By the Sad Potomac Shore, or The Death of Col. Baker


Auner’s Printing Office, 110 N. Tenth St., ab. Arch.

By the Sad Potomac Shore,

Down along the sad Potomac,
Fearful. tuibid. grand Potomac,
Boldly marched the men of battle,
While the flaunting flags they bore.
Marched they onward cheerful bounding.
While the woods their steps resounding,
Hopes of victory—glorious victory—
On the grand Potomac shore,
Do you wonder why they hoped thus,
On the wild Potomac shore,
Hoped for victory—
Nothing more.—

Full determined on the crossing,
And each man his knapsack tossing
O’er his shoulder started forward,
Toward the dread Potomac shore.
Once beyond the madden’d river,
Where tall poplars bend and quiver,
And where nothing could deliver,
It was something to deplore.
With the frenzied stream behind them,
And the enemy before,
This was death and
Nothing more.

Colonel. o’er that swelling water,
Why thus lend your men to slaughter,
Where the hand of death is waiting
Your stern edict to ignore.
Surely the untutored stranger,
Could at once have seen the danger
That awaited your brave army,
On the south Potomac shore.
There was no retreat behind you,
And a strenghten’d foe before,
This was death—
Which all deplore.

O! the sad, the sad uncertain—
Hid behind deaths gloomy curtain—
Strong contrasting with the feelings,
Which those faithful soidiers bore.
Tell me, is it thus forever?
Can no arm the deep mist sever,
Will your answer be desponding
Thus it shall be evermore.—
Then unto the God of battles!
For the soldier I implore,
Give him mercy,

But you fought them with your number,
While your braves in death now slumber
Many of them were left lying––
Dying with the arms they bore.
Surely this was sorely trying,
With brave men around you dying,
With no arm to lend them succor,
But to die there in their gore.
Still their fate was yours brave Colonel,
On that wild Potomac shore,
And we prize thee
Still the more.

Now beside those turbid waters,
Sit there—Fathers–Mothers-Daughters
Watching—waiting for some loved one,
With their hearts bereaved and sore.
Where the waters, fooming—hissing,
Plainly speak your boy is missing,
O! how terrible that word is
To those watchers by the shore.
So they turn their eyes so tearful,
And gaze toward the southern shore,
There is void and
Nothing more

A. W. Auner, Song Publisher, 110N. 10th St, ab. Arch.

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