Confederate War Poetry

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Epistle to the Ladies

by W.E.M., of Gen. Lee's Army

Ye Southern maids and ladies fair,
Of whatsoe'r degree,
A moment stop--a moment spare--
And listen unto me.

The summer's gone, the frosts have come,
The winter draweth near,
And still they march to fife and drum--
Our armies! do you hear?

Give heed then to the yarn I spin,
Who says that it is coarse?
At your fair feet I lay the sin,
The thread of my discourse.

To speak of shoes, it boots not here;
Our Q.M.'s, wise and good,
Give cotton calf-skins twice a year
With soles of cottonwood.

Shoeless we meet the well-shod foe,
And bootless him despise;
Sockless we watch, with bleeding toe,
And him sockdologise!

Perchance our powder giveth out,
We fight them, then, with rocks;
With hungry craws we craw-fish not,
But, then, we miss the socks.

Few are the miseries that we lack,
And comforts seldom come;
What have I in my haversack?
And what have you at home?

Fair ladies, then, if nothing loth,
Bring forth your spinning wheels;
Knit not your brow--but knit to clothe
In bliss our blistered heels.

Do not you take amiss, dear miss,
The burden of my yarn;
Alas! I know there's many a lass
That doesn't care a darn.

But you can aid us if you will,
And heaven will surely bless
And Foote will vote to foot a bill
For succouring our distress.

For all the socks the maids have made,
My thanks for all the brave;
And honoured be your pious trade,
The soldier's sole to save.

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