The theme of these poems is about knitting. Knitting was one of the activities women did to support the war efforts in the Union and in the Confederacy.
Boston Daily Advertiser [Massachusetts] Friday,
October 18, 1861
The Warriors to the Women.
Oh! Women at home!—list
awhile, we implore ye,
To us as we tell the sad tale
of our woes;
Though ‘tis chilly and damp
out, we forced are to camp out,
And march o’er rough roads in
the thinnest of hose;
While in comfort your
sitting—thick stockings be knitting,
For Winter is coming on,
bitter and dreary
Through benevolent channels, send blankest and
flannels,
And show that our welfare to
women dear!
Let the long needles flash
‘mid the drawing-room’s splendor,
And gleam in the light of the
cottage’s fire,
Laps of matron and maiden,
with worsted be laden,
And the fair hands that knit
never falter not tire;
Such labors delight in, when
we are out fighting,
They’ll give us fresh vigor
to strike at the foe;
While the garments may warm
us, the donors shall charm us,
For our hearts like our
bodies shall feel the rich glow.
Then knit away, mothers,
wives-sisters and daughters;
Our sweethearts (of course)
will their fingers employ;
And when this inhuman war’s
over-each woman
We’ll thank for remembering
the “bold soldier boy.”
Thus in active communion,
defending the Union,
A Needle Brigade will support with their charms,
And the Rebels confounded—our
weapons all grounded,
We’ll swiftly obey your sweet order—“To Arms!”
Vanity Fair, 1861
The Knitting of the Socks.
The winter is upon us—we have
passed the equinox:
Call the wives and maids and
widows to the Knitting of the Socks!
By the Potomac river the wind
is blowing cold;
The frost-nip rusts the
maple, and dims the marigold;
And on Missouri’s borders are
waving to and fro
The pine-trees and dry reeds
that beckon to the snow:
And the sea-board is
rebounding to the surging of the main,
As the fog-bells and the
light-ships ring and rock in the hurricane.
O! a voice comes through the
tempest, ringing clear like a crystal bell—
“All’s well!” adown the
wind-gust, from the pacing sentinel:
And in the lull of the
night-blast, between the swirls of sleet,
Comes the “stamp, stamp” of
the sentinel, for cold, cold are his feet.
Fifty thousand maids and
matrons, and widows a hundred score,
Up, up! and ply the needles,
let our soldiers freeze no more!
And sweet music to your
hearts will steal, as each pacing sentinel
Feels the sentiment he utters
in his baritone,“All’s well!”
Ho! buxom wife and widow, and maid with the
glossy locks,
Draw round the loyal
hearthstone to the Knitting of the Socks!
The Living Age, 1861
Knitting Socks.
Click, click, click! how the
needles go
Through the busy fingers, to
and fro-
With no bright colors of
Berlin wool
Delicate hands to-day are
full;
Only a yarn of deep, dull
blue,
Socks for the feet of the
brave and true.
Yet click, click, how the
needles go,
‘Tis a power within that
nerves them so.
In the sunny hours of the
bright spring day,
And still in the night-time
far away,
Maiden, mother, and granddame
sit
Earnest and thoughtful while
they knit.
Many the silent prayer they
pray,
Many the teardrops brushed
away,
While busy on the needles go,
Widen and narrow, heel and
toe.
The granddame thinks with a
thrill of pride
How her mother-knit and spun
beside
For that patriot band in
olden days
Who died the ‘Stars and
Stripes” to raise—
Now she in turn knits for the
brave
Who’d die that glorious flag
to save.
She is glad, she says, “the
boys” have gone,
‘Tis just as their
grandfathers would have done.
But she heaves a sigh and the
tears will start,
For “the boys” were the pride
of grandame’s heart.
The mother’s look is calm and
high,
God only hears her soul’s
deep cry—
In Freedom’s name, at
Freedom’s call,
She gave her sons—in them her
all.
The maiden’s cheek wears a
paler shade,
But the light in her eye is
undismayed.
Faith and hope give strength
to her sight,
She sees a red dawn after the
night.
O soldiers brave, will it
brighten the day,
And shorten the march on the
weary way,
To knot that at home the
loving and true
Are knitting and hoping and
praying for you!
Soft are their voices when
speaking your name,
Proud are their glories when
hearing your fame,
And the gladdest hour in
their lives will be
When they greet you after the
victory.
--Transcript.
The Living Age, 1861
Knitting Socks for Our Boys
Away with the “Shetland” that
busied our hands
Last year, when the autumn
the forests was dyeing!
Away with the “zephyrs” too
bright and too soft
For our brave-hearted boys to
the battle-field flying!
The knitting our grandmothers
taught us to do,
With fingers as patient as
ours were unsteady,
The course, homely work, long
neglected, ignored,
Now rallies our efforts, and
finds us all ready!
All ready! “All forward!”
come swell the fair ranks;
Dear girls, we are knitting
the Union together!
There’s enough of stanch
timber about the old ship;
We have made up our minds the
storm to out weather.
--Independent.
The Living Age, 1861
Knitting the Socks
By
the fireside cosily seated,
With
spectacles riding her nose,
The
lively old lady is knitting
A wonderful
pair of hose.
She
pities the shivering soldier
Who
is out in the pelting storm,
And
busily plies her needles
To
keep him hearty and warm.
Her
eyes are reading the embers,
But
her heart is off to the war,
For
she knows what those brave fellows
Are
gallantly fighting for.
Her
fingers as well as her fancy
Are
cheering them on their way,
Who
under the good old banner
Are
saving their country to-day.
She
ponders how in her childhood
Her
grandmother used to tell
The
story of barefoot soldiers
Who
fought so long and well:
And
the men of the Revolution
Are
nearer to her than us,
And
that, perhaps, is the reason
Why
she is toiling thus.
She
cannot shoulder a musket,
Nor
ride with the cavalry crew,
But
nevertheless she is ready
To
work for the boys who do.
And
yet in official despatches
That
come from the army or fleet,
Her
feats may have never a notice
Though
ever so mighty the feet!
So
prithee, young owner of muscle,
Or
purse-proud owner of stocks,
Don’t
sneer at the labors of woman,
Or
smile at her bundle of socks.
Her
heart may be larger and braver
Than
his who is tallest of all;
The
work of her hands as important
As
cash that buys powder and ball.
And
thus wile her quiet performance
Is
being recorded in rhyme,
The
tools in her tremulous fingers
Are
running a race with Time.
Strange
that four needles can form
A
perfect triangular bound-
And
equally strange that their antics
Result
in perfecting “the round.”
And
now, while beginning “to narrow,”
She
thinks of the Maryland mud,
And
wonders if ever the stocking
Will
wade to the ankle in blood.
And
now she is shaping the heel,”
And
now she is ready “to bind,”
And
hopes, if the soldier is wounded,
It
never will be from behind.
And
now she is “raining the instep,”
Now
“narrowing off at the toe,”
And
prays that this end of the worsted
May
ever be turned to the foe.
She
“gathers” the last of the stitches,
As
if a new laurel were won,
And
placing the ball in the basket
Announces
the stocking as “done.”
Ye
men who are fighting our battles,
Away
from the comforts of life,
Who
thoughtfully muse by your camp-fires
On
sweetheart or sister or wife,
Just
think of their elders a little,
And
pray for the grandmothers too,
Who
patiently sitting in corners,
Are
knitting the stockings for you.
--Hartford
Courant.
The Ladies’ Repository, 1861
TO THE NORTHWOMEN.
Knit-knit-knit—
If you’ve patriot blood in
your veins!
Knit-knit-knit—
For our boys on Southern
plains,
Our boys on Southern hills,
Our boys in Southern vales,
By the woods and seams of Dixie’s land,
Are feeling the wintry gales.
Knit-knit-knit—
For our Northern soldiers
brave!
Knit-knit-knit—
While the Stars and Stripes
they wave!
While they the rebels in battle meet,
Be yours to fashion with
fingers fleet,
The nice warm socks for the
weary feet—
Knit-knit-knit !
For our boys on Southern
vales,
By the woods and steams of Dixie’s land,
Are feeling the wintry gales.
Knit-knit-knit—
The socks and mittens and
gloves!
Knit-knit-knit—
Each one that her country
loves!
Lay by the useless, though beautiful toy,
With which you many hour
employ,
And knit instead for the
soldier boy==
Knit-knit-knit—
For our boys on Southern
hills,
Our boys on in Southern vales,
By the hills and streams of
Dixie’s land,
Are feeling the wintry gales,
Knit-knit-knit—
Narrow, and widen, and seam—
Knit-knit-knit—
Till the flying needles
gleam.
Knit till the mitten lies
complete—
Knit till the socks for the
weary feet
The eye of each patient
soldier greet—
Knit-knit-knit—
For our boys on Southern
hills,
Our boys in Southern vales,
By the woods and steams of
Dixie’s Land,
Are feeling the wintry gales.
Knit-knit-knit—
Work at it early and late:
knit-knit-knit—
Let no body’s zeal abate.
While rebels would ruin this
glorious land,
Between us and them our brave
boys stand,
Ready to peril their lives at
command—
Knit-knit-knit—
For our boys on southern
hills,
Our boys in Southern vales,
By the woods and steams of
Dixie’s land,
Are feeling the wintry gales.
Knit-knit-knit—
With a warm heart and a true!
Knit-knit-knit—
The stockings warm and new.
The mittens with finger and
thumb complete,
The gloves for the drummers
their drums to beat—
And the nice warm socks for
the shivering feet—
Knit-knit-knit—
For our boys on Southern
hills,
Our boys in Southern vales,
By the woods and steams of
Dixie’s land,
Are feeling the wintry gales.
Knit-knit-knit—
And knit with many a prayer!
Knit-knit-knit—
Pray God the lives to spare
Of loved ones soon on the
battle field
The deadly weapons of war to
wield,--
And pray that the foe before
them yield—
Knit-knit-knit—
For our boys on Southern
hills,
Our boys on Southern vales,
By the woods and steams of
Dixie’s land,
Are feeling the wintry gales.
The Smokey Hill and Republican [Kansas] December 26,
1861
The Soldier’s Mother.
By the low west window
dreaming,
With the lingering sunlight
gleaming
Softly on her saintly brow –
Of her boy to battle
marching,
Heat and thirst the loved
lips parching,
Dreams she in the twilight now.
Dreams she in the twilight now.
Yet with rapid fingers
knitting,
In the ancient arm-chair
sitting,
Musing of her soldier son –
Pausing in her thoughts of
sorrow,
Wond’ring if upon the morrow
She can have the blue socks
done.
Thinking of the soldiers
steading
As she saw them on the
landing,
Thinking how they sternly
drill them –
Back and forth the needles
going
From the socks, God only
knowing,
If or not his feet shall fill
them.
But a sound her quick ear
greeting,
Starts her frightened heart
to beating
With a troubled throb and
surge,
For she hears the church-bell
tolling,
And the solemn muffled
rolling
Of slow music like a dirge.
Heeds she not the stitches
falling,
As with eager accents calling
Some one passing by the door,
All her wild forebodings
masking,
And with lips unfalt’ring
asking
Whom this mournful dirge is
for?
But she strives her grief to
smother,
‘Tis not meet a solder’s
mother
Thus should yield to sorrow
vain.
Are there not a hundred
others,
Stricken, desolated mothers,
Weeping for their brave one
slain?
For their country still are
bleeding
Soldiers brave who will be
needing
Warm socks for their valiant
feet –
Feet which ne’re before the
traitors,
Like the feet of some bold
praters,
Beat a cowardly retreat.
Other days have waned to
twilight
Since the eve when such sad
heart blight
Came down on that lonely one;
Yet beside the window
sitting,
When her aged fingers
knitting,
Dreams she still at set of
sun.
On her brow a shadow resting,
And the sunset glory cresting
Like a crown the silver hair.
Back and forth the needles
going,
Inch by inch the socks are
growing,
And the tears her eyes
o’erflowing
Are inwrought with silent
prayer.
Could men see as see the
angels,
These dumb socks, like sweet
evangels,
Would a wond’rous tale unfold;
Every stitch would tell its
story,
And each seam would wear a
glory
Fairer than refiner’s gold.
