Kate’s notes: William McCalla Gilleland (1835-1894) was the younger brother of Rebecca Jane Gilleland Fisher. The biography here errs by stating that William was the only child of Johnson and Mary Barbour Gilleland.  According to William’s sister, she was 7 and he was 6 years old when the massacre took place. Also, Rebecca recounted that they were rescued within a day of their capture, though according to the author of this piece the rescue took several days.  There are a number of details in this biography that must cast into doubt the accuracy of the information in this profile of William Gilleland.
   William and Jane Gilleland had two children: George, who died in 1898 at the age of twenty-nine; and Kate, who lived to see her golden wedding anniversary to Kenneth Anderson. The information on the number of children comes from an 1880 census; if there were any other children I have no information on them at this time.
   Rebecca  Jane Gilleland Fisher’s  recollection of the massacre, as well as her life as the pioneer wife of a prominent Methodist minister, may be found among the historical sketches in the Gilliland Trails library.

From: The Poets and Poetry of Texas; biographical sketches of the poets of Texas, with selections from their writings. Sam H. Dixon, Sam H. Dixon & Co., publishers. Austin, Texas, 1885.

WILLIAM  M. GILLELAND.
____________

This rather eccentric and unfortunate poet was born of Irish and American parents. His father was born in Dublin, in which city he was educated, having graduated from the University of Dublin. He immigrated to America in 1825, and remained for a short period in Philadelphia.  He was married there to a Miss Barbour, a lady of distinguished family of Pennsylvania. Soon after this marriage he came to Texas and settled in Galveston. Here he remained for a few years, when he moved to the southwest part of the state, and settled on the San Antonio river. March 2, 1842, his house was surrounded by a large band of Comanche Indians, who massacred him and his wife, and took their only child – a boy of seven years – prisoner. A few days after his capture he was rescued by Col. C. L. Owen’s command, with a broken lance through his body. This is the first record we have of our poet. The early death of his parents left him without means, and he was reared without the advantages of education, except such as he obtained by his own exertions.
   He began to write verses when seventeen years old. He went to Austin, Texas, when a young man, and remained there over a quarter of a century. Most of this time he was employed in the State departments, and was for a number of years a clerk in the General Land Office. He was Enrolling Clerk of the Senate for two terms, and also Librarian of the Supreme Court.  During this period, I find that he published many poems throughout the South. In 1864 he wrote his greatest poem – the Burial March of General Tom Green, -- and the high esteem in which the South held this noble man, and the tenderness and sublime pathos of the poem, at once touched the heart of the people, and gained for the author an undying fame. This poem is marked throughout by the strength and vivacity of original genius. Every line in it is distinct and prominent, and stamps upon the mind the impression of reality; and when it first appeared it struck all by the delicacy of his thoughts and the richness and eloquence of his fancy. His style throughout is rhythmical, showing his natural ear for music.  “Harsh numbers are turned to perfect accord; hatred of oppression has made way for broad humanity.”  He has refined and polished this poem exquisitely, and each verse possesses wonderful melody.
   Mr. Gilleland has produced a great many poems which possess merit over the ordinary, but such has been his life and such his misfortunes that he has never been able to collect them together. None of the Texas writers, Col. A. M. Hobby, perhaps, excepted, have written so beautifully of the southern heroes, whose chivalry has completely fascinated him, and proven the chief theme of his verse. Most of his heroes are the brave patriots whose lives have been given in defense of their country. His poems in memory of Gen. Ben. McCullough, Col. John Lubbock and Hon. Frank Bowden each enlarged his number of readers and admirers.
   Mr. Gilleland’s late years have been burdened with painful wounds received in 1860, which have gradually enervated him and almost reduced him to the position of a cripple.
   He is a citizen of San Antonio, and has a large family.

BURIAL MARCH OF MAJOR GENERAL
TOM GREEN.
________

Hark, the muffled drum is beating! And the dirge’s solemn strain,
Fills the soul with mournful memories for a glorious hero slain.
And the funeral bells are tolling and the thousands ‘round his bier!
Tell the mightiest Chief of Texas, in his glory sleepeth here!
In the Hall of state he resteth, ‘mid the people loved so well,
And from far they haste to meet him, and to weep their last farewell.
Lo! the pall, befitting heroes, o’er the coffined chief is laid!
And a nation’s grateful homage to his silent dust is paid.
But, Oh! Never more my comrades! Shall we see that flashing eye
Kindling with the light of Victory, when the hour of fight is nigh;
Never shall we hear the voice, that clearer than the trumpet’s breath,
Bade us triumph for our country, in the iron face of death!
And, it was with that ambition, that from mortal sources spring,
He gave on his country’s altar, his own life as offering;
Mark it in the paths of glory – that his feet so oft have trod,
From the field of San Jacinto, to dread Mansfield’s bloody sod.

On the plains of far Val Verde, where the bones of heroes mould,
Shone that sympathy for suffering, that his mighty heart controlled
On! How oft we’ve marked in sadness, and the pain his visage wore
Gazing on the cherished faces he should meet on earth no more;
Or beside the wounded soldier, watching with a parent’s care,
And reviving hope and courage in the bosom of despair!
Then we vowed the vow of soldiers, when we saw his banners wave,
There to triumph for our country, or beside him find a grave!
And our pledge has not been broken, tho’ full many a spur is cold,
‘til the last of heroes perish, victory shall our flags unfold,
From the Mexico’s dark billows, shall his glorious anthem swell,
To the ears of countless millions that within the future dwell!
For it was upon its waters that he met the Federal fleet
And its banners bore triumphant, to his grateful country’s fleet.
Onward, from Galveston’s victory, hastes the conquering Chief again,
To release sad Louisiana from the tyrant’s sword and chain!
Conflict after conflict followed with the armies of the foe,
From the bloody fight of Bissland, to the battle of Barbeaux,
Berwick, Boeuff, and dread Fort Butler, and Lafouche’s day sublime
With Fordoche, shall tell his glory to the latest night of time.
And why swell the lists of battles, and the splendor of his name?
They shall live in song and story – history shall embalm their fame.

But his days on earth are numbered, see the cannon’s fitful flame
As the wild, grim dice of iron ope’s the battle’s bloody game,
There the foeman’s countless legions, here the Southron squadron pour,
To oppose their shattered columns to the mighty foe once more.
Hark! The fatal word is spoken! Onward thro’ the smoky pall,
Press the cavaliers to battle, as of old to festive hall!
Chiefs are flying to their stations, banners float along the plain!
And the strains of martial music thrill the blood in every vein.
Studs their bits are madly champing! And the cannon’s rumbling sound,
With the shock of hostile armies, shakes the distant hills around!
Banks upon the left is raging, like a lion, for his prey;
While the fiery bands of Walker hold him in the desperate bay!
Moulton to the rescue hastens! Majors thunders on the foe!
Taylor’s foot are fighting fiercely, Bee is waging blow for blow.
Louder swells the storm of battle, faster fall the iron rain,
And the gory field is covered with the bodies of the slain.
Many a faithful steed is gasping on his dying rider’s breast;
Many a boy and fiery veteran, sided by side, together rest!
Many a knightly plume and banner, that have floated o’er the brave,
With the Federal and Southron, mingle in one bloody grave!
Walker, wounded in the battle, still dashing o’er the plain;
Moulton, like a hero, perished in the thickest of the slain!
Still the Southron bands are fighting thrice their numbers of the foe,
Shielded by their iron navies on the river’s breast below
Right and might today opposes, Freedom ‘gainst a tyrant’s claim, --
In success lies fame and honor, in defeat is written Shame!
But the glorious prize of victory trembles in the battle’s scales;
Who will turn its toil to triumph, whom deliverer shall we hail?
Lo! he comes the prince of heroes! Hark! The trumpet’s thrilling blast,
Tells the die for death or freedom by his proud brigade is cast!
Onward at their head he dashes! Chief and charger, on they go!
And his veteran band behind him, like the Ocean’s billow flow!
And a shout of exultation greets him o’er the fierce melee,
As of old the Scottish slogan told the onset of Dundee!
Lion like he’s sweeping forward, where the deepest thunder peals,
‘Mid the lightning flash of cannon, and the deadly rush of steel!
Hand to hand the conflict rages! Swords have met in deadly clash!
Steed are bearing down each other, Onward! On! The victors dash.
As the strong majestic forest sways before the tempest’s blast,
Then a shapeless mass of ruin, to the trembling earth is cast,
So before that fiery squadron lo! the tyrant’s armies yield,
Leaving Death and Desolation, spectres of the blood-stained field!
Slained and wounded lie around him! Havoc everywhere is seen!
Still, amid Plutonian shadows, flit the rallying plumes of GREEN!
See! His gallant band beside him, dashing through the iron rain,
To avenge their cause and country, and their cherished comrades slain.
Many a wife, alas! Shall listen, when the dreadful charge is o’er,
For the coming of the loved ones, she shall meet on earth no more, --
Many a bride sit, sad and lonely, many a mother mourn her son,
Thro’ the long, sad, dreary hours, when that stubborn fight is won!
But his love was warm and faithful, and thy name his latest tone,
And thine image on his bosom felt his heart’s last throb alone!
On they come! With banners flying, pressing on the panting foe,
Who are seeking, from their scourging, refuge in their ships below.
All in vain! The fight is over, victory! Victory! Is our own.
Let it roll in sounds of thunder to the blood-stained tyrant’s throne!
Let him know, the God of battles still will aid the brave and free,
And at last will crown their efforts with sweet peace and liberty!

Lo! the sun has set, and silence gathers o’er the wings of night,
Calm in death the brave are sleeping, and the victors rest from fight.
But, amid the solemn silence, throbs the soldier’s heart with grief,
As they gather in the starlight, round the body of their chief.
In the thickest of the battle – bearing still his banners high –
GREEN went down – in battle harness – with the names not born to die.
See! He slumbers like a Roman, with his back upon the field,
Waiting till the morning trumpet bids him grasp the sword and shield;
And a smile is on his visage, for within his dying ear,
Fell the glorious cry of victory, and his grateful country’s cheer.
Thus, amid the rush of armies, clashing steel and burning shell,
In the noonday of his manhood, GREEN, the Star of Victory, fell.

Lo! the scene is changed, and thousands with a sad funereal tread,
Bear the hero to his mansion, in the kingdom of the dead.
Pageantry, and pomp befitting, to the burial march and bier,
Mingle in the pale procession, with the heartfelt sigh and tear.
For he was his people’s chosen, and display, nor time can dim
That pure image of the hero they have ever worn for him.
Let him sleep with kindred ashes, where he asked he might repose,
When upon his country’s altar he at last should close.
Let him rest, his name is cherished by the noble and the brave,
And his fame shall be eternal as the stars that light his grave,
And until the angel’s trumpet sounds to earth its closing scene,
Freedom shall not claim a braver, purer patriot than our  GREEN.

-transcription by Kate Maynard, 2012