The Song of Lancaster, Kentucky / To the statesmen, soldiers, and citizens of Garrard County.

From stray fragments and traditions,

From authenticated pages,

From all evidence existing,

We transcribe the names of brothers

Who have served our state and county

In divergent fields of labor;

Who have lent their minds and bodies

To the profit of their fellows.

Stubborn facts and dates and figures,

Chime not smoothly in my measure,

Straggling history makes angles,

Which do sharply turn my canto—

Which transform my major canto

Into strains of minor music.

Yet the story must be perfect,

Of the city on the hillside;

Still the awkward miscellany

Must awake my bard to chanting

All the song of fair Lancaster.

’Twas in seventeen hundred eighty,

That there came from old Virginia

To the west, a gifted preacher,

Lewis Craig, a Baptist preacher,

Who became a valiant champion

Of that church in Garrard county.

Gilbert’s Creek, his chosen station,

Was the scene of great revivals,

And his voice proclaimed the Gospel,

Till its tones were hushed forever.

In seventeen hundred nine and ninety,

Nathan Hall, a Presbyterian,

Came to labor for the Master,

In this section of Kentucky.

Nathan Rice was born in Garrard,

A strict follower of Calvin,

In his doctrines of religion;

Was a zealous, constant worker,

In the vineyard of salvation,

In the field of controversy,

As debater and reviewer,

Both as pastor and as author,

Labored hard and labored steady.

The debate on modes of baptism,

Sprinkling, pouring, or immersion,

Held with Alexander Campbell,

Caused unlimited excitement

All throughout the Christian churches,

Made a stir and nine days’ wonder,

Throughout all denominations.

Universalism doctrine,

And the justice of slaveholding,

Formed two other grave discussions

In the great divine’s career.

Dr. Rice is still devoting

His enfeebled voice and gesture

To the Gospel proclamation;

Furrowed brow and locks of silver

Give the glory of religion,

In a portrait true and tender,

Speaking fluent words and holy,

Telling still the “old, old story.”

Every prominent position,

In the gift of flock or pastor,

Has been his to grace and honor,

In the field of Christian labor.

J. L. McKee, D. D., proclaimer

Of the Gospel revelation,

Gathers penitents unnumbered

To the mercy-seat of Jesus,

Gathers multitudes of brothers,

In the strait way of salvation.

Earnest, eloquent and faithful,

Heart and mind and will are ready,

Ready by devoted study,

Ready by Divine assistance,

By the milk of human kindness,

By the grace of gentle warning,

For evangelizing sinners,

For converting souls from error.

Holding Presbyterian tenets,

Orthodox in Scotland’s canons,

He proclaims a dying Saviour,

Points a crucified Redeemer,

Urges love among all brethren,

As his rule of faith and practice,

As his bulwark of dependence,

As the channel of redemption

For rebellious, wayward mortals.

Gifted orator and teacher,

Chastened learner and disciple,

May his thrilling exhortations,

May his zealous admonitions,

Long resound in old Kentucky,

Long reëcho in Lancaster.

From eighteen four, to eighteen hundred

Four and seventy, were statesmen

Sent to represent Lancaster,

In the senate of Kentucky.

First, in eighteen four, James Thompson,

Eighteen six, came William Bledsoe,

Eighteen nine, was Thomas Buford,

Then in eighteen twelve, John Faulkner,

Eighteen thirty-two W. Owsley,

Samuel Lusk, in four and thirty,

In fifty-nine, George Denny, Senior.

In the House the hillside city

Was in numbers represented

From among the early settlers,

To the present generation.

Thomas Kennedy, elected,

Seventeen hundred nine and ninety,

Then John Boyle in eighteen hundred,

Eighteen one, came Henry Pawling,

Eighteen two, was Stephen Perkins,

Next, in eighteen three, James Thompson,

Eighteen five, came Abner Baker,

Eighteen six, came Thomas Buford,

Samuel McKee in eighteen nine, and

William Owsley, eighteen eleven:

Then in eighteen twelve, John Yantis,

Eighteen thirteen, Samuel Johnson,

Eighteen fourteen, Robert Letcher,

Eighteen fifteen, came James Spillman,

Eighteen twenty-one Ben. Mason,

Then George Robertson, in eighteen

Two and twenty, was elected.

Twenty-seven, R. McConnell.

Eighteen hundred eight and twenty

Simeon Anderson next followed,

Nine and twenty, Tyree Harris,

One and thirty, Jesse Yantis,

Eighteen thirty-two, John Jennings,

Alex. Sneed, in three and thirty,

Eighteen thirty-five, George Mason,

A. G. Daniel, nine and thirty,

George R. McKee, in one and forty,

Jennings Price, in three and forty,

Forty-four, went Grabriel Salter,

Eighteen forty-five, W. Mason,

Horace Smith, in forty-seven,

Forty-eight, La Fayette Dunlap,

John B. Arnold, eighteen fifty,

Fifty-four, George W. Dunlap,

Joshua Dunn, in five and fifty,

William Woods, in fifty-seven,

Fifty-nine, went Joshua Burdett,

Alex. Lusk, in one and sixty,

Sixty-three, went John K. Faulkner,

Sixty-five, went Daniel Murphy,

William J. Lusk, in sixty-seven,

Seventy-one, went William Sellers.

Reëlected, three and seventy.

First, John Boyle was sent to Congress,

From eighteen three to eighteen nine; then

Samuel McKee, to eighteen seventeen;

Then George Robertson, till twenty;

R. P. Letcher next, from twenty

To eighteen hundred three and thirty.

From thirty-nine to eighteen forty,

Simeon H. Anderson was chosen;

From sixty-one to three and sixty,

George W. Dunlap served the session,

Called to quell the civil troubles,

By pacific intervention.

John Boyle and William Owsley,

And George Robertson, were Judges

Of the Appellate Court at Frankfort.

Samuel Lusk, George R. McKee, and

Samuel McKee, and Mike H. Owsley,

Form the list of Circuit Judges

Of the Eighth Judicial District.

County Judges, five in number;

James H. Letcher, first in order,

Nicholas Sandifer, the second,

Third, James Patterson elected,

Fourthly, comes George Denny, Junior,

Last is William McKee Duncan.

Police Judges are as follows:

First, T. Gresham heads the list, then

Hugh McKee and Allan Burton,

James McKee and Louis Phillips,

R. Grinnan and W. M. Duncan.

George Denny, Junior, M. H. Owsley,

Served as Commonwealth’s Attorney.

William A. Bridges, Benjamin Letcher,

A. R. McKee, and W. J. Landram,

W. D. Hopper, E. D. Kennedy,

John K. Faulkner, now in office,

Are the Circuit Court Recorders.

County clerks were Benjamin Letcher,

A. McKee, and W. B. Mason,

James H. Smith, and W. J. Landram,

J. W. West and W. H. Wherritt.

Of our Territorial Judges,—

R. P. Letcher, in Arkansas,

A. A. Burton, in Dacotah.

Foreign Missions,—R. P. Letcher,

Went to Mexico in office;

A. A. Burton, to Colombia,

R. C. Anderson, Colombia,

And to Panama in service.

A. R. McKee, to Panama, was

Sent as Consul for a season.

S. McKee and R. P. Letcher,

George Robertson, M. V. Grant, and

James McCoy, and W. G. Mullins,

S. H. Anderson, John Boyle, and

W. Mattingly, John McMillan,

Thomas Chilton, and Charles Talbott,

Samuel Lusk, and W. P. Bryant,

Jesse Woodruff, John G. Totten,

R. D. Lusk, and S. T. Mason,

George W. Dunlap, A. A. Burton,

Alex. Robertson, H. Bruce, and

Levi Blanton, Lewis Landram,

W. Kincaid, and Alex. Aldridge,

A. G. Stephenson, B. F. Graham,

Bascom Brown, and Dudley Denton,

L. B. Cox, J. Smith, Joshua Burdett,

Alex. Lusk, and Thomas Wilbur,

M. L. Rice, and George F. Burdett,

Horace Smith, and L. F. Dunlap,

W. C. Samuel, Charles E. Bowman,

A. R. McKee, and W. J. Landram,

Samuel McKee, and T. McQuery,

George R. McKee, and W. B. Mason,

S. T. Corn, and Phil. P. Barbour,

R. McKee and W. D. Hopper,

James A. Anderson, W. J. Lusk, and

Theodore Bailey, and George Hatch, and

R. M. Bradley, B. F. Burdett,

W. O. Bradley, H. T. Noel,

Harrison Wilds, and M. H. Owsley,

W. M. Duncan, William Herndon,

R. L. Tomlinson, Matt. Walton,

George Denny, Junior, H. C. Kauffman.

J. V. Gill, and R. McConnell,

A. Edmonson, B. F. Rhoton,

William Gill, and Benjamin Mason,

George B. Mason, L. M. Buford,

Joseph Smith, and W. A. Downton,

J. P. Burton, B. F. Duncan,

J. S. Pierce, and W. H. Pettus,

Alex. Hann, and Lewis Mullins,

Anthony Hunn, and Samuel Letcher,

David Bell, and Harvey Baker,

Jennings Price and Abner Baker,

L. B. Hudson, Jos. P. Letcher,

William Cooke, and Hartford Peters,

Charley Fox, and Houston Jackman,

O. P. Hill, and William Jennings,

Thomas Craig, John Craig, George Givens,

Johnson Price, and M. D. Logan,

Edward Cooke, and S. L. Burdett,

William Bush, and William Huffman,

Lastly, Dr. H. C. Herring,

Are the city’s Esculapians.

We have merchants and mechanics,

Who supply the world of commerce,

We have artisans, and farmers,

Who are thriving, noble workers,

Men whose names are as the legions,

As they toil in honest labor.

We have literary talent,

We have preachers and professors,

We have poets and musicians,

Gallant sons and blooming daughters;

We have statesmen, we have soldiers,

In the halls and in the battles;

Even out upon the ocean,

Has the city’s fame extended;

In the navy as the army,

Have her offspring been promoted;

Every path may claim her children,

Every sphere in life, a foll’wer,

Every scroll of fame, a column.

Cicero Price became a seaman,

Went to cruise upon the waters,

Rose to Commodore in service,

And sustained his proud position,

Through the shifts of fickle fortune.

Let each heart enshrine a volume

Of our honest, upright brothers;

Let the story of Lancaster,

Brush aside the dust and ashes,

Clear away the clogs and brake-wheels,

Come forth as the sun at noonday,

With her hearts and hands unsullied,

With her banner folds untarnished.

We have sung the hillside city

In the wilds of old Kentucky,

In the fruitful, blue-grass region,

In its central rich location.

We have sung its days of beauty,

From the hands of the Creator;

Of its innocence and quiet,

Ere the foot of man had pressed it;

We have sung its days of progress

Since the first rude cot was fashioned;

We have sung its days of pleasure

’Mid its households and its people;

We have sung its days of profit

In the gain of cents and dollars;

Days of rustic simple manners,

Days of industry and labor,

Days of glory and of triumph,

Days of pride and exultation.

Now, there came a fatal era,

When the busy hum of traffic

Filled no more the stirring places;

When the noisy roll of carriage

Ceased to sound along the pavements,

And the death cart’s slow procession

Told of woe and desolation,

Told of pestilence and danger,

Told of cottages all empty,

And of mansions grim and silent,

Of the hearthstones all deserted,

All the happy, quiet hearthstones.

In this sad and fearful era,

In the year of eighteen hundred

Three and thirty, came a despot,

More oppressive in his power

Than the hosts of foreign armies,

More insatiate in his passion

Than the simoon of the desert.

Came a despot whose invasion

Struck the heart all dumb with terror,

Drove the people, panic-stricken,

From the homes so neat and tasteful,

From the places dear and sacred,

To the refuge of the country,

To the refuge of the mountain,

To the refuge of the valley,—

Anywhere for life and safety

From the grim, pursuing monster.

’Twas the cholera of Asia,

Laying hands upon the city.

’Twas this skeleton so ghastly,

With its breath of foul miasma,

With its desolating vengeance,

With its greedy, fatal cravings,

Laying hands upon the city.

And the dooméd victims yielded

To the swift-distilling poison;

White and black and high and lowly,

Fell beneath the sweeping scythe-blade.

On the air was borne the crying

Of the hurrying, the fleeing,

Through the air the sad lamenting

Of the helpless and deserted,

Cries of anguish and of terror,

Wails of suff’ring and despairing.

Some brave souls remained in peril,

’Mid this notable hegira;

Some remained with Spartan courage,

And the enemy confronted;

Some fell, martyrs in the struggle,

When their task of love was ended.

B. F. Duncan, kind physician!

Stood his post a valiant soldier,

Never faltered, never wavered,

While his duty lay before him;

Stood forth bold for his profession,

Stood forth friend and nurse and doctor.

But his skill and his devotion

Could not terminate the death-list,

Could but palliate the anguish,

Could but soothe the dying victim.

Mournful sights were his to witness

In the lone, deserted village;

Painful scenes he long remembered,

In the still, plague-stricken city.

From the news sheets of the era,

The “Kentuckian” or the “Journal,”

(Early chronicles established

In the city of Lancaster),

We may glean the sad statistics,

Glean the names of some who suffered,

Suffered death from the invader,

From the cholera Asiatic.

May the list awake a tear-drop

At the sounds once so familiar.

William Cooke and A. McDaniel,

D. McKee and William Pollard,

Seymour Gice and Mrs. Woodruff,

Thomas Pratt and Charles S. Bledsoe,

Doctor William Gill, E. Sartain,

Robert Gill and James G. Tillett,

Mrs. Gill and Mrs. Gresham,

Then Ray Smith and Mrs. Tillett,

Mrs. Anderson, J. Aldridge,

Mary Crooke and J. Vanmeter,

Nancy Bland and Joseph Evans,

Miss E. Gill and Daniel Bledsoe,

Mr. Parks and Mrs. Jennings,

Mrs. Parks and Patience Wilmot,

J. V. Gill and Mrs. Aldridge,

Mrs. George and David Sutton,

Patience Crow and Mrs. Reynolds,

Mary Robertson, John Bryant,

Mrs. Dunn, James Pope then follow.

Next come Mrs. Pratt, John Pollard,

E. McKee and Ruth A. Evans,

Frederick Hutchison, Ben. Letcher,

G. W. Thompson, Mary Woodruff,

S. S. Wilmot, William Lillard,

Joseph Woodruff and “two strangers,”

Lastly, Alexander Collier,

And “five children,” are recorded.

Sixteen days the grim destroyer

Scourged our city on the hillside,

The sad city of Lancaster.

And the dead, one hundred sixteen,

White and black, were laid to slumber,

Laid to rest from toil forever,

In the old, neglected graveyard.

It was not so old in those days;

Flowers bloomed upon the hillocks,

Blossoms waved among the grasses;

Now, sweet flowers of remembrance,

Live among the few survivors

Of that sleeping generation;

Live with those whose hearts are faithful

To the victims of the death-knell,

Of the fatal epidemic

Of eighteen hundred three and thirty.

And the changing cycle moved on,

As the moons were waxing, waning.

Turn we now from pictures ghastly,

For the hand of God is lightened;

Sing no longer mournful dirges,

For the earth is glad and merry;

Let the requiems rest silent

In the lull of deep thanksgiving.

For the wrath of heaven is lifted,

Lifted from the rescued city.

Gone, the sound of rolling death-cart,

Hushed, the ringing, tolling belfry,

Still, the bier and gloomy shovel,

Still, the idle, listless sexton.

Other days of anxious watching

Followed, one or two years later;

Days when fierce, destructive fevers

Darkened many homes with mourning.^[2]

Yet the citizens are happy

In this season of glad respite;

Now the people of the township

Open wide the doors of welcome

To the long-abandoned firesides;

Open now the shop and office

To the artisan and student;

Active now the hands long folded

From the busy round of labor,

And the fields of grain and verdure

Wave once more beneath the sunlight.

Fields of corn and wheat and barley,

Fields of oats and rye and clover,

Fields of hemp and of tobacco,

All the products and the grasses

Spring again to life and beauty.

Let us sing no more lamenting

For the boon of life is granted,

Swell the choral hallelujah

To the Giver of all blessings,

To the Guardian of our fortunes,

The great Healer of diseases,

Our Preserver from disaster,

Our Physician and our Father,

The beneficent Jehovah,

Who hath stayed the scourge’s power,

Who hath stilled the epidemic

Of eighteen hundred three and thirty.

’Twas a custom of the nation,

Of this grand united nation,

In the days I now am chanting,

Eighteen hundred eight and thirty,

That the military people

In the towns and in the cities,

In the villages and counties,

Should parade in drills and musters,

With the drum and fife to lead them;

Should at stated times and seasons

Herald forth their martial columns;

Should, with powder and with flint-lock,

Learn to battle and to conquer,

Learn the tactics of the army.

Brigade drills, battalion musters,

And an annual encampment,

Took in officers and soldiers,

Men of strong and wiry muscle,

Men from twenty-one and upwards,

To the age of five and forty.

’Twas in eighteen twenty-seven

That John Jennings was commander

Of the élite Light Horse Company.

Captain Travis Dodd succeeded,

And along the years that follow,

To the Sabine Volunteers, in

Eighteen hundred six and thirty,

Captain John A. Price, commander,

There were other noted heroes.

But the incident my canto

Now attunes to hum’rous mention,

Had its birth one fair October,

Eighteen hundred eight and thirty.

Colonel William Stein commanded

The renowned Cornstalk Militia,

Of the county of old Garrard,

Near the city of Lancaster.

None but officers might join them,

Colonels, Majors, and Lieutenants,

Captains, Corporals, and Sergeants;

Only officers were mustered,

In the regimental phalanx.

Stein was large and he was burly,

Was among the “sons of Anak,”

Made a Captain by Dame Nature,

In his giant-sized proportions,

Made a Colonel by his merits,

By his lofty aspirations.

But the county-seat of Garrard,

The ambitious, inland city,

Sent a popular petition,

To the capital at Frankfort,

To the legislative rulers,

For an Act incorporating

Their militia into Guardsmen.

And forthwith their prayer was granted,

Quickly granted by the rulers.

See them now, the dashing Guardsmen,

With their youthful men all mustered,

With their uniform so dainty,

With white pants and true-blue jackets,

With their bayonets and muskets,

All their jaunty sails and rigging!

By and by their martial exploits,

By and by their bold pretensions,

Won a challenge from the Cornstalks,

The redoubtable militia,

From the band of Regimentals,

Now encamped upon the river,

From the fearless giant Colonel,

To appear in his dominions.

John A. Flack, the warlike Captain

Of the brave and youthful Guardsmen,

Was not then within the city,

Was not then at post of duty;

And his men were in disorder,

Were all scattered in confusion.

But they soon began to rally,

On one fair October evening,

Rally ’round their platoon leaders,

Ready to accept the challenge.

Of their number was a stranger,

An adopted son of Garrard,

Who was light and lithe of person,

Who was full of life and vigor,

Who had visited the city,

The good city of Lancaster;

Who had joined her sports and pastimes,

Eager for the hour’s amusement,

Ever foremost in adventure;

And the stranger’s name was Dunlap,

And his home was in Lafayette.

He was one of twenty-seven,

Who advanced on the Militia,

At the silent hour of midnight;

Who attacked the Regimentals,

Near the bridge across Dix River,

In the county we call Lincoln;

Who invaded the dominions

Of the annual encampment,

On the fair October evening,

Eighteen hundred eight and thirty.

Sweetly rest the noble Cornstalks,

On their arms are calmly sleeping,

Resting on their arms by moonlight,

Resting, ignorant of danger.

Bright the ever-shifting heavens,

Dark the trees and woodland shadows,

’Round the band of Regimentals,

Near the river-bridge of Lincoln.

Gently came the night besiegers,

Softly marched the twenty-seven,

When a sharp, out-standing picket

Sounded forth the note of warning,

With his damp and rusty weapon,

Blazoned forth the call of danger,

With the snapping of his musket.

Quick the camp is in commotion.

“To arms!” “To arms!” shout the Militia,

The surprised and sleepy Cornstalks.

And the men run hither, thither

In a search for the assailants,

When a noise of tramping horses,

Through the river-bridge, attracts them.

’Twas a feint arranged beforehand,

To delude the Regimentals,

And they dashed on to the outskirts,

Dashed the wild, bewildered Cornstalks,

In a wayward false direction.

The young Guards meanwhile crept onward,

Softly crept to camp behind them:

Four platoons of jolly Guardsmen,

March and counter-march upon them,

Fire blank cartridges among them,

Lighting up the woods around them;

Thrust the bayonets dull before them,

March and counter-march in order,

Fire and load again the flintlocks,

Till the woodland fairly blazes.

In one of these illuminations,

Dunlap saw the foe approaching,

Coming ’round to flank the columns

Of the bold midnight invaders.

Then he ordered forth his platoon,

To cut off the brave Militia,

To arrest the flanking Cornstalks,

When pell-mell fell all together,

In the hard-contested battle.

But the weak, outnumbered Guardsmen,

—Some among the twenty-seven—

Soon were caught and held in capture,

Soon were dragged within the circle

Of the annual encampment.

All the others scampered swiftly,

Scampered off in each direction,

Struggling, seeking to escape them,

Fleeing from the Regimentals.

Dunlap found himself confronted

By a single Lincoln Cornstalk,

(Dr. Huffman, a “Militia,”)

Who essayed at once to take him.

Hand-to-hand in duel comic,

They careered with flintlocks rusty,

They embraced with bayonets blunted,

Dunlap all the while retreating,

Huffman all the while pursuing,

Till a wide ravine arrested,

Stopped their wild, ferocious progress.

Not for long the pause, however;

Dunlap, lithe of limb and active,

Sprang across the yawning chasm,

Huffman, chasing, fell within it,

Rolling down the steep embankment.

Then young Dunlap, still escaping,

Running from his checked pursuer,

Saw before him in the pathway

Another hand-to-hand encounter.

It was Stein, the burly Colonel

Of the conquering Militia;

It was Stein disarming Paddy,

Irish Paddy of the Guardsmen;

Stein disarming Surgeon Buford,

Of the Lancaster Battalion.

Lucky moment for the Guardsmen,

All their men were lost but fourteen,

Fourteen men of twenty-seven;

But the man that sent the challenge,

The bold Colonel of the Cornstalks,

Was divided from his soldiers,

Was a helpless prey before them.

Taking in the situation,

Gaming courage with good fortune,

Dunlap plunged at once to aid them,

Aid the surgeon and the private,

And when three to one in number,

To arrest the burly Colonel.

Then they clinched and fell and struggled,

Then they fought and rolled and rallied,

And arose but ne’er released him,

Till the man that sent the challenge

Was compelled to cry surrender.

“I surrender, but don’t duck me,”

Pleaded hard the gallant Colonel.

And the victors, showing mercy,

Gathered up the scattered Guardsmen,

Fourteen men of twenty-seven,

And proceeded home in triumph,

Took their captive to the city,

To the slumb’ring, quiet city,

To Lancaster on the hillside.

But the scattered Guards, returning

Through the river-bridge at midnight,

Scared and startled Dunlap’s posse,

At the moment of their vict’ry,

Scared and startled Stein’s besiegers,

Till they fled across the fences,

Till they dared not bear their captive

O’er the dangerous moonlit highway.

On and on the captors wandered,

Wandered over brush and briers,

Stumbling on through creeks and by-ways,

Climbing hills and wading gullies,

Sometimes running, sometimes halting,

Till the men were all exhausted,

All but Dunlap and his captive.

Paddy fell out by the wayside,

Buford lagged behind to nurse him;

Some lay down beside their muskets,

Giving up the vain exertion;

Some were nerved to struggle onward,

Eager to proclaim the tidings;

But the pris’ner tried to tire them,

In the deviating pathways,

In the windings of the by-ways,

He endeavored to elude them,

Till his giant-sized proportions

Yielded to the boyish runners,

Till his strategy and ruses

Were outwitted by the youngsters.

And the fair October morning

Was just peeping o’er the hill-tops

Of victorious Lancaster,

When the tramp of full two hundred

Broke upon the early watches;

When two hundred men, exultant,

Started forth in marching columns,

With the drum and fife resounding,

Started forth to meet the victors.

(For, a captured Guard, escaping

From the annual encampment,

From the heedless Regimentals,

Near the bridge in Lincoln county,

Had proceeded to the city,

While the moonlight yet was waning,

Had aroused the sleeping townsmen

With the herald of the vict’ry.)

And the troops went out to meet them,

Went to meet the Guards returning,

Eight alone of twenty-seven.

And the doorways of the city,

All the windows of the city,

Sounded forth huzzas and shoutings,

While the handkerchiefs were waving,

Flags-of-truce, their white unfurling.

Nearer came the weary Guardsmen,

Hatless, spurless, weary Guardsmen,

With white pants, alas! all muddy;

Torn and soiled the true-blue jackets,

Scratched and worn the hands and faces.

But the great crest-fallen captive,

Was in plight both sad and comic!

With his red bandana nightcap

Wound about his head so lordly,

With his armless sleeping-jacket

Hanging on his martial figure,

He was borne aloft in triumph,

To the court-house of the city,

To the central public building,

In the middle of the city.

Then they honored him with feasting,

Served him well with cheering viands,

And they clad his martial figure

In a military outfit.

Golden crests upon the shoulders,

Gilded buttons down the vestings,

Brand-new hat and boots all shining,

Spotless coat and handsome trappings,—

These they gave the fallen hero,

Gave the helpless, conquered Colonel.

And upon a dashing charger,

On a fine dun horse of Proctor’s,

He was given back his freedom,

He was sent to the encampment,

Near the river-bridge of Lincoln;

Was exchanged for all the captives

That the Guards had left in durance.

But he gave the man that took him,

Then and there, a martial title,

“For I cannot brook surrender

To a lower rank than Colonel.”

So he called him Colonel Dunlap,

Called the stranger from Lafayette,

Called the foster-son of Garrard.

Colonel Dunlap, comes the title,

From that day unto the present;

In the private social circle,

In the halls of Legislature,

In the higher halls of Congress,

At the bar and at the fireside,

Comes the title to the present.

Thus was ended the great “Battle

Of the Bridge” across Dix River,

Where the corps of jolly Guardsmen

Captured Stein, the burly Colonel

Of the brave Cornstalk Militia,

Of the dainty Regimentals,

On the fair October midnight,

Eighteen hundred eight and thirty.^[3]

Still the moons are waxing, waning,

O’er the city of Lancaster;

Still the ever-moving cycle

Bears her swiftly on its pinions.

’Twas the year of eighteen hundred

One and forty when the Christians

Of the sect called Presbyterian,

Built themselves a house of worship,

Built themselves a sanctuary,

On the street that leads to southward,

From the entrance to the city.

Thus was made the first partition,

From the venerable mother,

From the church within the suburbs,

Called Republican and holy,

Where the sects were wont to gather,

In the willing, weekly worship.

And the pastors and the preachers,

Served the flock in health and sickness,

Served the flock in death and marriage,

Served them well in home and pulpit.

And the doctors and the lawyers,

All the households and the tradesmen,

Still pursued their avocations,

Still enjoyed their social pleasures,

Still advanced in arts and learning,

In the peaceful Christian city.

But a great financial crisis

O’er the people was impending;

A depression in all traffic

Drew the citizens together,

Brought about excited meetings,

To discuss important measures,

For relief amid the pressure;

To originate devices

For averting present danger.

All along this stirring epoch

There was incident and action;

There were interests of public

And of private weight and import;

Varied causes and occasions

Kept the people in commotion.

The Militia drills and musters

Still diverted men and boys;

And the quaint, unique processions,

Called “Log Cabin,” ruled the hour.

Eighteen hundred four and forty,

Brought the fierce election canvass

For the presidential office;

Democrat and Whig opponents,

In the race for fame and power.

Henry Clay and Frelinghuysen

Proudly bore the great Whig banner,

James K. Polk and George M. Dallas,

Were the Democratic champions.

And the voters of Lancaster,

All the voters of the county,

Met together in the masses,

Met to celebrate the contest;

Barbecues and basket dinners,

Gathered orators and hearers,

Gathered women, men, and children,

All together in the masses.

In the wood of Isaac Myers

Politicians were assembled;

In this ample, shaded woodland

Was a glorious celebration,

Hempstalk flag-poles bore the colors,

High o’er wagon, coach, and horseman;

All the people congregated

To do homage to th’ occasion.

Doctors Craig and Cross were speakers,

Also Caperton of Richmond.

Grand this gala day of feasting,

Loud the triumph and rejoicing.

But the Whigs were sore defeated,

Vain their festal acclamations.

Now a heavy cloud of sorrow

Overshadows fair Lancaster,

Shadows all the hillside city,

In the swift-revolving cycle.

When the great and vexing question

(See the hist’ry of the country)

Of the Texas annexation

Called for volunteers to aid her,

Called the Union to assist her,

In her daring revolution,

In her independent parting

From the rule of Santa Anna,

Then the city on the hillside,

Sent up wails of grief and mourning.

For the farewells to the brothers,

To the sons and gallant soldiers,

Who took up their line of marching,

For the distant, unknown countries.

On the sunny fourth of June, in

Eighteen hundred six and forty,

They led out their willing chargers,

They arrayed in mounted columns,

Down the streets that lead to northward,

From the entrance to the city.

And the mothers and the sisters,

All along the sidewalks weeping,

Waved adieux and sighs heart-rending,

To the precious forms and faces,

To the buoyant, untried soldiers,

Moving on in martial phalanx

To the Mexicana struggles,

To the fights in foreign places,

To the fatal Buena Vista.

Some alas! were gone forever,

When the bending road concealed them,

Some were hid till time eternal,

From the strainéd gaze that sought them.

I append the list in measures,

In the numbers of my canto;

Sing the names of sons and brothers,

Whose dear lives were put in peril.

Johnson Price, the chosen captain,

A renowned Militia hero,

Serving well his post of honor,

Was, in after days of freedom,

In eighteen hundred nine and forty,

Sent, a delegate from Garrard,

Sent to represent the county,

In the noted State Convention,

In the council of the rulers,

Met to change the Constitution.

Then out in the land to westward,

In the land of California,

He adorned his grave profession,

Was a healer of diseases,

Till the Master called him homeward,

In this distant land of strangers.

L. F. Dunlap, First Lieutenant,

Was elected by the people,

Eighteen hundred eight and forty,

To the Frankfort legislature;

Then away in California,

Where he served with judge and jury,

In the lawyer’s hard vocation,

Where again he was elected

To the legislative body,

He was stricken in his vigor,

In the flush and prime of manhood,

In his youthful life of promise,

By a fearful epidemic;

Fell a victim to his friendship,

Fell beside the sick and dying.

And Lieutenant George F. Sartain

Cast his future lot in Texas.

Left the soil he represented

In the Mexicana battles.

S. McKee went out First Sergeant,

And returned among his people,

Filling prominent positions,

In the long years coming after

Horace Smith, the Second Sergeant,

Also served his native city

In the halls of Legislature,

In eighteen hundred forty-seven;

Then removed to California,

Where he practiced jurisprudence,

Was the Mayor of Sacramento,

And he died some years thereafter,

In this thriving western city.

Then the reading of the record

Of the list resumes as follows:—

George Montgomery, John Sellers—

Third and fourth in rank as Sergeants,

V. B. Smith and A. R. Harris,

Were the Corporals, first and second;

Then Third Corporal, William Jennings,

Of whose name is future mention,

In the nation’s civil struggle,

Fifteen years beyond this era.

And G. Smiley, fourth in order,

Went as Corporal among them.

Private William Jennings Landram,

Was promoted to First Sergeant,

And in coming years of trial

Climbed the scroll of fame still higher.

And James Hutchison was buried

’Neath the southern gulf’s deep waters;

Homeward bound, his mortal body

Found a sailor’s final resting.

B. F. Graham, first a private,

Soon arose to Quartermaster,

Was assailed and killed on duty,

By the Mexican marauders;

Fell, defending army stores,

In the wagon-train advancing

From the marshes of Comargo.

Branson Wearren met his death stroke,

On the field of Buena Vista;

Found a soldier’s mausoleum,

In the smoke and blood of battle.

Some were carried off by illness,

Some returned to die still later;

Others lived to serve their country,

In a sadder, fiercer conflict;

Others still, resumed the quiet

Of their own domestic circle.

Eight and seventy names are written

On the muster roll of striplings.

For the remnant, see Appendix

Of the volunteering column,

Of the valiant sons and brothers,

Of the saved and of the fated,

Of the lost and of the rescued,

Who left home the sunny morning,

In the month of June, so eager

For the clash of steel and armor,

With the fighting Mexicana.

Fare ye well, ye gallant soldiers,

Who have fought our country’s battles;

Whether soon or whether later,

Whether north or whether southern,

Whether east or west or foreign,

Ye have fought them well and bravely,

In the ever-changing cycle;

Bear, ye echoes, to our patriots,

Waft, ye breezes, our sad parting.