Front matter (continued 2)

THE BATTLE AT BULL RUN.

BY RUTH.

Forward, my brave columns, forward! No other word was spoken; But in the quick and mighty rustling of their feet, And in the flashing of their eyes, ’twas proved This was enough. Men, whose every bosom had a noble heart, And who had left their homes, their sacred rights To gain: To these this was no trying hour, No time to waver, and to doubt. But one, For which they’d hoped and prayed— One (as they felt) they’d brought not on Themselves, but which they knew must come— And nobly, O most nobly, did their Bravery, their sense of right, sustain them. And Lincoln’s hordes— They knew not with what natures they contended, Seemed not to feel their motives differed, as Does heaven from earth. They, the poor, miserable, hired outcasts, whose Principles were bought, And men, whose courage, bravery, and noble aims, Had come to be, throughout the land, A proverb. And what the end? What could, what should it be, than what it was? A brilliant, glorious Victory. The South weeps o’er her slain: And well she may; for they were jewels From her diadem. She weeps; sheds tears of grief, of sorrow, And of Pride. Louisville, Ky., July 24, 1861.

THE SOUTHRON MOTHER’S CHARGE.

BY THOMAS B. HOOD.

You go, my son, to the battle-field, To repel the invading foe; Mid its fiercest conflicts never yield Till death shall lay you low. Our God, who smiles upon the Right And frowns upon the Wrong, Will nerve you for our holy fight, And make your courage strong. Our cause is just, for it we pray At morning, noon, and night, Upon our banners we inscribe, God, Liberty, and Right. I love you as I love my life, You are my only son; Your country calls, go forth and fight Till Freedom’s cause is won. It may be that you fall in death, Contending for your home, Yet your aged mother will not be Forsaken though alone. A thousand generous hearts there are Throughout this sunny land, Whose ample fortunes will be spent With an unsparing hand. Now go, my son, a mother’s prayers Will ever follow thee; And in the thickest of the fight Strike home for liberty! On every hill, in every glen, We’ll fight till we are free; We’ll fight till every limpid brook Runs crimson to the sea. No truce we know, till every foe Shall leave our hallowed sod, And we regain that heaven-born boon, “Freedom to worship God.” New Orleans, La.

OUR BOYS ARE GONE.

BY COL. HAMILTON WASHINGTON.

Our boys are gone ’till the war is o’er, In the ranks of death you’ll find them; With duty’s path of blood before, And with all they love behind them: They bear our hearts to the tented field— Each danger makes them dearer— Their faithful hearts our only shield From the foe still drawing nearer. With pride we hear of the perils braved And the wreaths they win of glory; With joy we hear of lov’d ones saved From each field of battle gory; And joy is mix’d with fleeting pain As we look to Heaven o’er us, And think that there we’ll meet again, With the brave who’ve gone before us.

THE SOUTHERN PLEIADES.

BY LAURA LORRIMER.

When first our Southern flag arose, Beside the heaving sea, It bore upon its silken folds A green Palmetto tree. All honor to that banner brave, It roused the blood of yore, And nerved the arm of Southern men For valiant deeds once more. When storm clouds darkened o’er our sky, That star, the first of seven, Shone out amid the mist and gloom, To light our country’s heaven. The glorious seven! long may their flag Wave proudly on the breeze; Long may they burn on fame’s broad sky— The Southern Pleiades! Nashville Patriot.

THE STARS AND BARS.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

Fling wide the dauntless banner To every Southern breeze, Baptized in flame, with Sumter’s name— A patriot and a hero’s fame— From Moultrie to the seas! That it may cleave the morning sun And, streaming, sweep the night, The emblem of a battle won With Yankee ships in sight. Come, hucksters, from your markets, Come, bigots, from your caves, Come, venal spies, with brazen lies Bewildering your deluded eyes, That we may dig your graves; Come, creatures of a sordid clown And driveling traitor’s breath, A single blast shall blow you down Upon the fields of Death. The very flag you carry Caught its reflected grace, In fierce alarms, from Southern arms, When foemen threatened all your farms, And never saw your face; Ho! braggarts of New England’s shore, Back to your hills and delve The soil whose craven sons foreswore The flag in eighteen-twelve! We wreathed around the roses It wears before the world, And made it bright with storied light, In every scene of bloody fight Where it has been unfurled; And think ye, now, the dastard hands That never yet could hold Its staff, shall wave it o’er our lands, To glut the greed of gold? No! by the truth of Heaven And its eternal Sun, By every sire whose altar fire Burns on to beckon and inspire, It never shall be done; Before that day the kites shall wheel Hail-thick on Northern heights, And there our bared, aggressive steel Shall countersign our rights! Then spread the flaming banner O’er mountain, lake, and plain, Before its bars, degraded Mars Has kissed the dust with all his stars, And will be struck again; For could its triumph now be stayed By Hell’s prevailing gates, A sceptred Union would be made The grave of sovereign States.

THE MARCH.

BY JOHN W. OVERALL.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp! Go the Southern braves to battle, How they shine, each gleaming line! Flashing sabers! how they rattle! Every lip is now compressed, Every heart now yearns for glory, Every eye with patriot fire Burns for battle fierce and gory! Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp! Death is in each hidden saber, Reaper of the fields of Time, Look ye for a giant’s labor! How sublime! when patriots feel All the strength of self-reliance, Marching on to meet the foe, With a stern and grim defiance! See how proudly floats our flag! White! our cause is pure and grand, man! Red! a living flood shall flow From every foe now in the land, man! Blue! aye, heaven’s stars are there! Sparkling in their azure beauty! Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp! Go the messengers of duty!

SOUTHERN WAR SONG.

BY N. P. W.

To horse! to horse! our standard flies, The bugles sound the call; An alien navy stems our seas— The voice of battle’s on the breeze, Arouse ye, one and all! From beauteous Southern homes we come, A band of brothers true— Resolved to fight for liberty, And live or perish with our flag— The noble Red and Blue. Though tamely crouch to Northern frown Kentucky’s tardy train; Though invaded soil Maryland mourns, Though brave Missouri vainly spurns, And foaming gnaws the chain; Oh! had they marked the avenging call Their brethren’s insults gave, Disunion ne’er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valor, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave; Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom’s temple born— Dress our pale cheek in timid smiles, To hail a master in our house, Or brook a victor’s scorn? No! though destruction o’er the land Come pouring as a flood, The sun that sees our falling day, Shall mark our saber’s deadly sway, And set that night in blood! For gold let Northern legions fight, Or plunder’s bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our homes, to fence our law, Nor shall their edge be vain. And now that breath of Northern gale Has fanned the Stars and Bars, And footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Us rights and liberty debars. Then farewell home, and farewell friends, Adieu each tender tie, Resolved we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer or to die. To horse, to horse! the sabers gleam, High sounds our bugle-call, Combined by honor’s sacred tie, Our word is, Rights and Liberty! March forward, one and all! Louisville Courier.

WE’LL BE FREE IN MARYLAND.

BY ROBERT E. HOLTZ.

Air—“Gideon’s Band.”

The boys down South in Dixie’s land, The boys down South in Dixie’s land, The boys down South in Dixie’s land, Will come and rescue Maryland. Chorus—If you will join the Dixie band, Here’s my heart and here’s my hand, If you will join the Dixie band; We’re fighting for a home. The Northern foes have trod us down, The Northern foes have trod us down, The Northern foes have trod us down, But we will rise with true renown. If you will join the Dixie band, etc. The tyrants they must leave our door, The tyrants they must leave our door, The tyrants they must leave our door, Then we’ll be free in Baltimore. If you will join the Dixie band, etc. These hirelings they’ll never stand, These hirelings they’ll never stand, These hirelings they’ll never stand, Whenever they see the Southern band. If you will join the Dixie band, etc. Old Abe has got into a trap, Old Abe has got into a trap, Old Abe has got into a trap, And he can’t get out with his Scotch cap. If you will join the Dixie band, etc. Nobody’s hurt is easy spun, Nobody’s hurt is easy spun, Nobody’s hurt is easy spun, But the Yankees caught it at Bull Run. If you will join the Dixie band, etc. We rally to Jeff. Davis true, Beauregard and Johnston, too, Magruder, Price, and General Bragg, And give three cheers for the Southern flag. If you will join the Dixie band, etc. We’ll drink this toast to one and all, Keep cocked and primed for the Southern call; The day will come, we’ll make the stand, Then we’ll be free in Maryland. If you will join the Dixie band, etc. January 30, 1862.

WAR SONG.

BY J. H. WOODCOCK.

Tune—“Bonnie Blue Flag.”

Huzza! huzza! let’s raise the battle-cry, And whip the Yankees from our land, Or with them fall and die. Rush on our Southron columns, And make the brigands feel That all the booty they will get, Will be our Southron steel. Huzza! huzza! let’s raise (the) our banner high, And nobly drive the Yankees out, Or with them fall and die. Rush on the columns—let every Southron brave Nobly charge the accursèd foe, Or find a soldier’s grave. With bowie and with pike, We’ll rally to the field, And bravely to the last we’ll strike, Resolved we’ll never yield. Huzza! huzza! etc. We are fighting for our mothers, our sisters, and our wives; For these, and our country’s rights, We’ll sacrifice our lives. Then, trusting still to Heaven, We’ll charge the invading host, Till liberty and independence Shall be the nation’s boast. Huzza! huzza! etc. Then on with our columns—slay the vandal foe— Beat them from our sunny soil, And lay their colors low. To the great God of nations Our sacred cause confide, For we are fighting for our liberty, And He is on our side. Huzza! huzza! etc.

A NEW RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.

WRITTEN FOR A LADY, BY JEFF. THOMPSON.

Missouri is the pride of the nation, The hope of the brave and the free; The Confederacy will furnish the rations, But the fighting is trusted to thee; For, brave boys, your soil has been noted, And your flag has been trusted to you; For freedom you have not yet voted, But you fight for the Red, White, and Blue. Chorus—Three cheers, etc. The Stars shall shine bright in the heaven, But the Stripes should be trailed in the dust, For they are no longer the sign of the haven Of the brave, of the free, or the just; The Bars now in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the faithful and true; O’er the home of the Southern brave Shall float the new Red, White, and Blue. Chorus—Three cheers, etc.

O JOHNNY BULL, MY JO JOHN.

Air—“John Anderson, my Jo.”

It was stated in the Richmond “Dispatch” during the last days of December, 1861, that a gentleman, just from the West Indies, had said that there were eighty-seven British ships-of-war lying in those waters. This statement gave rise to the following imitation of an old song:

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! I wonder what you mean, By sending all these frigates out, commissioned by the Queen; You’ll frighten off the Yankees, John, and why should you do so? Best catch and sink, or burn them all, O Johnny Bull, my Jo! O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Yankee hands profane, Were laid in wanton insult upon the lion’s mane, He roared so loud and long, John, they quickly let him go, And sank upon their trembling knees, O Johnny Bull, my Jo! O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Lincoln first began To try his hand at war, John, you were a peaceful man; But now your blood is up, John, and well the Yankees know, You play the —— when you start, O Johnny Bull, my Jo! O Johnny Bull, my Jo John, let’s take the field together, And hunt the Yankee Doodles home, in spite of wind and weather, And ere a twelvemonth roll around, to Boston we will go, And eat our Christmas dinner there, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

“SOUTHRONS.”

BY CATHERINE M. WARFIELD.

You can never win them back— Never! never! Though they perish on the track Of your endeavor; Though their corses strew the earth, That SMILED upon their birth, And blood pollutes each hearth- Stone forever! They have risen to a man, Stern and fearless; Of your curses and your ban They are careless. Every hand is on its knife, Every gun is primed for strife, Every PALM contains a life, High and peerless! You have no such blood as theirs For the shedding: In the veins of cavaliers Was its heading: You have no such stately men In your “abolition den,” To march through foe and fen, Nothing dreading! They may fall before the fire Of your legions, Paid with gold for murderous hire— Bought allegiance; But for every drop you shed, You shall have a mound of dead, So that vultures may be fed In our regions! But the battle to the strong Is not given, When the Judge of Right and Wrong Sits in heaven; And the God of David still Guides the pebble with His will; There are giants yet to kill— Wrongs unshriven!

“NIL DESPERANDUM.”

Inscribed to our Soldier-boys,

BY ADA ROSE.

The Yankee hosts are coming, With their glittering rows of steel, And sharp, from many a skirmish, Comes the rifle’s ringing peal, Warning you how very near The Northern “Hessians” are, With their overwhelming forces; But ne’er must you despair. For though they come on, surging Like a mighty rolling sea, They’re hired by their master, “Abe”— You fight for Liberty. So bravely you must meet them, And face the cannon’s blare; Your watchword, “Victory or Death,” And never you despair. True, the cloud is dark and lowering, But behind a cheerful ray, And the night is always darkest Just before the break of day. Have faith; the cloud will soon disperse, For the light is surely there; The day will soon be dawning, So never you despair. Go, emulate brave Washington, Who led a little band, To drive the proud oppressors From off their happy land. The enemy outnumbered, By far, the “rebels” there; But bravely they encountered them, Nor yielded to despair. ’Tis said that “rebel” chieftain, Ere they sought the battle’s fray, Would ask our Heavenly Father To be their shield and stay; And then they’d march with confidence, Well knowing He’d be there; And that must be the reason why They never did despair. Likewise, if you will ask Him, He’ll meet you on the field, To be a guard about you, And your support and shield; The foe shall fly before you, As you shout your victory there; Then don’t forget to plead with Him, And never to despair. Pine Bluff, Ark.

ADDRESS OF THE WOMEN TO THE SOUTHERN TROOPS.

BY MRS. J. T. H. CROSS.

Air—“Bruce’s Address.”

Southern men, unsheathe the sword, Inland and along the board; Backward drive the Northern horde— Rush to Victory! Let your banners kiss the sky, Be “The Right” your battle cry! Be the God of Battles nigh— Crown you in the fight! Pressing back the tears that start, We behold your hosts depart, Saying, with heroic heart, Clothe your arms with might! Lower the proud oppressor’s crest! Or, if he should prove the best, Dead, not dishonored, rest On the field of blood! We—may God so give us grace!— Sons will rear, to take your place; Strong the foemen’s steel to face— Strong in heart and hand! Death your serried ranks may sweep, Proud shall be the tears we weep— Sacredly our hearts shall keep Memory of your deeds! Though our land be left forlorn, Spirit of the Southron-born Northern rage shall laugh to scorn— Northern hosts defy. He that last is doomed to die Shall, with his expiring sigh, Send aloft the battle-cry, “God defend the Right!”

THE CAVALIERS OF DIXIE.

BY BENJAMIN F. PORTER.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! Who guard the Southern shores, Whose standards brave the battle storm Which o’er our border roars; Your glorious sabers draw once more, And charge the Northern foe; And reap their columns deep, Where the raging tempests blow, And the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow. Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! Though dark the tempest lower, What arms will wear the tyrants chains, What dastard heart will cower? Bright o’er the night a sign shall rise To lead to victory! And your swords reap their hordes, Where the battle tempests blow; Where the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow. The South! she needs no ramparts, No lofty towers to shield; Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong, Breastworks that never yield! The thunders of your battle blades Shall sweep the servile foe; While their gore stains the shore, Where the battle tempests blow; Where the iron hail in floods descends And the bloody torrents flow. The battle-flag of Dixie! With crimson field shall flame, Her azure cross and silver stars Shall light her sons to fame! When peace with olive-branch returns, That flag’s white folds shall glow Still bright on every height, When storm has ceased to blow, And the battle tempests roar no more; Nor the bloody torrents flow. Oh! battle-flag of Dixie! Long, long, triumphant wave! Where’er the storms of battle roar, Or victory crowns the brave! The Cavaliers of Dixie! In woman’s song shall glow The fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow, When the battle tempests rage no more Nor the bloody torrents flow.[10]

LAND OF KING COTTON.

BY JO. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO.

Air—“Red, White, and Blue.”

Oh! Dixie, the land of King Cotton, The home of the brave and the free; A nation by Freedom begotten, The terror of despots to be; Wherever thy banner is streaming, Base tyranny quails at thy feet, And Liberty’s sunlight is beaming, In splendor of majesty sweet. Chorus—Three cheers for our army so true, Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee, Beauregard, and our Davis, forever; The pride of the brave and the free! When Liberty sounds her war-rattle, Demanding her right and her due, The first land who rallies to battle Is Dixie, the shrine of the true; Thick as leaves of the forest in summer, Her brave sons will rise on each plain; And strike, until each vandal comer Lies dead on the soil he would stain. Three cheers for our army, etc. May the names of the dead, that we cherish, Fill memory’s cup to the brim; May the laurels they’ve won never perish, Nor “star of their glory grow dim;” May the States of the South never sever, But champions of freedom e’er be; May they flourish, Confed’rate forever, The boast of the brave and the free. Three cheers for our army, etc.[11]

THE GUERILLAS.

BY S. TEACKLE WALLIS.

Awake and to horse, my brothers! For the dawn is glimmering gray, And hark! in the crackling brushwood There are feet that tread this way. “Who cometh?” “A friend.” “What tidings?” “O God! I sicken to tell; For the earth seems earth no longer, And its sights are sights of hell! “From the far-off conquered cities Comes a voice of stifled wail, And the shrieks and moans of the houseless Ring out, like a dirge on the gale. “I’ve seen from the smoking village Our mothers and daughters fly; I’ve seen where the little children Sank down in the furrows to die. “On the banks of the battle-stained river I stood as the moonlight shone, And it glared on the face of my brother, As the sad wave swept him on. “Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horrors and shame had been there, For I found on the fallen lintel This tress of my wife’s torn hair! “They are turning the slaves upon us, And with more than the fiend’s worst art, Have uncovered the fire of the savage, That slept in his untaught heart! “The ties to our hearths that bound him, They have rent with curses away, And maddened him, with their madness, To be almost as brutal as they. “With halter, and torch, and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of murder, And pray for lust’s kingdom to come. “To saddle! to saddle! my brothers! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done! “Wherever the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel, And when at his bosom you can not, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel. “Through thicket and wood, go hunt him, Creep up to his camp-fire side, And let ten of his corpses blacken Where one of our brothers hath died. “In his fainting, foot-sore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts we owe him, pay. “In God’s hand alone is vengeance, But he strikes with the hands of men, And his blight would wither our manhood, If we smite not the smiter again. “By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes, and hopes, and freedom, Let every man swear on his blade, “That he will not sheathe nor stay it, Till from point to hilt it glow With the flush of Almighty vengeance, In the blood of the felon foe.” They swore—and the answering sunlight Leaped red from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo To the wrath in their burning words. There’s weeping in all New England, And by Schuylkill’s banks a knell, And the widows there and the orphans, How the oath was kept, can tell.[12]

SOUTHERN MARSEILLAISE.

Ye men of Southern hearts and feeling, Arm, Arm! your struggling country calls— Hear ye the guns now loudly pealing, From Sumter’s high embattled walls! Shall a fanatic horde in power Send forth a base and hireling band, To desolate our happy land, And make our Southern freemen cower. To arms, to arms! each one, The sword unsheathe, raise the gun, Then on, rush on, ye brave and free, To death or victory. Now clouds of war begin to gather, And black and murky is our sky— Shall we submit—no, never, never! Let death or freedom be our cry— In Heaven’s justice firm relying, We’ll nobly struggle to be free, And bravely gain our liberty, Or die, our Northern foes defying. To arms, to arms! each one, etc. The peaceful homes of Texas burning, And Harper’s Ferry’s blood-stained soil, Proclaim how strong their hearts are yearning For murder, pillage, crime, and spoil. Shall we our feelings longer smother, And bear with patience yet our wrongs, Their jeers, their crimes, their taunts and thongs, And greet them still as friend and brother? To arms, to arms! each one, etc. Their tyranny we’ll bear no longer, But burst asunder every tie, Although in numbers they are stronger, We will be free, or we will die! Too long the South has wept, bewailing That falsehood’s dagger Yankees wield, But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing. To arms, to arms, each one, etc. Beauregard Songster.

RICHMOND ON THE JAMES.

BY G. T. BURGESS.

A soldier of our army lay gasping on the field, When battle’s shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield. He fell a youthful hero, before the foemen’s aims, On a blood-red field near Richmond, near Richmond on the James. But one still stood beside him, his comrade in the fray, They had been friends together through boyhood’s happy day, And side by side had struggled on field of blood and flames, To part that eve near Richmond, near Richmond on the James. He said, “I charge thee, comrade, the friend in days of yore, Of the far, far distant dear ones that I shall see no more, Though scarce my lips can whisper their dear and well-known names, To bear to them my blessing from Richmond on the James. “Bear my good sword to my brother, and the badge upon my breast, To the young and gentle sister that I used to love the best; But one lock from my forehead give my mother who still dreams Of her soldier boy near Richmond—near Richmond on the James. “Oh, I wish that mother’s arms were folded round me now, That her gentle hand could linger one moment on my brow, But I know that she is praying where our blessed hearth-light gleams, For her soldier’s safe return from Richmond on the James. “And on my heart, dear comrade, close lay those nut-brown braids, Of one who was the fairest of all our village maids; We were to have been wedded, but death the bridegroom claims, And she is far, that loves me, from Richmond on the James. “Oh, does the pale face haunt her, dear friend, that looks on thee? Or is she laughing, singing in careless girlish glee? It may be she is joyous, and loves but joyous themes, Nor dreams her love lies bleeding near Richmond on the James. “And though I know, dear comrade, thou’lt miss me for a while, When their faces—all that loved thee—again on thee shall smile; Again thou’lt be the foremost in all their youthful games, But I shall lie near Richmond—near Richmond on the James.” And far from all that loved him, that youthful soldier sleeps, Unknown among the thousands of those his country weeps; But no higher heart nor braver, than his, at sunset’s beams, Was laid that eve near Richmond—near Richmond on the James. The land is filled with mourning, from hall and cot left lone, We miss the well-known faces that used to greet our own; And long poor wives and mothers shall weep, and titled dames, To hear the name of Richmond—of Richmond on the James.

FROM THE SOUTH TO THE NORTH.

BY C. L. S.

There is no union when the hearts That once were bound together Have felt the stroke that coldly parts All kindly ties forever. Then oh! your cruel hands draw back, And let us be divided In peace, since it is proved we lack The grace to live united. We can not bear your scorn and pride, Your malice and your taunting, That have for years our patience tried— Your hypocritic canting. We WILL not bow our necks beneath The yoke that you decree us, We WILL be free, though only death Should have the power to free us! Oh, Southern sons are bold to dare, And Southern hearts courageous. Nor meekly will they longer bear Oppression so outrageous. And you shall feel our honest wrath, If hearts so cold can feel; Shall meet us in your Southern path And prove our Southern steel. We ask no favor at your hand, No gifts and no affection; But only peace upon our land, And none of your protection. We ask you now, henceforth, to know We are a separate nation; And be assured we’ll fully show We scorn your “proclamation.” We were not first to break the peace, That blessed our happy land; We loved the quiet, calm, and ease, Too well to raise a hand, Till fierce oppression stronger grew, And bitter were your sneers— Then to our land we must be true, Or show a coward’s fears! We loved our banner while it waved An emblem of our Union, The fiercest danger we had braved To guard that sweet communion. But when it proved that “stripes” alone Were for our sunny South, And all the “stars” in triumph shone Above the chilly North— Then, not till then, our voices rose In one tumultuous wave— We WILL the tyranny oppose, Or find a bloody grave! Another flag shall lead our hosts To battle on the plain, The “rebels” will defy your boasts, And prove your sneering vain! There is no danger we could fear— No hardship or privation— To free the land we hold so dear, From tyrannous dictation. Blockade her ports—her seas shall swell Beneath your ships of war, And every breeze in anger tell Your tyranny afar. Her wealth may fail—her commerce droop With every foreign nation; But mark you, if her pride shall stoop, Or her determination! The products of her fields will be For food and raiment too— From mountain cliff to rolling sea Her children will be true. Her banner may not always wave On victory’s fickle breath, The young, chivalrous, and the brave, May feel the hand of death. But, when her gallant sons have died, Her daughters will remain— Nor crushed will be the Southern pride, Till they too, all are slain.

A BALLAD OF THE WAR.

BY GEORGE HERBERT SASS, OF S. C.

Watchman, what of the night? Through the city’s darkening street, Silent and slow, the guardsmen go On their long and lonely beat. Darkly, drearily down, Falleth the wintry rain; And the cold gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, As it glides o’er town and plain. Beating against the windows, The sleet falls heavy and chill, And the children draw nigher ’round hearth and fire, As the blast shrieks loud and shrill. Silent is all without Save the sentry’s challenge grim, And a hush sinks down o’er the weary town And the sleeper’s eyes are dim. Watchman, what of the night? Hark! from the old church tower Rings loud and clear, on the wintry air, The chime of the midnight hour. But another sound breaks in, A summons deep and rude, The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum Of a gathering multitude. And the dim and flickering torch Sheds a red and lurid glare, O’er the long dark line, where bayonets shine Faintly, yet sternly there. A low, deep voice is heard: “Rest on your arms, my men.” Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, And all is still again. Pale faces and tearful eyes Gaze down on that grim array, For a rumor hath spread that that column dread Marcheth ere break of day. Marcheth against “the rebels,” Whose camp lies heavy and still, Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat On the brow of a distant hill. And the mother’s heart grows faint, As she thinks of her darling one, Who perchance may lie ’neath that wintry sky, Ere the long, dark night be done. Pallid and haggard, too, Is the cheek of the fair young wife; And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him She loveth more than life. For fathers, husbands, sons, Are the “rebels” the foe would smite, And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, And a bleeding country’s right. And where their treasure is, There is each loving heart; And sadly they gaze by the torch’s blaze, And the tears unbidden start. Is there none to warn the camp, None from that anxious throng? Ah, the rain beats down o’er plain and town— The way is dark and long. No man is left behind, None that is brave and true, And the bayonets bright, in the lurid light, With menace stern shine through. Guarded is every street, Brutal the hireling foe; Is there one heart here will boldly dare So brave a deed to do? Look! in her still, dark room, Alone a woman kneels, With Care’s deep trace on her pale, worn face And Sorrow’s ruthless seals. Wrinkling her placid brow, A matron, she, and fair, Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak Gemming her glossy hair. A moment in silent prayer Her pale lips move, and then, Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, On her mission of love to men. She glideth upon her way, Through the lonely, misty street, Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread Of the watchman on his beat. Onward, ay, onward still, Far past the weary town, Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, And the heavy hands hang down. But bravely she struggles on, Breasting the cold, dank rain, And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill Sweeps down upon the plain. Hark! far behind she hears A dull and muffled tramp; But before her the gleam of the watch-fire’s beam Shines out from the Southern camp. She hears the sentry’s challenge, Her work of love is done; She has fought a good fight, and on Fame’s proud height Hath a crown of glory won. Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, Who saved from a ruthless foe Her own fair town, ’mid its mountains brown, Three hundred years ago. And I’ve read in tales heroic How a noble Scottish maid Her own life gave, her king to save From foul assassin’s blade. But if these, on the rolls of honor, Shall live in lasting fame, Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, We’ll write this matron’s name. And when our fair-haired children Shall cluster round our knee, With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days When we swore that we would be free, We’ll tell them the thrilling story, And we’ll say to each childish heart, “By this gallant deed, at thy country’s need, Be ready to do thy part.” Southern Field and Fireside.

LAND OF THE SOUTH.

BY A. F. LEONARD.

Air—“Friend of my Soul.”

Land of the South! the fairest land Beneath Columbia’s sky! Proudly her hills of freedom stand, Her plains in beauty lie. Her dotted fields, her traversed streams Their annual wealth renew. Land of the South! in brightest dreams No dearer spot we view. Men of the South! a free-born race, They vouch a patriot line; Ready the foemen’s van to face, And guard their country’s shrine. By sire and son a haloing light Through time is borne along— They “nothing ask but what is right, And yield to nothing wrong.” Fair of the South! rare beauty’s crown Ye wear with matchless grace; No classic fair of old renown Deserve a higher place. Your vestal robes alike become The palace and the cot; Wives, mothers, daughters! every home Ye make a cherished spot. Flag of the South! aye, fling its folds Upon the kindred breeze; Emblem of dread to tyrant holds— Of freedom on the seas. Forever may its stars and stripes In cloudless glory wave; Red, white, and blue—eternal types Of nations free and brave! States of the South! the patriot’s boast! Here equal laws have sway; Nor tyrant lord, nor despot host, Upon the weak may prey. Then let them rule from sea to sea, And crown the queenly isle— Union of love and liberty, ’Neath Heaven’s approving smile! God of the South! protect this land From false and open foes! Guided by Thine all-ruling hand, In vain will hate oppose. So mote the ship of State move on Upon the unfathomed sea; Gallantly o’er its surges borne, The bulwark of the free.

THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET!

BY JAS. R. RANDALL.

By blue Patapsco’s billowy dash, The tyrant’s war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal’s fitful clash, And the growl of his sullen drums. We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget; There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills, There’s life in the old land yet! Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred; We crouch—’tis to welcome the triumph tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword, There’s life in the old land yet! Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind, With the clank of an iron chain, The spirit of freedom sings in the wind, O’er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane; And we, though we smite not, are not thralls, Are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry’s dungeon-walls There’s life in the old land yet! Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day, In their dear defiant hands. They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set; There’s faith in their unrelenting woes, There’s life in the old land yet! There’s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, ’Tis vocal without noise, It gushed o’er Manassas’s solemn plains, From the blood of the Maryland Boys! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat; By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies. There’s life in the old land yet!

THE MEN.

BY MAURICE BELL.

In the dusk of the forest shade A sallow and dusty group reclined; Gallops a horseman up the glade— “Where will I your leader find? Tidings I bring from the morning’s scout— I’ve borne them o’er mound, and moor, and fen.” “Well, sir, stay not hereabout, Here are only a few of ‘the men.’ “Here no collar has bar or star, No rich lacing adorns a sleeve; Further on our officers are, Let them your news receive. Higher up, on the hill up there, Overlooking this shady glen, There are their quarters—don’t stop here, We are only some of ‘the men.’ “Yet stay, courier, if you bear Tidings that the fight is near, Tell them we’re ready, and that where They wish us to be we’ll soon appear; Tell them only to let us know Where to form our ranks, and when; And we’ll teach the vaunting foe That they’ve met a few of ‘the men.’ “We’re the men, though our clothes are worn— We’re the men, though we wear no lace— We’re the men, who the foe have torn, And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace; We’re the men who have triumphed before— We’re the men who will triumph again; For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon’s roar, And the clashing bayonets—‘we’re the men.’ “Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, Of garments faded, and soiled and bare, Yet who have for the ‘stars and bars’ Praise, and homage, and dainty fare; Mock the wearers and pass them on, Refuse them kindly word, and then Know, if your freedom is ever won By human agents—these are the men!”

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY J. R. BARRICK.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Thy stars shall cheer each eye, Thy folds a sacred banner be, To all beneath our sky; From where the blue Ohio flows, Far to the sea-gulf’s stream, Borne by each gentle breath that blows, Thy hues shall flush and gleam. Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Type of a new estate, Thy folds shall wave o’er land and sea, And heart and home elate; At thy approach shall tyrants quail And despots, trembling, flee; Nor wrong thy sway of right assail— Nought mar thy liberty. Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Bright symbol of a land Wrung from the grasp of tyranny, Ere fettered heart and hand; Freedom fixed in thy firm embrace, A home for age shall find, Linking the high hopes of our race With the grand march of mind. Flag of the South! Flag of the free! The one to which we clung In years agone, hath ceased to be The pride on which we hung; Long trampled in the dust, that flag Hath lost the charm it bore; No longer vale, and glen, and crag, Swell with its praise of yore. Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Type of the Land of Flowers; Thy stars shall light our victory O’er all contending powers; Where law and order still shall reign, Thou shalt a signal be To man, that he may still attain The boon of Liberty! Glasgow, Ky.

“STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY.”

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fire bright; No matter if the canteen fails, We’ll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the brigade’s rousing song Of “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.” We see him now—the old slouched hat Cocked o’er his eye askew, The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well; Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell; Lord save his soul! we’ll give him ——” well, That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.” Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! Old Blue-Light’s going to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it’s his way. Appealing from his native sod, In forma pauperis to God— “Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod! Amen!” That’s “Stonewall’s way.” He’s in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade! Hill’s at the ford, cut off—we’ll win His way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? “Quick-step! we’re with him before dawn!” That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.” The sun’s bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and by George! Here’s Longstreet struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Yankees, whipped before; “Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar; “Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!” Is “Stonewall Jackson’s way.” Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn For news of Stonewall’s band! Ah! widow, read with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand. Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on! Thy life shall not be all forlorn. The foe had better ne’er been born That gets in “Stonewall’s way.”

GONE TO THE BATTLE-FIELD.

BY JOHN ANTROBUR.

The reaper has left the field, The mower has left the plain; And the reaper’s hook, and the mower’s scythe, Are changed to the sword again; For the voice of a hundred years ago, When Freedom struck her mightiest blow, Thrills every heart and brain. The way-side mill is still, And the wheel drips all alone, For the miller’s brother, and son, and sire, And the miller’s self have gone; And their wives and daughters, tarrying still, With smiles and tears about the mill, Wave, wave their heroes on. The grain is full and ripe, And the harvest-moon is nigh, But the farmer’s son is among the slain, And the father heard the cry; And his ancient eyes flashed fires of old, His hoary head rose strong and bold, As, wild, he hurried by. The corn is yet a-field, But many a stalk is red; Yet not with the autumn-tassel stained, But the blood of heroes shed; And their blood cries out from heaps of slain: Oh, brothers, leave the sheaves of grain; On, to the fields of the dead! By every quiet farm, Whence father and son had gone, The fairest daughters of the land, Brave-hearted, cheer us on, With the tender smiles that shelter tears, And words to thrill a soldier’s ears, When bloody fields are won. Scarcely the form of man Was seen on the long highway; But patriot age, whose withered hands Stretched feebly up to pray, And children whose voices haunt us still, Gathered on every knoll and hill, Cheering us on our way. Yonder, with feeble limbs, A matron, with silver hair, Knelt, trembling, down on the soldier’s path, And breathed to heaven a prayer, With quivering lips, with streaming eyes: “O God! preserve these gallant boys; In battle, be Thou there!” O, soldiers! such as these Like household memories come; For a thousand prayers ascend to-day From those we left at home; For the red, red field to-night may be Our couch, our grave—while Victory Shall shout above our tomb. In battle’s bloody hour These pictures shall arise, Of mothers, sisters, wives, and homes, And red and streaming eyes; And every arm shall stronger be, For home, for God, for liberty, And strike, while mercy dies. Headquarters, 9th Regt. Virginia Vols.

RE-ENLISTMENT.

BY MRS. MARGARITA J. CANEDO.

What! shall we now throw down the blade, And doff the helmet from our brows? Now see our holy cause betrayed, And recreant prove to all our vows? When first we drew these patriot swords, “A nation’s freedom!” was the cry; Our faith was pledged in these proud words, And heaven has sealed the oath on high. Since then on dear-bought battle-plains We’ve seen our martyr brethren die, While on the soil that drank those stains, Their native earth where now they lie, The foe now treads—th’ exulting foe, And desecrates the hero-graves. Say, can we peace or honor know While there the accursèd banner waves? Dear are our homes, that smile afar; Oft in the weary soldier’s dreams, While resting from the toils of war, He sees the light that round them beams. Dear are the loved and lovely maids Shrined in the patriot soldier’s heart; Yet, while the foe our land invades, In vain the longing tear may start. No! let the despot’s hireling band, Who feel not honor—know not faith, Who war not for their native land, Fly trembling from a dreaded death. Our lives are to our country pledged, Until her last red field is won; For “liberty or death” is waged The war where fights her faithful son. Then plant that flag-staff in the earth, And round it rally, every son Who loves the State that gave him birth, Till her proud sovereignty be won. What though our limbs be weak with toil, What though we bear full many a scar; Huzza! here’s to our native soil, We re-enlist, and for the war!

SOUTHLAND.

THE PRIZE SONG.[13]

They sing of the East, With its flowery feast, And clime of the North, with its mountains of snow; But give me the land Where the breezes blow bland, O’er realms of magnolia and myrtle below. The land of the South, The fair sunny South, The flower-crowned South, In its grandeur for me. Her sons are aye brave, And no chains can enslave, Though countless the hordes of their foemen may be; Ah! see, even now, As with battle-stained brow, They vanquish the Northmen on land and on sea! The land of the South, The young gallant South, The invincible South, In its valor for me. Her daughters are fair As the pure lilies there, And cheer her brave soldiers for freedom to die; Their smiles are the light Of the war-clouded night, Their tears are sweet dew-drops distilled from the sky. The land of the South, The sweet rosy South, The starry-gemmed South, In its beauty for me! In green blossomed dales, And in violet vales, And fields white with cotton, its dwellings once stood; The spoilers now seek Their vile vengeance to wreak, And darken this Eden with ashes and blood! The land of the South, The opulent South, The long-plundered South, In its richness for me! Oh, who would not stand With his life in his hand, To shield such a land from the feet of the foe? God made it thus free, And oh, perish must we, Before it can be in bondage laid low! The land of the South, The proud sovereign South, The God-shielded South, In its freedom for me!

BEYOND THE POTOMAC.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.[14]

They slept on the fields which their valor had won! But arose with the first early blush of the sun, For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, When they passed o’er the River. They rose with the sun, and caught life from his light— Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight— And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, Marching swift for the River. On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills— On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills— And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills, At the thought of the River. On! the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes, It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies, O’er the path to the River. But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore, On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before, Like the wings of Death-angels swept fast to the shore, The green shore of the River. As they march—from the hill-side, the hamlet, the stream— Gaunt throngs, whom the Foeman had manacled, teem, Like men just roused from some terrible dream, To pass o’er the River. They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair, And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, While a peal as of victory swells on the air, Rolling out to the River. And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread, Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed, And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead— Ay! press on to the River. On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills, On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills, As they pause by the River. Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn, At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, And she turned on the Foeman full statured in scorn, Pointing stern to the River. And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her breast, With her low-lying billows all bright in the west, For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest Of the fair rolling River. Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide. (Hark, Despot! and hear the wild knell of your pride, Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side Of the calm flowing River.) ’Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall, Vain! vain! to his God swells a desolate call, For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall, Since they passed o’er the River.

TRUE TO THE GRAY.

BY PEARL RIVERS.

I can not listen to your words, the land is long and wide; Go seek some happy Northern girl to be your loving bride; My brothers they were soldiers—the youngest of the three Was slain while fighting by the side of gallant Fitzhugh Lee! They left his body on the field (your side the day had won), A soldier spurn’d him with his foot—you might have been the one; My lover was a soldier—he belonged to Gordon’s band; A saber pierced his gallant heart—yours might have been the hand. He reel’d and fell, but was not dead, a horseman spurred his steed, And trampled on the dying brain—you may have done the deed: I hold no hatred in my heart, no cold, unrighteous pride, For many a gallant soldier fought upon the other side: But still I can not kiss the hand that smote my country sore, Nor love the foes who trampled down the colors that she bore; Between my heart and yours there rolls a deep and crimson tide— My brother’s and my lover’s blood forbid me be your bride. The girls who loved the boys in gray—the girls to country true— May ne’er in wedlock give their hands to those who wore the blue.

TELL THE BOYS THE WAR IS ENDED.

BY EMILY J. MOORE.

While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier, from the Eighth Arkansas Regiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro’, called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, “Tell the boys the war is ended.”

“Tell the boys the war is ended,” These were all the words he said; “Tell the boys the war is ended,” In an instant more was dead. Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful Was the smile upon his face, While the pain, of late so fearful, Had not left the slightest trace. “Tell the boys the war is ended,” And with heavenly visions bright Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, As his spirit took its flight. “Tell the boys the war is ended,” “Grant, O God, it may be so,” Was the prayer which then ascended, In a whisper deep, though low. “Tell the boys the war is ended,” And his warfare then was o’er, As by angel bands attended, He departed from earth’s shore. Bursting shells and cannons roaring Could not rouse him by their din; He to better worlds was soaring, Far from war, and pain, and sin.

BURN THE COTTON.

BY ESTELLE.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Let the solemn triumph rise; Fanned by Freedom’s breath, its white wing Spreads her banner to the skies. “Melt the bells” is but re-echoed O’er our valley’s gathered pride, Lay the cotton on the altar Where our loved have nobly died. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Does this sacrifice compare With the battle-field red flowing With the brave hearts offered there? They no more shall strike for Freedom, Never worship at her shrine— To hurl back the fell invader, To avenge them—it is thine. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Down the Mississippi’s tide Let it thunder, till its valleys Catch the echo, far and wide— Frowning in its wrath, it rises, Spreads its dark wing o’er the land, Vetoes, in its swelling fury, Gain, to lure the robber band. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Pile the white fleece high and higher, Till the heavens reflect the glory Kindled by the patriot’s fire. This shall teach the haughty foeman, Startle him too late, to find Chains were never made for freemen, Chains the Southern heart to bind. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Flaming sparks, instead of seed, Shall be sown in death and terror To the mongrel Yankee breed; And the crowns who nod attendance On the treacherous Federal’s lure, Feel too late the want and ruin, Unjust favor can not cure. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Let the record boldly stand; Not a bale for “filthy lucre”— All for Freedom to our land. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! From its ashes there shall spring Heralds of a new-born nation, Claiming still that “Cotton’s King!” Memphis, Tenn., May 16, 1862.

THE PRINTERS OF VIRGINIA TO “OLD ABE.”

BY HARRY C. TREAKLE.

Though we’re exempt, we’re not the metal To keep in when duty calls; But onward we will press, to settle This knotty case, with leaden balls; For our dear old mother State, the fount From which we each our life did take, Is locked up by a Vandal horde, And the honor of the craft’s at stake. For lean-faced Lincoln’s after us— His slim shanks moving like a scout; But long before his job is done, He’ll find that all his quads are out. For with Lee our headline—worthy guide— We, galley-slaves will never be, But still press onward by his side, For that fat take, sweet liberty! Soon Abe will find what he’s about Will cost him such a pile of rocks, Before his cherished work is out, He’ll have no sorts in any box! For his bank is now so very low, He scarce can chase up quoins to pay The hired scum, the foreign foe, Who comes to steal our rights away. And his chums now see, by his foul matter, To set clean proof he ne’er was cast, And fears are felt that the gaunt old ratter Will go broadside to hell at last, Where his friend, the devil, will welcome him, With accents sweet—to his bosom fly, Revise his foul proof-sheets once more, And knock his naked form in pi. And so to rush the base old monk along, And bring the quiet soon about, We’ll swell our lines to columns strong, And give no quarters till he’s out; For Southern jours. now take a stand, Their foremen marshaled at their head, And each with shooting-stick in hand, Resolved they will his matter lead. And while a foe is in the field, Our hands still steady, our leaders cool, Death we’ll em-brace before we’ll yield; But, by God’s help, we’ll stick and rule, And when, in after years to come, Our history’s read by youth and sage, They’ll make a side-note of “well done,” On this our volume’s brightest page. Norfolk, Va., April 4, 1862.

THE MARSEILLES HYMN.

Translated and adapted as an ode,

BY B. F. PORTER, OF ALABAMA.

Sons of the South, arise! awake! be free! Behold! the day of Southern glory comes. See where the blood-stained flag of tyranny Pollutes the air that breathes around your homes. Rise! Southern men, from villages and farms, Cry vengeance! Oh! shall worse than pirate slaves Strangle your children in their mothers’ arms, And spit on dust that fills your fathers’ graves? To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood. What would these men, whose lives black treachery stains— Conspirators, to plunder long endeared? For whom these vile, these ignominious chains— These fetters, for our brother’s hands prepared? Sons of the South, for us! Oh! bitter thought! What transports should our burning souls inspire! Shall Southern men, by mercenaries bought, Be sold to vassalage, from son to sire? To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood. What! shall this groveling race, who cringe for gold, Make laws for Southern men, on Southern soil? Shall these degenerate hordes, to avarice sold, Crush freedom’s sons, and Freedom’s altars spoil? Great God! oh! by these iron-shackled hands, Ne’er shall our necks beneath their yokes be led. Of despots such as these, shall Southern bands Ne’er own the mastery, till every heart is dead. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood. Tremble, O tyrants! and you, perfidious tools, Of every race and party long the scorn! Tremble, ye base, ye parricidal fools, The doom of treachery is already born. All Southern men are heroes in the fray; If fall they must, o’erpowered in the field, Long as the race endures, each child for aye Shall from his cradle strike the sounding shield. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood. Sons of the South! magnanimous in war, Strike or withhold, as honor bids, your blows. Spare, if you will, those victims from afar, Who, ignorant of liberty, become your foes. But for these bastards of a free-born bed, These parasites, in Freedom’s arms caressed, These beasts, by sin and spoil and rapine bred, Who dig for blood, deep in their mother’s breast, To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood. O sacred love of country! For the South, Come, brave avengers, rush to every field. Let cries of “Liberty” from every mouth Sound the alarm, till the base traitors yield. Under our glorious flag, let Victory Respond to Freedom’s call. Wipe off the stain Of the invaders’ feet. Dying, they will see Thy triumph, and the land redeemed again. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood. Nashville Gazette.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON.

BY THE EXILE.

Aye, toll! toll! toll! Toll the funeral bell! And let its mournful echoes roll From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, O’er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul That ever in battle fell. Yes, weep! weep! weep! Weep for the hero fled! For death, the greatest of soldiers, at last Has over our leader his black pall cast, And from us his noble form hath passed To the home of the mighty dead. Then toll! and weep! and mourn! Mourn the fall of the brave! For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation proud, At whose very name the enemy cowed, With the “crimson cross” for his martial shroud, Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave. His form has passed away; His voice is silent and still; No more at the head of “the old brigade,” The daring men who were never dismayed, Will he lead them to glory that never can fade— Stonewall of the Iron Will! He fell as a hero should fall; ’Mid the thunder of war he died. While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared, And the blood of the friend and foeman poured, He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword That erst was the nation’s pride. Virginia, his mother, is bowed; Her tread is heavy and slow. From all the South comes a wailing moan, And mountains and valleys re-echo the groan, For the gallant chief of her clans has flown, And a nation is filled with woe. Rest, warrior! rest! Rest in thy laureled tomb! Thy mem’ry shall live through all of earth’s years, And thy name still excite the despot’s fears, While o’er thee shall fall a nation’s tears; Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY MRS. C. D. ELDER.

Bright banner of freedom, with pride I unfold thee; Fair flag of my country, with love I behold thee, Gleaming above us, in freshness and youth, Emblem of liberty—symbol of truth; For this flag of my country in triumph shall wave O’er the Southerner’s home and the Southerner’s grave. All bright are the stars that are beaming upon us, And bold are the bars that are gleaming above us; The one shall increase in their number and light, The other grow bolder in power and might; For this flag of my country in triumph shall wave O’er the Southerner’s home or the Southerner’s grave. Those bars of bright red show our firm resolution To die, if need be, shielding thee from pollution; For man in this hour must give all he holds dear, And woman her prayers and her words of high cheer, If they wish this fair banner in triumph to wave O’er the Southerner’s home and the Southerner’s grave. To the great God of battles we look with reliance; On our fierce Northern foe with contempt and defiance; For the South shall smile on in her fragrance and bloom When the North is fast sinking in silence and gloom; For the flag of our country in triumph must wave O’er the Southerner’s home or the Southerner’s grave. New Orleans, La.

THE SOUTH.

BY CHARLIE WILDWOOD.

The bright rose of beauty, unnurtured by art, And purity’s lily doth thrive in thy heart, While honor hath crowned thee with glory’s bright ray, And Flora hath decked thee with flowers of May. Oh, beautiful South! cherished home of my birth, Thou fairest, thou loveliest land of the earth! My heart, like the ivy, still clings unto thee, Oh, beautiful, beautiful land of the free! Chorus—The South! the South! my own beautiful South! Land of chivalry! home of liberty! Fondly I love thee, dear land of the South! Dear land of the South! dear land of the South! Dear liberty, virtue, and truth, most sublime, The flowers that bloom in that sun-smiling clime, And these the base tyrant would crush to the earth, And mangle and bruise on the soil of their birth. All crimson thy land, with the life-glowing flood, And dabble his hands in thy heart’s reeking blood! But oh! by the God of the righteous and free, Bright region! it never! no, never! shall be. Like swarms of foul demons, his minions come down, And their war-rusted weapons insultingly frown, To fright thy fair fields with their bloody alarms, And rob thee, dear land, of all of thy charms. But thy free spirit still rides on the swift gale, Like the eagle that sweeps o’er the mountain and dale; And thy sons, they rush forth with the courage of men, To fight, and to bleed, and to conquer again. The tyrant, with shackles, would manacle thee— Would strangle thy spirit, dear land of the free, Would trample the banner of right in the dust, And yoke thee with iron, proud queen of the just! But the hearts of thy sons, unappalled by a fear, As their swords leap up fiercely and flame in the air, Now swear that it never! no! never! shall be, Bright queen of the lovely! sweet home of the free! Chorus—The South! the South, etc.

THE GIRLS OF THE MONUMENTAL CITY.

WRITTEN BY A CONFEDERATE PRISONER.

Daughters of the sunny South, Where Freedom loves to dwell, How rare your charms, how sweet your smiles, No mortal lips can tell; Your native hills, the rippling rills, The echo wild and free, Declare you born to hate and scorn All Northern tyranny. Girls whose smiles are all reserved, The Southern youth to bless; Whose hearts are kept for those who fight For Freedom’s happiness; Your spirits bold, so now unfold What willingly you would do, Where Yankee spirit—the tyrants might Not wield against you. For you your loving brothers rush To overthrow the invader’s might— On martial field the sword they wield, And Yankee cowards smite. May heaven bless, with bright success, Each glorious Southern son; Be this your prayer, O maidens fair! And our freedom will be won. Southern girls, on this we’ve sworn, The South must—shall be free— No Northern shackles will be worn; To them we’ll bend no knee. From hill to hill, exultant, shrill, Our battle-cry rings forth: Freedom or death on every breath, And hatred to the North. Cease not to smile, brave Southern girls, On our efforts to be free— Whilst life remains, we’ll struggle on, Till all the world shall see That those who fight for home and right Can never be enslaved; Their blood may stain the battle-plain; Our country must be saved. Baltimore, Md., March, 1862.

WAR SONG OF THE PARTISAN RANGERS.

BY BENJAMIN F. PORTER.

Air—McGregor’s Gathering.

The forests are green by the homes of the South, But the hearth-stones are red with the blood of her youth; Unfurl the black banner o’er mountain and vale, Let the war-cry of vengeance swell loud on the gale. Then gather, gather, gather, gather, gather; While there’s leaf in the forest, and foam on the river, The cry of the South shall be Vengeance Forever! Each drop of the blood of our children they’ve shed, Our foes shall atone for, in heaps of their dead; The signal for fight which our forefathers knew, Shall be heard in their midst in our vengeful halloo. Then gather, gather, etc. Thro’ their cities our horsemen, with sword and with flame, Shall carry the dread of the Southerner’s name! At the sound of our bugles their strong men shall quail, And the cheeks of their wives and their mothers turn pale. Then gather, gather, etc. They have blasted our fields, they have slaughtered our youth, And dishonored the names of the maids of the South; But the rivers shall dry, and the mountains be riven, Ere vengeance be quenched or our wrongs be forgiven. Then gather, gather, etc. Then rally from forest and rally from ford, Give their homes to the flames, and their sons to the sword; While a child shall be born in the South, let its cry Be, “Death to the Northmen, and vengeance for aye!” Greenville, Ala., Observer.

THE BAND IN THE PINES.

BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE.[15]

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! Cease with your splendid call; The living are brave and noble, But the dead were bravest of all! They throng to the martial summons, To the loud, triumphant strain; And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends Come to the heart again! They come with the ringing bugle, And the deep drum’s mellow roar; Till the soul is faint with longing For the hands we clasp no more! Oh, band in the pine-woods, cease! Or the heart will melt in tears, For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, And the voices of old years.

SONG OF OUR GLORIOUS SOUTHLAND.

BY MRS. MARY WARE.

I.

Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, The pride of the golden sun! ’Tis the fairest land of flowers The eye e’er looked upon. Sing of her orange and myrtle, That glitter like gems above; Sing of her dark-eyed maidens As fair as a dream of love. Sing of her flowing rivers— How musical their sound! Sing of her dark-green forests, The Indian hunting-ground. Sing of the noble nation, Fierce struggling to be free; Sing of the brave who barter Their lives for liberty!

II.

Weep for the maid and matron Who mourn their loved ones slain; Sigh for the light departed, Never to shine again. ’Tis the voice of Rachel weeping, That never will comfort know; ’Tis the wail of desolation, The breaking of hearts in woe!

III.

Ah! the blood of Abel crieth For vengeance from the sod! ’Tis a brother’s hand that’s lifted In the face of an angry God! Oh! brother of the Northland, We plead from our father’s grave; We strike for our homes and altars, He fought to build and save! A smoldering fire is burning, The Southern heart is steeled— Perhaps ’twill break in dying, But never will it yield.

OLD BETSY.

BY JOHN KILLUM.

Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; Better to die while “Old Betsy” is speaking Than live with arms folded the slave of the North. Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth. Oft in the wildwood “Old Bess” has relieved you, When the fierce bear was cut down in his track— If at that moment she never deceived you, Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack. Then come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; Better to die while “Old Betsy” is speaking Than live with arms folded the slave of the North.

NO SURRENDER.

Ever constant, ever true, Let the word be, No Surrender. Boldly dare and greatly do! They shall bring us safely through, No Surrender; No Surrender. And though Fortune’s smiles be few, Hope is always springing new, Still inspiring me and you, With a magic No Surrender. Nail the colors to the mast, Shouting gladly, No Surrender; Troubles near are all but past, Serve them as you did the last. No Surrender, No Surrender; Though the skies be overcast, And upon the sleety blast Disappointment gathers fast, Beat them off with No Surrender! Constant and courageous still, Mind, the word is, No Surrender; Battle, though it be up hill, Stagger not at seeming ill, No Surrender, No Surrender. Hope, and thus your hope fulfill; There’s a way where there’s a will, And the way all cares to kill Is to give them No Surrender. N. P. W.

ARM FOR THE SOUTHERN LAND.

BY GEN. MIRABEAU B. LAMAR.

Arm for the Southern Land, All fear of death disdaining; Low lay the tyrant band, Our sacred rights profaning! Each hero draws in Freedom’s cause, And meets the foe with bravery; The servile race, and Tory base, May safety seek in slavery. Chains for the dastard knave— Recreant limbs should wear them; But blessings on the brave Whose valor will not bear them! Stand by your injured State, And let no feuds divide you; On tyrants pour your hate, And common vengeance guide you. Our foes should feel proud freemen’s steel, For freemen’s rights contending; Where’er they die, there let them lie, To dust in scorn descending. Thus may each traitor fall Who dare as foe invade us; Eternal fame to all Who shall in battle aid us! Proud land! shall she invoke Another’s hand to right her? No! her own avenging stroke Shall backward roll the smiter. Ye tyrant band, with ropes of sand Go bind the rushing river; More weak and vain your cursèd chain, While God is freedom’s giver. Then welcome to the day We meet the proud oppressor, For God will be our stay, Our right hand and redresser.

THINKING OF THE SOLDIERS.

We were sitting around the table, Just a night or two ago, In the little cozy parlor, With the lamp-light burning low, And the window-blinds half opened, For the summer air to come, And the painted curtains moving Like a busy pendulum. Oh! the cushions on the sofa, And the pictures on the wall, And the gathering of comforts, In the old familiar hall; And the wagging of the pointer, Lounging idly by the door, And the flitting of the shadows From the ceiling to the floor. Oh! they wakened in my spirit, Like the beautiful in art, Such a busy, busy thinking— Such a dreaminess of heart, That I sat among the shadows, With my spirit all astray; Thinking only—thinking only Of the soldiers far away; Of the tents beneath the moonlight, Of the stirring tattoo’s sound, Of the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the ground; Of the icy winter coming, Of the cold bleak winds that blow, And the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the snow. Of the blight upon the heather, And the frost upon the hill, And the whistling, whistling ever, And the never, never still; Of the little leaflets falling, With the sweetest, saddest sound— And the soldier—oh! the soldier, In his blanket on the ground. Thus I lingered in my dreaming, In my dreaming far away, Till the spirit’s picture-painting Seemed as vivid as the day; And the moonlight faded softly From the window opened wide, And the faithful, faithful pointer Nestled closer by my side. And I knew that ’neath the starlight, Though the chilly frosts may fall, That the soldier will be dreaming, Dreaming often of us all. So I gave my spirit’s painting Just the breathing of a sound, For the dreaming, dreaming soldier, In his slumber on the ground. November 24, 1861.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

BY JAMES A. MECKLIN.

Gather round him where he’s lying, Hush your footsteps, whisper low, For a soldier here is dying, In the sunset’s radiant glow. Beating, beating, slowly beating, Runs the life-blood through his frame; Swift the soldier’s breath is fleeting, And he calls his mother’s name: “Mother, mother, come and kiss me, Ere my spirit fades away, For I know you oft will miss me, When you watch the sinking day. “Brother, sister, nearer, nearer! Place, oh, place your hands in mine, You whose love than life was dearer, Let your arms around me twine. “Father, see the sun is fading From the hill-tops of the west, And the valley night is shading— Farewell, loved ones, I’m at rest.” Dying, dying! yes, he’s dying! Close the eyelids, let him rest; No more sorrow, no more sighing, E’er again shall heave his breast. Sleeping, sleeping, calmly sleeping, In the church-yard cold and drear, And the wintry winds are heaping O’er him leaflets brown and sear. And he’s resting, where forever Clang of trumpet, roll of drum, Roar of cannon, never, never, Never more to him shall come.

PENSACOLA: TO MY SON.

BY M. S.

Beautiful the land may be, Its groves of palm, its laurel-trees, And o’er the smiling, murm’ring sea, Soft may blow the Southern breeze— And land, and sea, and balmy air, May make a home of beauty there. And bright beneath Floridian sky, The world to thy young fancy seems: I see the light that fills thine eye, I know what spirit rules thy dreams; But flower-gemmed shore and rippling sea Are darker than the grave to me; For storms are lowering in that sky, And sad may be that fair land’s doom; Full soon, perhaps, the battle-cry May wake the cannon’s fearful boom, And shot and shell from o’er the waves May plow the rose’s bed for graves. And we, whose dear ones cluster there, We, mothers, who have let them go— Our all, perhaps—how shall we bear That which another week may show? The love which made our lives, all gone, Our hearts left desolate and lone! Country! what to me that name, Should I in vain demand my son? Glory! what a nation’s fame? Home! home, without thee, I have none; Ah! stay—this Southern land not mine? The land that e’en in death is thine! A country’s laurel-wreath for thee, A hero’s grave—my own! my own! And neither land nor home for me, Because a mother’s hope is gone? Traitor I am! God’s laws command That, next to Heaven, our Native Land! And I will not retract—ah! no— What, in my pride of home, I said, That, “I would give my son to go Where’er our Hero Ruler led!” The mother’s heart may burst—but still, Make it, O God, to know Thy will. New Orleans, La.

THE VOLUNTEERS TO THE “MELISH.”

BY WM. C. ESTRES.

Come forth, ye gallant heroes, Rub up each rusty gun, And face these hireling Yankees, Who live by tap of drum. We Volunteers are wearied, By a twelve months’ “sojourn”; We want to rest a little, And then we’ll fight “again.” We’ve won some five pitched battles, But will yield you our “posish”; And if you want some glory, Why pitch in now, “Melish.” Don’t refuse to leave your spouses; Our own are just as dear, And each lonely little woman Longs for her Volunteer. Don’t mind your sobbing sweethearts; For though ’tis hard to part, We’ll volunteer to cheer ’em, And console each troubled heart. For the sake of old Virginia, Come and fight! that’s if you can, And let your prattling babies Know their daddy was a man. For you we’ve fought and struggled; Had “no furloughs”—nary one— We want a little resting, And so we’re coming home. Then forward, bold Militia! “If you’re coming, come along,” Or, by the gods! we’ll force you out To your duty—right or wrong.

THE TURTLE.

Cæsar, afloat with his fortunes! And all the world agog, Straining its eyes At a thing that lies In the water, like a log! It’s a weasel! a whale! I see its tail! It’s a porpoise! a polywog! Tarnation! it’s a turtle! And blast my bones and skin, My hearties, sink her, Or else you’ll think her A regular terror—pin! The frigate poured a broadside! The bombs they whistled well, But—hit old Nick With a sugar stick! It didn’t phase her shell! Piff, from the creature’s larboard— And dipping along the water A bullet hissed From a wreath of mist Into a Doodle’s quarter! Raff, from the creature’s starboard— Rip, from his ugly snorter, And the Congress and The Cumberland Sunk, and nothing—shorter. Now, here’s to you, Virginia, And you are bound to win! By your rate of bobbing round And your way of pitchin’ in— For you are a cross Of the old sea-horse And a regular terror—pin.

JACKSON.

BY HENRY L. FLASH.

Not ’midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the Great Leader low. His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke, In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause, went down. Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recording all his grand, heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, And all the country bleeds. He entered not the Nation’s Promised Land At the red belching of the cannon’s mouth; But broke the House of Bondage with his hand— The Moses of the South! O gracious God! not gainless is the loss: A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; And while his country staggers with the cross, He rises with the crown!

SONG OF THE PRIVATEER.

BY ALEX H. CUMMINS.

Fearlessly the seas we roam, Tossed by each briny wave; Its boundless surface is our home, Its bosom deep our grave. No foreign mandate fills with awe Our gallant-hearted band; We know no home, we know no law, But that of Dixie’s land. The bright star is our compass true, Our chart the ocean wide; Our only hope the noble few That’s standing side by side. We do not fear the stormy gale That sweeps old ocean’s strand; We scorn our enemy’s clumsy sail, And all for Dixie’s land. We love to hoist to the topmost peak Our Southern Stars and Stripes; And woe to him who dares to seek To trample on their rights! It is the ægis of the free, And by it we will stand, And watch it waving o’er the sea, And over Dixie’s land. We love to roam the deep, deep sea, And hear the cannon’s boom, And give the war-cry wild and free Amid the battle’s gloom. We do not fight alone for gain, So far from native strand; But our country’s freedom and its fame, And the fair of Dixie’s land.

NO UNION MEN.

BY MILLIE MAYFIELD.

“On the 21st, five of the enemy’s steamers approached Washington, N. C., and landed a hundred Yankees, who marched through the town, playing ‘Yankee Doodle,’ hoisted their flag on the court-house, and destroyed gun-carriages and an unfinished gun-boat in the ship-yard. The people preserved a sullen and unresisting silence. The Yankees then left, saying they were disappointed in not finding Union men.”—Telegram from Charleston, March 29, 1862.

“Union men!” O thrice-fooled fools! As well might ye hope to bind The desert sands with a silken thread, When tossed by the whistling wind, Or to blend the shattered waves that lash The feet of the cleaving rock, When the tempest walks the face of the deep, And the water-spirits mock, As the severed chain to reunite In a peaceful link again; On our burning homesteads ye may write, “We found no Union men.” Aye, hoist your old dishonored flag, And pipe your worn-out tune; The hills of the South have caught the strain, And will answer it full soon; Not with the sycophantic tone, And the cringing knee bent low— The deep-mouthed cannon shall bear the tale, Where the sword deals blow for blow; Our braying trumpets in your ears, Shall defiant shout again, “Back, wolves and foxes, to your lairs, Here are no Union men!” Union, with tastes dissimilar? Such Union is the worst And direst form of bondage that Nations or men have cursed! Union with traitors? Hear ye not That cry for vengeance, deep, Where hand to hand, and foot to foot, Our glittering columns sweep? Our iron-tongued artillery Shouts through the bristling glen, To the war-drum echoing reveillé, “Here are no Union men!” Oh, deep have sunken the burning seeds That the wingèd winds have borne, That for all your future years must yield The thistle and prison-thorn; Our soil was genial—ye might have sown A harvest rich. ’Tis too late! To our children’s children we leave for you But a heritage of Hate! Ye have opened the wild flood-gates of war, And we may not the torrent pen; But ye seek in vain on our storm-beat shore For the myth called ”Union Men.“

HARP OF THE SOUTH.

A SONNET. BY “CORA.”

Harp of the South, awake! A loftier strain Than ever yet thy tuneful strings has stirred, Awaits thee now. The Eastern world has heard The thunder of the battle ’cross the main— Has seen the young South burst the tyrant’s chain, And rise to being at a single word— The watchword, Liberty—so long transferred To the oppressor’s mouth. Moons wax and wane, And still the nations stand with listening ear, And still o’er ocean floats the battle-cry. Harp of the South, awake, and bid them hear The name of Jackson; loud, and clear, and high, Strike notes exultant, o’er the hero’s bier, Who, though he sleeps in dust, can never die.

WHAT THE SPIRITS OF THE FATHERS OF THE FIRST REVOLUTION SAY TO THEIR SONS NOW ENGAGED IN THE SECOND.

BY HENRY LOMAS.

We are watching that land where Liberty woke— Like beams of the morning through darkness it broke— Then up from the mountain the bold eagle sprung, And wide to the breeze his broad pinions flung. Rise! rise! ye sons of the South and be free! The mighty have fallen, yet death can not chill, Those noble emotions the soul ever thrill; The grave hath no confines the spirit to hold, While back to its kindred it flies to unfold Truth! Truth! safeguard of the South and the free. Shall Washington rest, while a wail of discord Reminds him the North is forgetting the Lord? Will hero and statesman—the country’s bright light— Look down without pity from yonder far height, On this Land of Hope, for the brave and the free? That same noble spirit now watches above, With thousands of others, to guide and guard you with love; For here, true, earnest, and brave men are found, With hearts uncorrupted, to their native land bound. Awake! awake! O ye sons of the South, and be free! Down with the hireling that seeks now to rend The homes which your ancestors fought to defend; Rekindle the beacon ere the last spark is fled, And light up the camp-fires round Liberty’s bed! Ye sons of the sunny South, strike to be free! Fear not the Northern despot, or his feeble frown, Who seeks, through his minions, the South to put down; Look to your God, from whence comes all power, And seek His aid and protection in each darkened hour. Strike again and again, O ye sons of the free! Carolina’s sons to this platform have come— Protection to Liberty, to fireside, and home— Their watch-word to-day, as their Fathers’ of old, Truth, Justice, and Freedom, before Northern gold. Ye are the sons of the Fathers who bled to be free! Then loud ring the anvil, the hammer, and bell; The South her new anthem, say what does it tell? Cotton, Grain, and Sugar, have proved threefold cord— Columbia, the envied, the blest of the Lord! Sun of the sunny land, shine still o’er the free! On heaven’s fair arches, see graven the names Of patriot and soldier, who drained life’s pure veins; Then down with the Northern despot, let him hide his head, Who by heartless oppression would sever one thread Of this Southern Confederacy, the hope of the free! Once again at the altar, brothers, gather and kneel; Our pledge, the South—one family, in woe or in weal; One God and one Country—in peace or in war; The South, Free, United, and Truth the pole-star Of this sunny land, which for ye must be free!

HEART-VICTORIES.

BY A SOLDIER’S WIFE.

There’s not a stately hall, There’s not a cottage fair, That proudly stands on Southern soil, Or softly nestles there, But in its peaceful walls, With wealth or comfort blest, A stormy battle fierce hath raged In gentle woman’s breast. There Love, the true, the brave, The beautiful, the strong, Wrestles with Duty, gaunt and stern, Wrestles and struggles long; He falls—no more again His giant foe to meet; Bleeding at every opening vein, Love falls at Duty’s feet. Oh! daughter of the South! No victor’s crown be thine; Not thine, upon the tented field, In martial pomp to shine; But, with unfaltering trust In Him who rules on high, To deck thy loved ones for the fray, And send them forth to die. With wildly throbbing heart— With faint and trembling breath— The maiden speeds her lover on, To victory or death; Forth from caressing arms, The mother sends her son, And bids him nobly battle on, Till the last field is won. While she, the tried, the true, The loving wife of years, Chokes down the rising agony, Drives back the starting tears: “I yield thee up,” she cries, “In the country’s cause to fight; Strike for our own, our children’s home, And God defend the right.” Oh! daughter of the South, When our fair land is free, When peace her lovely mantle throws Softly o’er land and sea, History shall tell, how thou Hast nobly borne thy part, And won the proudest triumphs yet— The victories of the heart.

SEVENTY-SIX AND SIXTY-ONE.

BY JOHN W. OVERALL.

Ye spirits of the glorious dead! Ye watchers in the sky! Who sought the patriot’s crimson bed, With holy trust and high— Come, lend your inspiration now, Come, fire each Southern son, Who nobly fights for freemen’s rights, And shouts for sixty-one. Come, teach them how on hill, on glade, Quick leaping from your side, The lightning flash of sabers made A red and flowing tide; How well ye fought, how bravely fell, Beneath our burning sun, And let the lyre, in strains of fire, So speak of sixty-one. There’s many a grave in all the land, And many a crucifix, Which tells how that heroic band Stood firm in seventy-six— Ye heroes of the deathless past, Your glorious race is run, But from your dust springs freemen’s trust, And blows for sixty-one. We build our altars where you lie, On many a verdant sod, With sabers pointing to the sky, And sanctified of God; The smoke shall rise from every pile, Till Freedom’s cause is won, And every mouth throughout the South Shall shout for sixty-one!

KENTUCKY.

BY ESTELLE.

“Just send for us Kentucky boys, And we’ll protect you, ladies.”—Old Song.

Then, leave us not, Kentucky boys, Though thick upon thy border, The vulture flaps his restless wing, And scowls the dark marauder. Kentucky blood is just as proud, Kentucky powder ready, Kentucky hearts are just as brave, Kentucky nerve as steady, As when the flag we once revered, Unfolded o’er her proudly, And for the South, Kentucky’s voice, Undaunted, echoed loudly. The lion-hearted hero then, Who led that gallant number, Must surely feel a sad unrest Disturb his death-cold slumber. And one whose sire, on history’s page, Is blent in proudest story, Fell on a Southern field, and bathed His dying brow in glory. Fell, overcome by savage foes, Yet still their rage defying; “These, give my father,” cried the son, “And tell him how I’m dying.” But now that flag is vilely stained, Its sacred rights invaded— Wrong and dishonor wield the staff; Its glory’s sadly shaded. And when we would its dying spark Snatch from the blackening ashes, And worship once again its light, As through the world it flashes, Kentucky leans upon her arms, And coldly looks about her, Till hirelings, at her very door, Dare threaten, and to flout her. Desert us now, Kentucky boys, And on the future dawning, Thy faded glory scarce will streak The first gray light of morning. Heed not the starveling crew, who hang Upon the blue Ohio, A craven heart each traitor bears, And dare not venture nigher. And should they—know ye not the blood Within our full hearts beaming?— At once ten thousand scabbards fly, Ten thousand blades are gleaming! Then, waken from thy nerveless sleep, Gird on thy well-tried armor, And soon the braggart North will feel That Right has strength to harm her. Kentucky boys and girls have we— From us ye may not take them; Sad-hearted will ye give them up, And for the foe forsake them? Oh, Tennessee, twin-sister, grieves, To take thy hand at parting, And feel that from its farewell grasp A brother’s blood is starting. It must not be! Kentucky, come! Virginia loudly calls thee; And Maryland defenseless stands, To share what fate befalls thee. Come ere the tyrant’s chain is forged, From out the war-cloud looming; Come ere thy palsied knee is bent, To hopeless ruin dooming.

A POEM WHICH NEEDS NO DEDICATION.

BY JAMES BARRON HOPE.

What! you hold yourselves as freemen? Tyrants love just such as ye! Go! abate your lofty manner! Write upon the State’s old banner, “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” Sink before the Federal altars, Each one, low on bended knee; Pray, with lips that sob and falter, This prayer from a coward’s Psalter: “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” But you hold that quick repentance In the Northern mind will be; This repentance comes no sooner Than the robber’s did at Luna.[16] “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” He repented him; the Bishop Gave him absolution free— Poured upon him sacred chrism In the pomp of his baptism “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” He repented; then, he sickened— Was he pining for the sea? In extremis he was shriven, The Viaticum was given; “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” Then the old cathedral’s choir Took the plaintive minor key, With the Host upraised before him, Down the marble aisle they bore him, “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” And the Bishop, and the Abbot, And the monks of high degree, Chanting praise to the Madonna, Came to do him Christian honor. “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” Now, the Miserere’s cadence Takes the voices of the sea;— As the music-billows quiver See the dead freebooter shiver! “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” Is it that those intonations Thrill him thus from head to knee? So! his cerements burst asunder! ’Tis a sight of fear and wonder! “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” Fierce he stands before the Bishop— Dark as shape of Destinie! Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling! Down the prelate goes, dead—falling; “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” Hasting lives! He was but feigning! What! Repentant? Never he! Down he smites the priests and friars, And the city lights with fires. “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” Ah! the children and the maidens, ’Tis in vain they strive to flee! Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding Is no place for tearful pleading. “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine?” Louder swells the frightful tumult; Pallid Death holds reverie; Dies the organ’s mighty clamor, By the Norseman’s iron hammer. “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” And they thought that he repented! Had they nailed him to a tree, He had not deserved their pity, And—they had not lost their city. “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!” There’s a moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be: If we trust the North’s relenting, We will shriek, too late, repenting, “A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!”