Abram Ryan

American Civil War Poet

One of the most famous poets of the American Civil War era was Father Abram Ryan. In a book of his poetry, published in New York in 1897, the introduction said 'So distinguished a character and so brilliant a man cannot be passed over lightly, or dealt with sparingly...for Abram Ryan's fame is the inheritance of a great and enlightened Nation, and his writings have passed into history to emblazon its pages and enrich its history.' During the Civil War he seved as a chaplain to the Confederate forces and at the same time he founded a newspaper called the Banner of the South.

While it has always been known that Abram Ryan's parents were Irish, it was never known exactly where in Ireland they came from. Now through this page we can reveal to the world that Abram Ryan's parents - Mattew Ryan and Mary Coughlan - were in fact from the village of Clogheen in County Tipperary. Further research may well prove that the man himself was also born in Clogheen.

The sentiments and the language of "The Sword of Robert Lee" are certainly antique to our post-Vietnam, Bosnian Civil War sensibilities. But, they were written by a man who was there, a priest who witnessed the slaughters of Civil War battlefields and their aftermath. A Catholic chaplain to the Army of Northern Virginia must have administered thousands of last rites. Yet Ryan's memories are of glory.

The Sword of Robert Lee

Forth from its Scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to Victory! Out of its Scabbard, where, full long, It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle's song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee! Forth from its scabbard, high in air Beneath Virginia's sky - And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where the sword led they would dare To follow - and to die! Out of it's scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee! Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee! Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee: 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully! NOCTURNE I sit tonight by the firelight, And I look at the glowing flame, And I see in the bright red flashes A heart, a Face, and a Name. How often have I seen pictures Framed in the firelight's blaze, Of hearts, of names and of faces And scenes of remembered days! How often have I found poems In the crimson of the coals, And the swaying flames of the firelight Unrolled such golden scrolls And my eyes, they were proud to read them, In letters of living flame, But tonight, in the fire, I see only One Heart, one Face, and one Name.