It sounds like the rain is letting up.”
*    *    *

My Americana cable station is slowly going to make me a poor man because of all the songs I order from iTunes. Yet, I know it’s helping me build a great songlist for my shows. I discovered yet another artist I wanted to feature on my blog—Doug Spartz. I was working on my online classes when I heard his song, “Number 29.” Now, I know Steve Earl has song called “Number 29” but this was different. As I listened to this song, I could feel the emotion packed into the lyrics and into the singing. I felt it would be a song I could work into my Memorial Day show I like to do for the Blue Star Mothers. It also made me think of all the symbolism behind the number 29. If you’d like to know more about that number go here: The lyrics are a transcription, so if you find a line that needs correction, please email me (rickeyp@bayou.com) Doug Spartz is a tremendously talented musician. His website is one you should check out and you can find it here:

Lyrics for “Number 29 (The Rocket)” by Doug Spartz (Performer) Songwriter: Canadian, Fred Eaglesmith

Son, could you help me on this platform
I’m not too good climbing stairs
Brought me a drink and a sandwich
I wanted to just sit and watch the trains.

I come down here every single Sunday
My grandkids used to come here too
Now they drop me off at the front entry
I guess they’ve got better things to do.

CHORUS:

Number 47 she’s a good one
Number 63 sings like a bird
Number 29, That’s the one they call the rocket
Hey, that’s the saddest train I’ve ever heard.

Son, I’m a decorated veteran
I fought what they all called the final war
I used to believe in everything that it stood for
I don’t believe in much anymore

CHORUS:

Son, you look just like my Nathan
He stood here 40 years ago today
He looked so good in that brand new soldier’s uniform
But that rocket never brought him back again.

CHORUS:

A short post today, so much to do. I must finally be getting into the Christmas spirit. If you like banjos, my friend Jed Marum has a song that has been ranked as high as number 4 in the Bluegrass Christmas list and we’d like to keep it there for a bit. You don’t need to log in or join the site – just playing the track will help us out. If you are a Soundclick member, please rate the song for us.

Check out this song: ‘BANJOS WE HAVE HEARD ON HIGH’ – Jed Marum’ by ORIGINAL CHRISTMAS SONGS.

Song page: http://soundclick.com/share?songid=7090961

Band page: http://soundclick.com/originalchristmassongs

*By the way, you may be interested in knowing that Jed and I are planning some projects together–a combination of storytelling and music.

In my Stories of the Confederate South anthology, I have a story, Lily, that is centered around the men of the Irish Brigade. Jed Marum performs a wonderful version of a song entitled, “The Boys of the Irish Brigade.” I decided to post his thoughts on the song and the lyrics as well. The chords are in parentheses. I’ve always thought this song a good tool to teach youngsters stories of mythology. Jed Marum will be at Enoch’s Irish Pub, Saturday, Dec. 20! Be sure and come to see him. He will be worth the drive. Please visit Jed Marum’s website here.

Jed says: “Most of what I know of this song I learned from singer David Kincaid’s album, The Irish Volunteer. You can find more info here www.hauntedfieldmusic.com.

The old Irish melody and the lyrics of this song were recently put together by David. He states that he found the lyrics in the Book Of Irish Songs by Samuel Lover and Charles Lever. That book was published in 1860 by A. Winch, of Philadelphia, PA. No authorship is given for the lyrics.

The song celebrates the heroics of the Irish Brigade who fought for the army France during the 18th century – but it was published in the US just at the start of the American Civil War and was certainly appropriate for the period.

David attributes the melody as “My Lodging Is On The Cold Ground,” and it is the same melody also used for “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms” and others.

“The Boys of the Irish Brigade” Chords and Lyrics
Traditional
(capo 3)

What (C) more or shall I sing you of (F)Roman or Greek
Or the (C)boys you hear (G)tell of in (C)story (G)
Come (C)match me for fighting, for (F)frolic or freak
The (C)Irishman’s (G)reign in his (C)glory
For Ajax and Hector and (F)bold Agamemnon
Were (C)up to the (G)tricks of the (C)trade, (G)Oh
But the (C)rollicking boys for war, (F)ladies and noise
The (C)boys of the (G)Irish Bri(C)gade

What for shall I sing you of Helen of Troy
Or the mischief that come of her flirting
There’s Biddy McClinchy the pride of Fermoy
Twice as much of a Helen, that’s certain
And for Venus so famous, or Queen Cleopatra
Bad luck to the word should be said, Oh
By the rollicking boys for war, ladies and noise
The boys of the Irish Brigade

What for shall I sing you of classical fun
Or the games whether Grecian or Persian
The Currauh’s the place where the knowing one’s done
And the Mallow that flogs for diversion
For fighting for drinking for ladies and all
No time like our times, e’re was made, oh
By the rollicking boys for war, ladies and noise
The boys of the Irish Brigade

TAG:
For fighting for drinking for ladies and all
No time like our times, e’re was made, oh
By the rollicking boys for war, ladies and noise
The boys of the Irish Brigade