Montgomery M. Folsom was a poet from Georgia who was born in 1837. The one book that keeps coming up in searches is “Scraps of Song and Southern Scenes; A collection of Humorous and pathetic Poems and Descriptive Sketches of plantation life in backwoods Georgia.”
The Gatewood in the poem might refer to John P. Gatewood, a Confederate Guerilla who led raids through northwest Georgia and Alabama during the American Civil War. He was considered an outlaw by both sides because he perpetrated some pretty violent, bloody massacres and refused to obey orders from his Confederate commanders. Sort of a Confederate “Rambo/Terminator/Die Hard” kind of a guy. It seems to me the overall tone of the poem, which reads as an ode to a hero, doesn’t really fit the historical record of John P. Gatewood. Although Montgomery Folsom, being from Georgia, may have wanted to hail him as a hero. There were a LOT of Gatewoods in the Civil War, so I have more research to do.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Gatewood's Men
Here is a poem I picked up at the reunion. I’m still doing some research on the author M.M. Folsom and which Gatewood this refers to.
Gatewood’s Men By Montgomery M. Folsom
All day I stump around the place upon this worn old wooden peg,
And growing old I’m forced to brace myself upon the other leg.
But, comrades, when I see the sun come dancing down the mountain side,
And watch the wanton waters run – Oh, then I long to mount and ride.
As once we rode when down the vale we heard the clang of clashing arms,
The rolling drums, the bugle’s wail, the crash of battle’s wild alarms,
As heard in those memorial days of gallantry and glory, when through
The wood and winding ways we rode and fought with Gatewood’s men.
The world assumes a fairer mein, and blithely blew the bracing breeze.
Blue skies above the valley’s green, bird notes among the tossing trees,
Arousing all the fond delight an ardent soldier’s heart can feel,
While laughing streams like mirrors bright reflected back the flashing steel.
And like to sounding of the surf upon some shining sunlit shore,
Our hoofbeats on the springing turf sent up a mellowed, muffled roar;
The mountain eagle screamed aloud, the prowling wildcat sought his den,
As o’er the ridge our pennants proud were bravely borne by Gatewood’s men.
There’s some strange fascination in the sight of squadrons marching past,
There’s exaltation in the din and danger of the battle blast;
And men forget the milder arts and plentitude of placid peace,
Nor reck the blight of broken hearts that heal not when the campaign’s cease;
Still, in my sleep that banner flaunts its folds before my sole oppressed
By mocking memory that haunts me with its vain and vague unrest;
And vivid visions oft appear beyond the reach of mortal ken,
As in my dreams once more I hear the bugle call of Gatewood’s men.
I see him now – the noble roan, the charger which he always rode,
Just like a statue carved in stone, until, with conscious pride, he strode.
Along the line and boldly bore the leader that we loved so well;
No peerless paladin of yore of whom the old romances tell,
Might equal him; again I hear that voice so gently grave and strong;
And, answering back, the ringing sheer and some wild snatch of marching song.
Away with time and tiresome trade, and let me mount and ride again,
With leaping pulse and gleaming blade to victory with Gatewood’s men!
Perhaps the shrewd commander lay entrenched behind his cannon’s grim;
Or else updrawn in pride array along some rushing river’s rim;
Or maybe in some safe retreat ambushed behind a frowning wall.
Or flanking forts, prepared to meet out charge with bayonet and ball,
‘Twas then our leader showed the skill and strength of that resourceful mind;
A swift night march o’er the vale and hill, with blazing campfires still behind;
Then bursting like a fiery flood rode Gatewood and his gallant men!
Ah, few can feel what I have felt! With bounding heart and whirling brain,
And jingling spurs and tightened belt, and flinging free my bridle rein,
Responsive to the bugle call, firm fixed each fiber of my frame-
As “double quick” we followed all where Gatewood led through flood or flame;
A living avalanche we swung where burned the battle’s breath,
In reckless rivalry, and flung the gauntlet in the face of death!
How fast our frightened foemen fled before our conquering columns then,
For none withstood where Gatewood led the onslaught with his matchless men.
Gatewood’s Men By Montgomery M. Folsom
All day I stump around the place upon this worn old wooden peg,
And growing old I’m forced to brace myself upon the other leg.
But, comrades, when I see the sun come dancing down the mountain side,
And watch the wanton waters run – Oh, then I long to mount and ride.
As once we rode when down the vale we heard the clang of clashing arms,
The rolling drums, the bugle’s wail, the crash of battle’s wild alarms,
As heard in those memorial days of gallantry and glory, when through
The wood and winding ways we rode and fought with Gatewood’s men.
The world assumes a fairer mein, and blithely blew the bracing breeze.
Blue skies above the valley’s green, bird notes among the tossing trees,
Arousing all the fond delight an ardent soldier’s heart can feel,
While laughing streams like mirrors bright reflected back the flashing steel.
And like to sounding of the surf upon some shining sunlit shore,
Our hoofbeats on the springing turf sent up a mellowed, muffled roar;
The mountain eagle screamed aloud, the prowling wildcat sought his den,
As o’er the ridge our pennants proud were bravely borne by Gatewood’s men.
There’s some strange fascination in the sight of squadrons marching past,
There’s exaltation in the din and danger of the battle blast;
And men forget the milder arts and plentitude of placid peace,
Nor reck the blight of broken hearts that heal not when the campaign’s cease;
Still, in my sleep that banner flaunts its folds before my sole oppressed
By mocking memory that haunts me with its vain and vague unrest;
And vivid visions oft appear beyond the reach of mortal ken,
As in my dreams once more I hear the bugle call of Gatewood’s men.
I see him now – the noble roan, the charger which he always rode,
Just like a statue carved in stone, until, with conscious pride, he strode.
Along the line and boldly bore the leader that we loved so well;
No peerless paladin of yore of whom the old romances tell,
Might equal him; again I hear that voice so gently grave and strong;
And, answering back, the ringing sheer and some wild snatch of marching song.
Away with time and tiresome trade, and let me mount and ride again,
With leaping pulse and gleaming blade to victory with Gatewood’s men!
Perhaps the shrewd commander lay entrenched behind his cannon’s grim;
Or else updrawn in pride array along some rushing river’s rim;
Or maybe in some safe retreat ambushed behind a frowning wall.
Or flanking forts, prepared to meet out charge with bayonet and ball,
‘Twas then our leader showed the skill and strength of that resourceful mind;
A swift night march o’er the vale and hill, with blazing campfires still behind;
Then bursting like a fiery flood rode Gatewood and his gallant men!
Ah, few can feel what I have felt! With bounding heart and whirling brain,
And jingling spurs and tightened belt, and flinging free my bridle rein,
Responsive to the bugle call, firm fixed each fiber of my frame-
As “double quick” we followed all where Gatewood led through flood or flame;
A living avalanche we swung where burned the battle’s breath,
In reckless rivalry, and flung the gauntlet in the face of death!
How fast our frightened foemen fled before our conquering columns then,
For none withstood where Gatewood led the onslaught with his matchless men.
6/25/07
Happy Anniversay to Cindy and George. Do hope you have time to at least have dinner out sometime this week.
Love, Mom & Dad
Love, Mom & Dad
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The old folks
Standing from left: Myrna, Jim, Janell, Sue, Shirley, Wanda.
Seated: Paul D., Aunt Grace, Linda, Connie.
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