Oh, dear! its shameful, I declare,
To make the men all go
And leave so many sweethearts here
Without a single beau.
We like to see them brave, ’tis true,
And would not urge them stay;
But what are we, poor girls, to do
When they are all away?

We told them we could spare them there,
Before they had to go;
But, bless their hearts, we weren’t aware
That we should miss them so.
We miss them all in many ways,
But truth will ever out,
The greatest thing we miss them for
Is seeing us about.

On Sunday, when we go to church,
We look in vain for some
To meet us, smiling, on the porch,
And ask to see us home.
And then we can’t enjoy a walk
Since all the beaux have gone;
For what’s the good (to use plain talk),
If we must trudge alone?

But what’s the use of talking thus?
We’ll try to be content;
And if they cannot come to us
A message may be sent.
And that’s one comfort, anyway;
For though we are apart,
There is no reason why we may
Not open heart to heart.

We trust it may soon come
To a final test;
We want to see our Southern homes
Secured in peaceful rest.
But if the blood of those we love
In freedom’s cause must flow,
With fervent trust in God above,
We bid them onward go.

And we will watch them as they go,
And cheer them on their way:
Our arms shall be their resting-place
When wounded sore they lay.
Oh! if the sons of Southern soil
For freedom’s cause must die,
Her daughters ask no dearer boon
Than by their side to lie.