Spanish-American War Songs, 1898
The following poems about the fighting in 1898 were part of a collection published by Sidney A.
Witherbee. Most poems and songs in the collection adopt a tone similar to J. R. Martin’s “A Call
from Cuba,” but a few are more complex in their views.
A CALL FROM CUBA - J. R. Martin
Rouse! Sons of Columbia, hear the cry of despair,
Wrung from skeleton forms in the dreary night air;
Human forma herded there by a mandate from Spain,
Without help, food or shelter, from sun, cold or rain;
Age and infancy blend, no strong arm to defend,
They wait in dull anguish the sorrowful end;
They’re our neighbors in Cuba; oh, hear their sad cry:
“Save us, sons of Columbia, or haste, ere we die.”
Have we forfeited life because longing to be
Like your glorious union, in full liberty?
Our hearts are like lead ‘neath this load of despair,
You are brave, you are generous, hear this our prayer;
By your own love of liberty, grant us the same,
Shield our homes and loved ones from the fury of Spain;
Then the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave,
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
We have suffered for years every outrage which Spain
Could invent to insult us and fill life with pain;
The music they love is the shriek of despair
And the moan of lost innocence in the night air;
Oh God! hear our cry, from Thy throne up on high,
Send deliverance from Spain, or permit us to die;
May the star spangled banner o’er Cuba soon wave,
Blessed emblem of peace for the home of the brave.
___
“REMEMBER THE MAINE” - Lilith V. Pinchbeck
Hark! don’t you hear the trumpets?
The beating of the drum
And measured tread of marching feet
Proclaim that war has come.
The battle cry rolls onward
As they thin the ranks from Spain—
‘T is no more “Remember the Alamo
But “Remember, boys, the Maine!”
Oh! who will fill the places
Of those who ne’er return?
Oh! who dare speak of comfort
To the weary hearts that mourn?
There will come no awak’ning
For some upon the plain,
They must listen for God’s calling
To those who avenged the Maine.
The dreadful war clouds gather,
The smoke of guns hangs low;
Soft through the night our ships have passed,
‘Neath forts and waiting foe.
Thought of the famished children,
The men and women slain,
Shall nerve our heroes in this hour
While they avenge the Maine.
Across the dancing, rippling waves
The deadly volleys pour,
With shrill, sharp whistling of the ball
And cannon’s vengeful roar.
There’s brilliant, dazzling flash of fire—
A proud ship’s rent in twain,
And the battle wages fiercer—
For we must avenge the Maine.
Hush! O’er the sea and o’er the land
Night’s stillness has begun;
The battle’s fought, the strife is o’er,
The victory is won!
Fling out Old Glory to the breeze,
Unloose her folds again,
Cry, “Viva! Cuba Libre!”
We have avenged the Maine!
___
THE JINGO’S SOLILOQUY - James Barton Adams
To go or not to go—that is the question,
Whether ‘tis better that I stay at home
And guard the women from the Spanish hordes,
Or to take up arms against the haughty Dons
And help to do them up. To march, to fight,
To eat hardtack and bacon handed down
From pre-historic days, so strong that It
Is fitted to bear arms against the foe,
And beans of ancient lineage, that long
Have served as private residence for worms
And miscellaneous bugs.
To march, to fight,
To fight?—perchance to stop the hissing flight
Of some impetuous bullet; catch it where
Fitzsimmons landed on the pompadour.
And fall in awkward, inartistic shape,
With no loved hand to close my sightless eyes
And tell reporters what a peach I was.
Aye, there’s the rub, a hard one, too, at that,
For who would care to shuff this mortal coil
And act as filling for a new dug grave,
And have his name misspelled, perchance, upon
The telegraphic list of hero dead?
And there’s the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose burn
As far as known no traveler returns.
Is it not best to bear the ills I have
And try to hustle three square meals a day
Than fly to others that I wot not of,
And quit the Job with hide so punctured that
It would be quite unfit for further use?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
And thus the native hue of patriotism
Is somewhat streaked with yellow up the back.
And, though I howled for war until my voice
Ran up a hefty bill for overtime,
And both my loyal lungs are quite inflamed
From friction caused by overheated words
Shot through them at the President’s delay,
I think I’ll play the old rheumatic dodge,
Or vermiform appendicitis, or—
Well, any old disease I think will stick
And hush the lashings of the scoffers’ tongues,
And stay at home, and through the daily press,
As “Veritas” or “Truth” or “One Who Knows,”
Assist in pointing out the proper course
The leaders of our armies should pursue
In ripping proud Espana up the back.
___
THE ISLE OF CUBA SHALL BE FREE - Mabel Estelle Callahan
From America’s blest land how the hosts are marching on,
Treading in the steps their fathers trod before!
For once more has come a call from the Chief at Washington,
And the boys who answered, now are off to war.
Soon the Isle of Cuba shall be free,
And the Stars and Stripes we then shall see
Planted on its sunny shore,
To give freedom evermore,
To a people who have longed for liberty.
From the North and from the South, from the East and from the West,
How they rally ‘round the flag, united all!
One in purpose, one in heart, fighting for a land oppress’d—
Brave are they who have responded to the call!
On the land or on the sea gallantly the boys will light,
And we know that they will not forget “the Maine,”
Nor the butchery, nor loss from starvation’s dreadful plight,
As fair Cuba they will free from cruel Spain.
___
BROOKLYN - Anna Olocott Commelin
Oh, Brooklyn, oh, Brooklyn, I love thy olden name,
Of all the places on the earth I cherish first thy fame.
Our country, our country, like Jewels on a strand,
The cities of Columbia adorn in pride our land.
In riches, in treasure, in precedent and place,
In learning, in culture, in women fair of face,
In beauty, in progress, for famed ancestral line,
Each one an honor claims for all our meed and tribute fine.
But Brooklyn, dear Brooklyn, returning from afar,
How stately from the steamboat deck thy terraced green slopes are.
The Bay is sparkling blue, life breathes in the salt air,
The mansions cluster on the Heights, oh city, city fair!
Thy praises, thy praises, from he the land who roams
Are given to his native place, thou city dear of homes.
Thy people, thy people, thy noble men and true,
Thy womanhood, still unsurpassed, the country searching through.
The Park and its meadows where happy children tread,
And sacred ground of Greenwood, where are gathered all thy dead.
Oh may it, our city, be never thine to know
The blight of Spanish treachery! God save thee from the foe!
___
MY WAR GIRL - James Courtney Challiss
She wore a dress of navy blue
The collar white and blue and red;
A striped belt—and stockings, too;
A sailor hat was on her head.
Red, white and blue ber chatelaine;
She had a flag beneath her chin,
She wore a badge—” U.S.S. Maine,”
A tiny cannon for a pin.
She wore a shell-comb in her hair,
With army buttons all embossed;
Some swords were also sticking there,
And at her belt small rifles crossed.
Her pocketbook was knapsack shape,
Her smelling bottle a wee canteen
Containing essence of “Crushed Grape”—
The neatest thing I’d ever seen.
Her face was patriotic, too,
And full of everlasting charms;
Her cheeks were red, teeth white, eyes blue
She also had repeating arms.
In fact she was in “fighting trim,”
So an “engagement” I did seek;
And thought my chance to win was slim,
I cruised around about her cheek.
Puff! Suddenly she flared at me
A perfect fusllade of smiles!
It shook my heart “windward” to “lee,”
Re-echoing for miles and miles!
My rapid-firing lips I turned
Upon her then, (for they were loaded)
But when the fast-sent kisses burned,
The powder on her face exploded!
___
AS WE GO MARCHING THROUGH CUBA - Wilbur Eastlake
Hark, ye freemen, to the drums that call yon to the fray.
Liberty now needs her sons, the fight is on to-day;
Truth and Justice will prevail and Tyranny decay
As we go marching through Cuba.
Ignorance of human rights, contempt for human kind
And neglect of Freedom’s growth hath made Earth’s rulers blind.
Fling Old Glory to the breeze, ‘twill closer brave hearts bind
As we go marching through Cuba.
Where the Starry Banner waves shall men indeed be free;
Free to think, to speak, to do. We’ll make the world to see
The foul oppressor’s race is doomed through all eternity
As we go marching through Cuba.
Then raise the Stars and Stripes on high, loud let the bugle sound.
Freedom’s hosts are marching by, to Cuba they are bound,
And Freedom’s shot shall once again be heard the world around
As we go marching through Cuba.
Chorus:
Hurrah, Hurrah, the Flag will set them free.
Hurrah, Hurrah, this year of jubilee,
So we’ll sing the chorus from Havana to the sea
As we go marching through Cuba.
___
THE ROARERSVILLE BAZOO - G.V. Hobart
I want to tell yon, people, If you’re hankerin’ after news,
Just git the Roarersville “Bazoo,” an’ then that same peruse.
It ain’t no yaller Junnal, but It’s strictly up-to-date;
An’ when thar’s statements to be made it starts right in to state.
An’ war news! gosh all hemlocks! it’s a hummer yon can bet!
It’s told of lots of battles which the same ain’t fought as yet.
Jus’ take a peep, good neighbor, at that editorial page,
An’ readin’ them burnin’ words about “Why do the heathen rage?”
The sentiments contained therein is mighty strong an’ plain,
An’ calculated fer to stop right quick this war with Spain.
Thar ain’t no yaller junnal, ez I said, in our “Bazoo;”
Its colors is the Nations’, which is plain red, white an’ blue.
When the country’s in a crysis, an’ it don’t know where it’s at,
Out comes the Roarersville “Bazoo” an’ throws away its hat,
(Which same for talkin’ purposes is troublesome at times),
An’ right into the thickest of the fray it goes an’ climbs.
Advisin’ is its stronghoIt, an’ a crysis is its meat;
It’s saved its country scores of times, an’ done the job complete.
When Dewey at Manila all them doggoned Spaniards slew,
His action was applauded by the Roarersville “Bazoo.”
It ain’t no paper fer to keep the laurels from a man;
An’ If Dewey holds his end up it will puff him all it can.
Ez fer usin’ Dewey’s picter, the “Bazoo” will not do such,
‘Cause some men they gits top-heavy when they’re honored overmuch.
Now, thar’s President McKinley, he never could pull through
Without the kind assistance of the Roarersville “Bazoo.”
That paper helps and helps him in a multytood of ways,
An’ Mac, he pays attention to the last blamed word it says.
It ain’t no yaller junnal, ez I said afore, it seems,
But the moment that it’s printed, why the eagle ups an’ screams.
Thar’s somethin’ gran’ an’ glorious In knowin’ how to steer
The ship of state through harbor mines an’ paths that isn’t clear;
There’s somethin’ jubilatin’ in the thought that we have got
A safeguard for the people when the game is overhot;
An’ I go to sleep at nighttime feelin’ safe—an’ so will you,
If you just peruse the pages of the Roarersville “Bazoo!”
___
REMEMBER , O SPAIN - W. H. Howbills
Thou art nearing a great tribulation,
A vertex of war and of pain;
And the sound of thy boastful elation
Shall fall into silence, O Spain!
Shall fall into silence outlasting
The breath of the limitless years,
And the sting of thy penance and fasting
Shall drench thee with rivers of tears.
Thy cup thou hast filled overflowing
With a prodigal helping of crime.
Thou shalt gather the seed of thy sowing
And now is thy harvesting time.
For the gods have been patient and slumbered.
Not weekly they punish and pay;
But thy sins have been carefully numbered,
And this is their reckoning day.
Remember thy pirate Pizzaro,
Remember the fate of Peru,
Remember thy edicts to harrow
The soul of the downtrodden Jew.
Remember thy Mexican pleasure,
In numberless captives and slain.
The gods have all these in their measure;
Remember and tremble, O Spain!
In the face of the world we impeach thee
Of guilt that belittles all sin,
And by the Most High we will teach thee—
Come, now is the time to begin.
Thou art nearing a great tribulation,
O, where is our battle-ship Maine?
Beware of the wrath of this Nation
For God hath remembered thee, Spain!
___
PRIME’S STRIKING POEM - N. S. Prime
Strike for the victims on the Maine,
Strike for the thousands hunger slain,
Strike for the famished living still,
Strike surely, quick, and with a will!
Strike with the brave who would be free—
Who will no longer bow the knee;
Strike of perfidy and greed!
Strike with stern war that peace may reign,
Unspotted by the crimson stain.
“The good time coming” then shall be,
Millennium of liberty.
Then smiling sun and twinkling star
Shall beam upon us from afar.
No more be heard the battle’s sounds,
For peace shall reign God’s world around.
___
ROOSEVELT’S ROUGH RIDERS - Imogene Pope
Where the Western plains unroll their green
Till the mountains’ frowning shadows lean,
From snow-crowned, rock-ribbed peaks,
Comes the rapid tramp of bronchos spurred
By their eager riders who have heard,
What war in thunder speaks.
On each saddle horn hangs lariat coll,
Jingling spurs and reins add their turmoil
Unto the cavalcade.
Under wide felt hats the dark eyes burn,
Reckless faces grow a shade more stern,
But never grow afraid.
For the Stars and Stripes they’ll shed their blood,
Till the conflict spends its crimson flood,
And glory in the deed.
Spanish hearts must quail when on the field,
Swift and bold, they charge and never yield
Until their foes stampede.
Well their leader knows their wild, free life,
With its dash and fearless reck of strife;
He knows them at their best
They will dare the worst while life holds fast,
At the front be first and leave it last,
These riders from the West
___
THE PATRIOT’S CHARGE - Eugene Ware
Sons of mine, be your station proud or frugal
When your country calls her children and you hear the blast of bugle,
Don’t you stop to think of Kansas or “the quota of your county,”
Don’t you go to asking questions, don’t you wait for pay or bounty,
But you volunteer at once, and go where orders take you
And obey them to the letter, though they make you or they break you.
Hunt the flag and then stay with it, be you wealthy or plebean—
Let the women scrape the lint, sing the dirge and chant the pean.
Though the magazines and journals teem with anti-war persuasion,
And the stay-at-homes and cowards, gladly take the like occasion
Don’t you ever dream of asking is the war a right or wrong one;
You are in it and your duty is to make the fight a strong one,
And you stay till it is over, be the war a short or long one.
Make amends when war is over, then the power with you is lying,
Then if wrong do ample justice, but the flag, boys, keep it flying;
If that flag goes down in ruin, then will time without a warning
Turn the dial back to midnight, and the world must wait till morning.
Sidney A Witherbee, ed., Spanish-American War Songs: A Complete Collection of Newspaper Verse
During the Recent War with Spain (Detroit: S. A. Witherbee, 1898).