J. H. JOHNSON’S CARD AND JOB PRINTING OFFICE, No. 18 N. Tenth Street above Market, Phila.
I am sitting in our camp, Sisters,
Beneath a shady tree,
On the rough and rugged banks
Of the Chickahominy.
It is a day of rest with us,
It being Sabbath day,
And our men to rest their wearied limbs,
Around in groups do lay.
I am looking at the river, Sister,
That’s running just below,
At the rough and foaming waves,
As they toss to and fro.
Reminding me of many a one,
That to the war has gone,
But like those dashing waves they’ve gone,
Gone never to return.
There’s been sadness in our camp, Sister,
Since the thirty-first of May,
For many of our comrades bold,
Fell on the field that day.
Fell fighting for the Stars and Stripes,
Midst cannon’s deathly rattle,
But now they sleep the sleep of death,
Upon the field of battle.
It fills my heart with sorrow, Sister,
When I look around and see,
So many missing from our ranks,
Who left their homes with me,
For to defend their Country’s cause,
And our Union for to save,
But death has took them from our midst,
And we have laid them in their grave.
Many are the hardships, Sister,
We have to undergo,
But still we’ll heed those hardship not,
But on our course pursue.
Yes to put down this rebellion,
We will forward, cheerfully on,
And shall be our motto now,
Death or Union.
If I should never reach, Sister,
My native home again,
But on the field of battle.
Should be numbered with the slain,
I hope you will not for me lament,
O, shed not a tear for me,
For I can not die in a better cause,
Than defending my Country.