EPISTLE TO THE LADIES.
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 [text is unclear] 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 sockdologize!
Perchance our powder giveth out?
We fight them, then with rocks,
With hungry craws we craw-fish not,—
But, Miss, 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 loss!
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 succoring our distress.
For all the socks the maids have made.
My thanks, for all the brave,
And honored be your pious trade,
The soldiers sole to save.
From: Southern Punch, 11/14/1863
by W. E. M.” of Gen. Lee’s
army
