I've browsed around and haven't found anyplace specifically for Civil War poetry, so I'm going to put this here and I won't be offended if it's moved elsewhere.

I nearly went blind copying this from a book I have...the tiniest print I've ever seen....but I like it. The title is:

New Year's Address of the New York Herald
(Published January 1, 1864)

How swiftly roll the years away,
Like waves along the shore!
T'was Sixty-Three but yesterday,
And now 'tis Sixty-Four.
And while again the Newman sings
The year's auspicious dawn,
We hail the promises it brings,
Upon it's broad and shining wings
From the grand old year that's gone.

This very day, twelve months ago,
Came forth the Proclamation,
To some three-million Southern Slaves
Of their emancipation.
And "Father Abraham" now declares,
With pride and exultation,
That it has opened wide the gates
Of Freedom, in the Southern States,
Insuring their salvation.

Last New Year, resting from the shock
Of a disastrous fight,
Our grand Potomac army lay
In melancholy plight.
While all around the Vicksburg hills,
And far along the shore,
The rebel great guns, looking down,
Barr'd our approaches to the town,
And shut up every door.

It was, too, last New Year's morn,
Magruder with his fleet
Of steamboats, clad with cotton bales,
And all his plans complete,
Pounc'd on our ships at Galveston,
While sleeping, I'm afraid;
For, otherwise, that daring Turk
Could not have done the bloody work
Of that foolhardy raid.

Again, t'was on last New Year's night,
Driven back and held at bay,
Rosecrans reformed his broken lines,
For yet another day.
T'was well. He turned the battle's tide,
Snatch'd victory from defeat --
Bragg, driven to the right about,
Barely escaped the final rout,
In his forlorn retreat.

And here commenced our victories
Of the glorious year gone by --
Glorious, from the auspicious signs
Of the crowning triumph nigh.
Vain were the task here to recount
The feats our boys have done,
On every field -- on every wave,
Link'd with some story of the brave,
And names immortal won.

How at the Post of Arkansas,
An ugly rebel den,
The whole concern was "gobbled up,"
With full five thousand men;
Here Hindman, Price and Holmes and CO.,
Were found, chastised and quelled,
Within Missouri's borders, and
In Arkansas, till scarce a band
Remains to be expelled.

How, down in Lousiana's swamps,
And fields of corn and cane;
And lakes and bayous, General Banks --
In a dashing Spring campaign --
Routed the rebels, hip and thigh,
And with but little slaughter,
Successfully, on every hand,
Clearing their "graybacks" from the land
Their gunboats from the water.

How on the hills of Gettysburg,
Lee's bold and grand array,
One hundred thousand strong, were met,
And how they lost the day;
How less than sixty-thousand men,
Straggling through mud and rain
That bleeding, shattered host retired;
How from that day its hopes expired
Never to rise again.

And we might tell how this event,
Throughout the mighty North,
Crowned the rejoicings of the day
We call the "Glorious Fourth;"
And how Grant and his army had
Their celebration, too,
With thirty-thousand rebel troops,
Defiling by in solemn groups,
As in their last review.

How Vicksburg fell into our hands,
On "Independence Day,"
Army, forts, batteries, magazines,
In all, a grand display;
How next -- Port Hudson caving in,
"Old Massassip" was free
To the East and the great West again,
While the rebel States were cut to twain
From Memphis to the sea.

Of all these things, we might for hours,
Like an old time minstrel sing,
Had we the task assigned us, and
An ancient listening king;
And tell how Thomas saved our cause,
At Chickamauga, and
How from wild Chattanooga's heights,
The great North wakes to new delights
Which thrill throughout the land.

How Longstreet up at Knoxville found,
Burnside had made a home (**)
How Hooker fought above the clouds
On Lookout's lofty dome;--
How Sherman stormed a beetling cliff,
Celebrating at the sight --(**)
How Mission Ridge was next convulsed;--
How Bragg was utterly repulsed
And routed left and right.

And we might sing the gallant deeds
Done by our bold Jack Tars,--
Those generous, daring, fearless boys
Of Neptune and of Mars --
On Mississippi's ample flood,
Red River and Yazoo;--
And how they made the rebel's break,
From many a troubled inland lake,
And jungle-bound bayou.

And how along the Atlantic line
Bold Jack has cleared the coast;
How Sumter's walls have ceased to be
The Charleston rebels boast.
But of these themes and many more,
Worthy the poet's song,
The HERALD files the facts impart,
And every needful map and chart,
And so we pass along.

Old Abe says "Johnny bull's a trump,
Look at those rebel's rams!"
Jeff Davis says "John Bull's a cheat,
Look at his tricks and shams."
That Southern independence now
Depends on Southern arms;
That Louis Napoleon's fighting shy,
That he refuses, can't tell why--
To take us to his arms.

King Jeff, in fact gives up his case
With many tears and groans,
Is there no spot reserved, where he
May rest his broken bones?
Hemm'd in -- how can he now escape
The terrors of the law?
Let Welle's look sharp, or the knowing blade
May slip the Wilmington blockade
And turn up in Nassau.

Jeff's cause is lost - the end draws nigh
Our armies pressing on,
Will still contract their tightening lines,
Till his last chance is gone.
How restoration is to come,
In truth we cannot tell.
We trust that wise and wholesome rules,
Will cut out fanatics and fools,
And all will yet be well.

Napoleon's scheme in Mexico --
How goes it? What's the chance?
Well, the Frenchman plays his fiddle, but
His Dutchman does not dance.
For he knows the Mexicans at best
Are a slippery, dangerous crew,
and that the Yankees may come down
And kick the Dutchman, throne and crown,
And the jolly Frenchman too.

Napoleon in this thing, you see,
At length is fighting shy;
Because, much nearer home, he finds
He has other fish to fry.
Good. Let him pass. Now what about
Great Heenan and Tom King?
We can't do justice to the case,
We leave it in its proper place,
In the records of "the Ring."

What of the Russian ball? Hi--Hi!
It was a grand affair.
The beaux were fine, the belles divine,
And all the world was there.
But what would Barnum call it? Well,
A humbug if you please;
Like the Dickens ball -- "long time ago,"
Or that grand Aldermanic show
Of the astonish'd Japanese.

What of the year's elections? Good!
The Copperheads are dish'd.
How's Congress? Guess it's pretty much
As "Father Abram" wished.
What of our new Lord Mayor --run in
Contrary to all rule?
They say that Mozart chuckled, while
Old Tammany smiled a ghastly smile--
Good-bye to Brudder Boole.

How's gold? To buy it or to sell,
You run some little risk.
And "greenbacks"? Plentiful and cheap,
How's trade? Brisk -- very brisk.
And how about our taxes? Well,
We are gaining on John Bull.
Shall we be call'd to drain his cup?
Can't say. How's cotton? Cotton's up,
And shoddy, pork and wool.

Fun, fashion, folly, and finery reign,
In the midst of blood and crimes.
'Tis strange that this most frightful war
Should bring such jolly times.
We hope the day of peace draws nigh,
That when we next appear
The season's compliments to pay,
The States, from Maine to Texas may
Join in the glad New Year.

(Written by the Newsmen of the New York Herald)

Note: The asterisks (**) on two lines above indicate places where, even with a magnifying glass, I couldn't read it. It was smudged.