Terry's Texas Rangers - The 8th Texas Cavalry

Ranger Thomas Elliott Bolling

by W.M. Gilleland

The war steed is champing his bit with disdain,
  And wild is the flash of his eye
As he waves to the wind his dark, flowing mane,
Starts, neighs, while the shouts and the bugler's refrain
  Proclaim that the battle is nigh.
Charge! charge! And the Ranger flies fast on his steed,
  Bold Terry! the fearless and brave;
His troops on his trail are moving with speed,
And each has crowned his name with a deed
  That story or song will engrave!
He swept to the field with an eye of delight,
  At the head of his brave, chosen band,
As a meteor's course, 'mid the storms of the night,
So splendidly shone his form in the fight,
  And sunk down with a glory as grand.
He fought for the land of his kindred and birth,
  Not for fame--though its laurels are won;
His thoughts had a higher, a holier worth
Than the trumpet's acclaim, which tells to the earth
  "Of the man!"--not the deeds he has done.
The lightning that burst on the warrior's head,
  From the foe that outnumbered his band,
Deterred not his course, as thro' columns he sped,--
And left on his pathway the dying and dead,
  That had yielded their breath to his band.
The thunders of battle are hush'd on the plain,
  And the wild cry of carnage is o'er,
Dark vultures are gazing from high at the slain,
And the earth drank the blood from the dark purple vein
  That thrilled to life's passions before.
But tear-drops of grief dim the eyes of the brave,
  For their lion in death is laid low,
Their banners in sable above him they wave,
And muffle their drums in his march to the grave,
  To the music and language of woe.
The Magnolia City laments for the dead,
  Through whose streets his gay banners he bore
To a far distant land--but low lies his head,
Yet columns shall rise on the fields where he bled,
  And freemen his memory adore.
O calm in the tomb is the conqueror's rest!
  For his labors of life were well done,
And though quenched is the light of his generous breast,
With heroes immortal his spirit is blest,
  Who o'er death have the victory won.
January 4, 1862    

Texas Rangers at Wikipedia

Texas Division, Sons of Confederate Veterans

 SAN ANTONIO HERALD, March 14, 1863, p. 1, c. 2
 [From the Charleston Courier.]
 Song of the Texas Rangers.
 Inscribed to Mrs. General John A. Wharton.
 Air--The Yellow Rose of Texas.
 The morning star is paling,
      The camp-fires flicker low,
 Our steeds are madly neighing,
      For the bugle bids us go,
 So put the foot in stirrup,
      And shake the bridle free,
 For to-day the Texas Rangers
      Must cross the Tennessee
           With Wharton for our leader,
                We'll chase the dastard foe,
           Till our horses bathe their fetlocks
                In the deep, blue Ohio.
 Our men are from the prairies,
      That roll broad, and proud and free,
 From the high and craggy mountains
      To the murmuring Mexic sea;
 And their hearts are open as their plains,
      Their thoughts are proudly brave,
 As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard,
      Or the Gulf's resistless wave.
           Then quick! into the saddle,
                And shake the bridle free,
           To-day with gallant Wharton
                We'll cross the Tennessee
 'Tis joy to be a Ranger!
      To fight for dear Southland;
 'Tis joy to follow Wharton,
      With his gallant, trusty band!
 'Tis joy to see our Harrison,
      Plunge like a meteor bright,
 Into the thickest of the fray,
      And deal his deathly might.
           Oh! who would not be a Ranger,
                And follow Wharton's cry!
           To battle for their country--
                And, if needs be--die!
 By the Colorado's waters,
      Or the Gulf's deep murmuring shore,
 On our soft green peaceful prairies,
      Are homes we may see no more;
 But in those homes our gentle wives,
      And mothers with silv'ry hairs,
 Are loving us with tender hearts
      And shielding us with prayers.
           So trusting in our country's God,
                We draw our stout, good brand,
           For those we love at home,
                Our altars and our land.
 Up, up with the crimson battle-flag--
      Let the blue penon fly;
 Our steeds are stamping proudly-
      They hear the battle-cry!
 The thundering bomb, the bugle's call--
      Proclaim the foe is near;
 We strike for God and native land,
      And all we hold most dear.
           Then, spring into the saddle,
                And shake the bridle free--
           For Wharton leads, thro' fire and blood,
                For Home and Victory.
 Vicki Betts
 Texas Rifles and LSFS

Tom Bolling's home page