Joe Johnston Poem by John Reuben Thompson

Once more to the breach for the land of the West!
And a leader we give of our bravest and best,
Of his State and his army the pride;
Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest,
And gleams in the glaive at his side.

For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright
As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight,
Newly wrought in the forges of Spain;
And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right,
Will never be dimmed by a stain.

He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind,
Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined,
Where lie the fresh fields of his fame;
Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind,
Seem ever to whisper his name.

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs,
And their motto a noble distinction confers--
'Ever ready!' for friend or for foe--
With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs
The large, manly heart of our JOE.

We read that a former bold chief of the clan,
Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van,
On Shiloh's illustrious day;
And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man
The dark, bloody debt to repay.

There is much to be done; if not glory to seek,
There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak
For crimes of a terrible dye;
While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak,
In a chorus rise up to the sky.

For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den,
That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men,
With his pack has returned to the spoil;
Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen,
And drive him again from your soil.

Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true,
Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you
Our leader had never a doubt;
You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew,
The day that his bugles ring out.

But ye 'Hunters,' so famed, 'of Kentucky' of yore,
Where now are the rifles that kept from your door
The wolf and the robber as well?
Of a truth, you have never been laggard before
To deal with a savage so fell.

Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold?
Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold
Your lives than your freedom more dear?
Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold,
Or basely take counsel of fear?

We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land
Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand
That disgraces the dastard, the slave:
The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand,
Her own sons her own honor shall save!

Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call,
When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal,
And the torrents their sources unseal;
And this be the watchword of one and of all--
'Remember the butcher, McNeil!'

Then once more to the breach for the land of the West;
Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best;
Follow on where your leader you see;
One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed,
And the land of the West shall be free!