Sometimes, when weary, broken down and worn out, some member of the regiment would start a tune, and every man would join in.

John Branch was usually the leader of the choir.

He would commence a beautiful tune.

The words, as I remember them now, were "Dear Paul, Just Twenty Years Ago." After singing this piece he would commence on a lively, spirit-stirring air to the tune of "Old Uncle Ned." Now, reader, it has been twenty years ago since I heard it, but I can remember a part of it now.

Here it is: "There was an ancient individual whose cognomen was Uncle Edward.
He departed this life long since, long since.
He had no capillary substance on the top of his cranium, The place where the capillary substance ought to vegetate.
His digits were as long as the bamboo piscatorial implement of the Southern Mississippi.
He had no oculars to observe the beauties of nature.
He had no ossified formation to masticate his daily rations, So he had to let his daily rations pass by with impunity." Walker Coleman raises the tune of "I'se a gwine to jine the rebel band, a fightin' for my home." Now, reader, the above is all I can now remember of that very beautiful and soul-stirring air.