The Battle of Kinston
The Battle of Kinston.
Oh, listen, while I tell you boys,
Of Kinston’s bloody tight,
The deaf’ning peals—the cannon’s noise,
Perhaps you heard and saw that sight.
We met the foe in forests deep,
Of pine and swamp and thickets,
Our Union boys and Rebels meet,
And we drive in their pickets.
The morn has dawned—the Sabbath day,
That God has made and blest,
For all his people on their way
To that Heavenly land of rest.
But a sullen foe before us wait,
A coming storm is near,
And each one thinks of coming fate
Approaching very clear.
What’s this coming down the lane,
Making such a rattle?
’Tis our guns—you see the iron train,
Coming into battle.
And now they’ve passed our picket post,
And planted all their guns:
They’ve opened on the rebel host,
Along our line it runs.
Bang! bang! the mighty cannon roar,
In awful thunder dread,
And through the trees our missels tore
The branches o’er their heads.
And now our forces marches down
And deploys on either side,
They now are on the battle ground
Where many comrades died.
They hear our guns, they hear our shells,
That passes o’er their heads,
Our whereabouts it surely tells
For them to hurl their lead.
We met them in a swampy mire,
Where they were all concealed,
To raise and pour a deadly fire
And drive us from the field.
Oh, fearful is the rattle now
Of arms on ev’ry side,
While blood is gushing from the brow,
And wounds are opened wide.
At last the order comes to charge,
The glittering steel is set,
As heroes brave whose hearts are large
Our forces and their’s met.
Charge on, my boys, our Colonels shout,
We’ll surely make them yield!
And charging on they drove them out
And won the battle field.
The rout’s complete, the rebels run,
The victory’s now complete,
With here and there a rebel gun
They left in their retreat.
Quick! quick! the bridge they’re passing o’er,
They’re making for the town,
They’re trying to make the other shore
Before the bridge burns down.
We reach the burning bridge in time
To stop the burning train
Of tar and pitch and turpentine,
And guns thrown in the flame.
The fire’s put out, we flank them there,
But some have crossed the stream,
The deaf’ning yells now rent the air
Paint grandeur to the scene.
Six hundred foe fell in our hands,
Whose hearts are steeped in guilt:
Our fallen comrades in the sands,
Like Abel’s blood was spilt.
Oh, comrades we will ever mind,
The lonely spot you fell,
The host of traitors soon will find
Just vengeance meet them well.
As long as life, Oh, let me mind
The graves! may I remember,
The heroes dust there you will find
Who fell the fourteenth of December—1862.