IN MEMORY: THE ALABAMA CONFEDERATE SOLDIER

On a warm afternoon in April, 2016, The United Daughters of the Confederacy gathered at Ebeneezer Cemetery in Wagarville, Alabama to give Honor to there fallen family members who gave their lives fighting in the War between the States AKA, The Civil War. I am told that my grandfather Harris Sutley was a Confederate Soldier during this period of our American History. A brief history lesson was given about Alabama's participation this war. Alabama entered the war in the month of April and the Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomattox in the month of April. After the chaplain's prayer, a wreath was laid at the grave of one of the 6 fallen Confederate Soldiers buried here.

ALABAMA THE BEAUTIFUL

ALABAMA CONFEDERACY

THE JACKET OF GRAY




by Caroline Augusta Ball

born 1825




Fold it up carefully, lay it aside;

Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride;

For dear to our hearts must it be evermore,

The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore.



Can we ever forget when he joined the brave band

That rose in defense of our dear Southern land,

How proudly he donned it -- the jacket of gray?

And in his bright youth hurried on to the fray,

What anguish was hers mortal tongue cannot say,
His fond mother blessed him and looked up above,
Commending to Heaven the child of her love;

But her country had called and she would not repine,
When he passed from her sight in the jacket of gray.

Though costly the sacrifice placed on its shrine;

Months passed and wars thunders rolled over the land,
Her heart's dearest hopes on its altar she lay,
When she sent out her boy in the jacket of gray.

Unsheathed was the sword and lighted the brand;

The glad shout of victory rang in our ears;
We heard in the distance the sound of the fray,
And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray.

Ah, vain, all in vain, were our prayers and our tears,

The cold lifeless form to his home by the shore;
But our treasured one on the red battle-field lay,
While the life-blood oozed out of the jacket of gray.

His young comrades found him, and tenderly bore
Oh, dark were our hearts on that terrible day,

And replaced with death's white robes the jacket of gray.
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 proudly wore;
We bitterly wept as we took it away,

We laid him to rest in his cold narrow bed,

For dear must it be to our hearts evermore,
And graved on the marble we placed o'er his head
As the proudest tribute our sad hearts could pay --
"He never disgraced it, the jacket of gray."

Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride;

The jacket of gray our loved soldierboy wore!

UNKNOWN SOLDIER

Confederate States Army

CONFEDERATE MEMORIAL DAY

Author Unknown



The marching armies of the past

   Along our Southern plains,

   Beneath the Southern rains.

Are sleeping now in quiet rest

   To rouse them from their bed;
The bugle call is now in vain

   They are sleeping with the dead.
To arms they'll never march again--


   With blood our heroes shed,
No more will Shiloh's plains be stained
Nor Chancellorsville resound again

   Sound at the break of dawn,
To our noble warriors' tread.

For them no more shall reveille
But may their sleep peaceful be

And clasp again their unseen hands
Till God's great judgment morn.

We bow our heads in solemn prayer
   For those who wore the gray,

   On our Memorial Day.

There were an estimated 20,000 widows and 60,000 orphans left in Alabama as a result of America's Civil War.

Approximately 122,000 of Alabama's Fathers, Sons, Brothers and Husbands fought for the Confederacy. Alabama's losses were an estimated 35,000, with 30,000 returned as disabled.

The Sullivan Log Cabin in Washington Counties, Wagarville, Alabama.

Confederate Soldiers dressed in whatever they found to where, This group of soldiers dressed differently to show the diversity in uniforms worn.

Young Farm Boys fought and died 

DECKING SOUTHERN SOLDIERS' GRAVES

by A.W. Slayback



Beautiful feet, with maidenly tread,

Offerings bring to the gallant dead.

Of heroes untimely ascended to God.

Footsteps light press the sacred sod

And offer sweet prayers for a merciful doom.

Bring spring flowers! in fragrant perfume

Here was extinguished their manly fire,
Beautiful hands! ye deck the graves,
Above the dust of the Southern braves.

Bring spring flowers! the laurel and rose,
Who scorned to flinch from the foeman's ire.
And deck ye the graves where your friends repose.


But "little they'll reck," if ye honor the brave.
Beautiful eyes! the tears ye shed
Are brighter than diamonds to those who bled;
Spurned is the cause they fell to save,

Memory wakens the sleeping one's vow;
Bring spring flowers! with tears and praise,
And chant o'er their tombs your grateful lays.

Beautiful lips! ye trembled now,
Mute are the lips and faded the forms,

Beautiful hearts! of matron and maid,
That never knelt, save to God and your charms.
Bring spring flowers! all dewy with morn,
And think how they loved ye, whose graves ye adorn.

Faithful were ye, when Apostles betrayed!

With annual incense to glory and God.
Here are your loved and cherished ones laid,
Peace to their ashes, the flowers ye strew
Are monuments worthy the faithful and true.

Bring spring flowers! perfume their sod,

Members of Confederate Reenactment Units share their time to remember our Southern History

THE SOUTH

by Abram Joseph Ryan

(1839-1894)



Yes, give me the land

  Where the ruins are spread,

And the living tread light

Yes, give me the land

  On the heart of the dead;

  Of the down-trodden just.

  That is blest by the dust,
And bright with the deeds

Has flashed on the future
Yes, give me the land
  Where the battles' red blast

  That hath legends and lays
The form of the past;
Yes, give me the land
That tell of the memories

To tell of the strife
Of long-vanished days.
  
Yes, give me the land
  That hath story and song

And names in the graves
Of the right with the wrong;
Yes, give me the land
  With a grave in each spot

There's grandeur in graves --
That shall not be forgot.
  
Yes, give me the land
  Of the wreck and the tomb;
  There's glory in gloom.

And the graves of the dead,
For out of the gloom
  Future brightness is born;
As, after the night
  Looms the sunrise of morn.
  

Shall yet be a rock
With the grass overgrown,
May yet form the footstool
  Of Liberty's throne;
And each simple wreck
  In the way-path of might

  In the temple of Right.

The Chaplain's Prayer

ROLL-CALL

by Nathaniel Graham Shepherd

(1834-1888)



"Corporal Green!" the Orderly cried;

  "Here!" was the answer loud and clear,

  From the lips of a soldier who stood near,--

And "Here!" was the word the next replied.

  This time no answer followed the call;
"Cyrus Drew!"--then a silence fell;
  Only his rear-man had seen him fall;

  These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
Killed or wounded--he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.


And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,
  Were redder stains than the poppies knew,


  That swept them down in its terrible ire;
For the foe had crossed from the other side,
  That day, in the face of a murderous fire
And their life-blood went to color the tide.


Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
"Herbert Cline!"--At the call there came
  Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
  Bearing between them this Herbert Cline,

"Ezra Kerr!"--and a voice answered "Here!"

"Ephraim Deane!"--then a soldier spoke;
"Hiram Kerr!"--but no man replied.
  They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

  "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said,

  He murmured his mother's name, I think,
"When our ensign was shot; I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke."

"Close to the roadside his body lies;
  I paused a moment and gave him to drink;
And Death came with it and closed his eyes."


Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!" 
'Twas a victory, yes; but it cost us dear:
  For that company's roll, when called at night,

  Of a hundred men who went into the fight,

THE FLAG BOY

Dear comrades on my brow the hand of death is cast,

My breath is growing short, all pain will soon be past;

My soul will soar away to that bright land of bliss,

Far from the pain and woe of such a place as this.

I left my home and friends to battle with the foe,

To save the Southern land from misery and woe;

I gave my all (oh! not to win a name,

Or have it e'en enrolled upon the scroll of fame.)

Not so, I only wished a helper brave to be

To save the glorious South from cruel tyranny;

My soul with ardor burned the treacherous foe to fight

And take a noble stand for liberty and right.

But oh! how weak is man! It was not God's decree,

That I should longer live a helper brave to be,

Before another day I shall be with the dead,

And 'neath the grassy sod will be my lonely bed.

And should you see the friends that nurtured me in youth,

Tell them I tried to walk the ways of peace and truth;

O ! tell my mother kind the words that she has given,

Have led her wayward child to Jesus and to heaven.

Farewell! farewell! my friends my loving comrades dear,

I ask you not to drop for me one bitter tear;

The angels sweetly stand and beckon me to come,

To that bright land of bliss that heavenly realm my home.

    ~Author Unknown

THE DAUGHTER OF THE CONFEDERACY

by Dr. Henry Mazyck Clarkson

(1835-1915)




Sweet women of the South, come gather 'round

     This silent figure. It but typifies

     The grief the people feel for her who lies

In restful sleep beneath this hallowed mound.
Distinguished daughter of a race renowned,

     Before the world's admiring eyes she stood
In the full flush of faultless womanhood,
A very queen, with every virtue crowned.

'Mid stirring scenes of stubborn battle born,

     A woman true she won the world's applause:
Child of the chieftain of a hapless cause,
For scoffing foes she had no word of scorn --
With angels keeping watch o'er Hollywood,
Here let her wait among the great and good.

     

Confederate Soldiers present an 18 Gun Salute to Honor the Fallen

HE'LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES

by Frank Lee






Amid the clouds of battle smoke

The sun had died away,

And where the storm of battle broke

A thousand warriors lay.

A band of friends upon the field

Who, when the war cloud's thunder pealed,

Stood round a youthful form,
Had perished in the storm.

And each dear brother standing there
Upon his forehead, on his hair,
The coming moonlight breaks,
A tender farewell takes.


And gave a token that had come
But ere they laid him in his home
There came a comrade near,
From her the dead held dear.

"He'll see it when he wakes."
A moment's doubt upon them pressed,
Then one the letter takes
And lays it low upon his breast --

"He'll see it when he wakes."
0 thou who dost in sorrow wait,
Whose heart in anguish breaks,
Though thy dear message came too late,


And e'en thy tender words of love --
No more amid the fiery storm
Shall his strong arm be seen,
No more his young and manly form
Tread Mississippi's green;

No noise his slumber breaks;
The words affection speaks-
Came all too late; but O thy love
Will "see them when he wakes!
No jars disturb his gentle rest,

"He'll see them when he wakes."

But thy words sleep upon his breast --

ONLY A SOLDIER'S GRAVE

By S.A. Jones




Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,

For soldiers, like other mortals, die.

Parents had he -- they are far away;

No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;

No brother comes, with tearful eye;

It's only a soldier's grave -- pass by.

Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or triumphs won;

Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high; --
Only a soldier's grave: -- pass by.

And he gave his life in the cause of right!

Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave: - pass by.
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh; --


'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Yet, we should mark it -- the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:

Find not the hillock, and pass him by.

Dixie

by Daniel Decatur Emmett of Mount Vernon, Ohio

---

Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times there are not forgotten, (Alt Original: Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom,)
Look away, look away, look away Dixie Land.

In Dixie Land, where I was born in,
early on one frosty mornin', 
Look away, look away, look away Dixie Land. 

I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray! Hooray! 
In Dixie Land I'll take my stand
to live and die in Dixie. 
Away, away, away down south in Dixie. 
Away, away, away down south in Dixie 

THE PHOTOGRAPHER/ 
STORY TELLER

All Photography By:

J. Cartier B&W Photography

Freelance Photographer

Daphne, Alabama

(251) 490-3212

jcartier.com

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