Front matter (continued 3)

GOD SAVE THE SOUTH.

BY REUBEN NASON.

God bless our Southern land! Guard our beloved land! God save the South! Make us victorious, Happy and glorious; Spread Thy shield over us; God save the South! God of our sires, arise! Scatter our enemies, Who mock Thy truth; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks: In Thee our faith we fix; God save the South! In the fierce battle-hour, With Thine almighty power, Assist our youth; May they, with victory crowned, Joining our choral round, With heart and voice resound, “God save the South!”

ON! SOUTHRON, ON!

BY GEN. M. B. LAMAR.

On! Southron, on! Your flag’s unfurled ’Mid clashing steel, and death-shot hurled, And war’s dark storm-cloud, swiftly whirled, Your country calls. On! Southron, on! Strike! Southron, strike! The foeman’s trail Is marked with blood and flame alike; And woman’s shriek, and infant’s wail, Show that he wars upon the frail A war of hate. Strike! Southron, strike! Can manhood fly, And, recreant, brave The silent scorn, the averted eye— Decked in its chains—a cringing slave? No! rather seek a soldier’s grave, And show the tyrant how to die. Then, Southron, on! By all that’s dear, By feeble age, and childhood’s dawn, By mother’s love, and maiden’s prayer, The brother’s blood, the sister’s tear— One glance to Heaven, then, Southron, on!

CIVILE BELLUM.

“In this fearful struggle between North and South there are hundreds of cases in which fathers are arrayed against sons, brothers against brothers.”—American paper.

“Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot, That shines on his breast like an amulet!” “Ah! Captain, here goes for a fine-drawn bead; There’s music around, when my barrel’s in tune.” Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. “Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch, That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud.” “O Captain! I staggered and sunk in my track, When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette, For he looked so like you as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me and masters me yet. “But I snatched off the trinket—this locket of gold— An inch from the center my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.” “Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket—’tis she: My brother’s young bride—and the fallen dragoon Was her husband—hush! soldier, ’twas heaven’s decree; We must bury him there by the light of the moon! “But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; War is a virtue—weakness a sin; There’s a lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!” From the once United States. London Once a Week.

“FOLLOW, BOYS! FOLLOW!”

BY MILLIE MAYFIELD.

Follow, brave boys, follow! ’Tis the roll-call of the drum, And the bright steel’s ringing music, With its spirit-stirring hum— ’Tis the tramp of armèd columns, Brazen fronted, drawing near, And the rattle of the sabers In the scabbards, that ye hear; Follow, follow, ’tis the van, boys, So bravely leading on; Follow, follow, to a man, boys, There’s glory to be won! Follow, follow, saith the mother— Follow, follow, saith the wife— Though ye’re dear as our hearts’ blood, More precious, far than life; But we would not have ye linger While the hated foeman stands Beside our sacred hearth-stones, And desecrates our lands! We’ll forgive the starting tear, boys, ’Tis the jewel of the heart, That ye may not blush to wear, boys, When from loved ones thus ye part. There’s not a Southern matron But in her bosom wears The iron Key of Firmness That locketh up her fears; While ye buckle on your armor, She will bid ye safe “God-speed,” And bear her cross all bravely For her precious country’s need! When our women have such souls, boys, Ye must never flinch or quail— While the storm of battle rolls, boys, Ne’er strike the straining sail! Our lives are dearly purchased, When bondage is the price; And what is home, where freedom Withers ’neath the tyrant’s vice? Better the earthy pillow, Better the gory bier, Where the true-hearted ever Will drop the burning tear; For think, if ye should fall, boys, Ye have not lived in vain— On the brave soldier’s pall, boys, None ever put a stain! Fling out our glorious banner Upon the golden air— Swear by its stars, Dishonor Shall leave no footprint there! That ye’ll plant its broad bars firmly, As a barrier to the foe, From the blue Gulf to the Border, From the Sea to Mexico! The Southern sky’s a-flame, boys, Where our stately cities burn, But, as monuments of fame, boys, Their ashes we’ll in-urn! Oh! inch by inch, repel him, The foul invading foe! Let the sharp saber tell him How despots are laid low! And history’s burning pencil Will, on her golden page, Your hero name enamel An honor to the age! One blow, and we are free, boys, Strike firmly, and ’tis done! On, on, to Tennessee, boys, Oh! follow bravely on!

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE.

BY FATHER A. J. RYAN.

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o’er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to victory. Out of its scabbard, where, full long, It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle’s song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee. Forth from its scabbard, high in air, Beneath Virginia’s sky— And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led they would dare To follow—and to die! Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee! Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee. Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; ’Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully.

BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.

Dedicated with respect and admiration to Major-General Earl Van Dorn.

For sixty days and upwards A storm of shell and shot Rained round as in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not! “If the noble city perish,” Our grand young leader said, “Let the only walls the foe shall scale Be ramparts of the dead!” For sixty days and upwards The eye of heaven waxed dim, And even throughout God’s holy morn, O’er Christian’s prayer and hymn, Arose a hissing tumult, As if the fiends of air Strove to engulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair. There was wailing in the houses, There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, ’Mid the silent thrill of hearts; But the Lord, our shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped, Our very women walked the streets, With scarce one throb of dread. And the little children gamboled— Their faces purely raised, Just for a wondering moment, As the huge bombs whirled and blazed! Then turning with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought, That the good God watched above.[17] Yet the hailing bolts fell faster From scores of flame-clad ships, And above us denser, darker, Grew the conflict’s wild eclipse, Till a solid cloud closed o’er us, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire. But the unseen hands of angels These death-shafts warned aside, And the dove of heavenly mercy Ruled o’er the battle tide; In the houses ceased the wailing, And through the war-scarred marts The people strode with the step of hope To the music in their hearts. Columbia, S. C., August 6, 1862.

“THE YANKEE DEVIL.”

BY W. P. RIVERS.

The “Nondescript,” or “Yankee Devil,” for clearing the harbor, was washed ashore on yesterday at Morris Island, and is now in our possession. It is described as an old scow-like vessel, painted red, with a long protruding beak, and jutting iron prongs and claws, intended for the removal of torpedoes. It was attached to the Passaic, and managed by her during the engagement.—Charleston Courier.

The enemy are waiting for a new machine (“Devil”) to remove the torpedoes in the harbor, and to have everything in readiness before the attack.—Same paper.

Hurrah! hurrah! good news and true, Our woes will soon be past; To Charleston, boys, all praise be due, The devil’s caught at last. He’s caught, he’s dead, and met his fate On Morris Island’s sands; His carcass lies in solemn state, The spoil of Rebel hands. Hurrah! hurrah! let Dixie cheer! What may not Charleston do! The devil’s caught at last, we hear; A Yankee devil, too! The blackest, bluest from below, The prince of all is he, Who leads the Yankees where they go, On land, or on the sea. The news is true, all doubt dispel, All grief and fears be o’er! The chiefest from perdition’s well Lies on a Southern shore. On South Carolina’s beach he lies— His majesty ashore! Ah! well we know that devil dies Who enters at that door. His name and hue, and shape and size, Identify the beast; ’Tis he—the father of all lies, Of devils not the least. Scow-like across the deep he came, Blood-red his iron sides; With beak, and claws, and fins of flame To plow the vernal tides. Like serpents which Minerva sent To crush the Trojan sire, So Northern devils come to vent On Charleston blood and fire. But Neptune ne’er decreed the fate Of Laocoön’s dear sons, To gratify the Yankees’ hate On Charleston’s dearer ones. They’ll never bear one fatal hour The Northern serpent’s coil, Nor feel the Yankee devil’s power Who come to crush and spoil. The “Nondescript,” name chosen well; The “Northern Devil,” aye! A fiend, a ghoul, a spirit fell! Who may describe it—say? Foul, artful, bloody, false, insane, This Northern ghote[18] of sin; The heathen hells could ne’er contain A darker power within. But now, hurrah, the devil’s dead! High, dry upon the shore! Rebellion still may rear its head, The war will soon be o’er. Hold, not so fast, abate your cheer, The battle is not won; Another devil comes, we hear, Before the work is done. Alas! when will this warfare end? Not till all Yankee foes are dead; For nondescript is each—or fiend— His soul with murder red. Cave Springs, Ga., April 11, 1863.

THE BOY-SOLDIER.

BY A LADY OF SAVANNAH.

He is acting o’er the battle, With his cap and feather gay, Singing out his soldier prattle, In a mockish, manly way— With the boldest, bravest footstep, Treading firmly up and down, And his banner waving softly O’er his boyish locks of brown. And I sit beside him sewing, With a busy heart and hand, For the gallant soldiers going To the far-off battle-land; And I gaze upon my jewel, In his baby-spirit bold, My little blue-eyed soldier, Just a second summer old. Still a deep, deep well of feeling, In my mother’s heart is stirred, And the tears come softly stealing At each imitative word. There’s a struggle in my bosom, For I love my darling boy— He’s the gladness of my spirit, He’s the sunlight of my joy! Yet I think upon my country, And my spirit groweth bold, Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old! I would speed him to the battle, I would arm him for the fight, I would give him to his country, For his country’s wrong and right! I would nerve his hand with blessing, From the “God of Battles” won; With His helmet and His armor, I would cover o’er my son. Oh! I know there’d be a struggle, For I love my darling boy; He’s the gladness of my spirit, He’s the sunlight of my joy! Yet in thinking of my country, Oh! my spirit groweth bold; And I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old.

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

Sic Jurat.

The knightliest of the knightly race, Who, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band Who rarely hated ease, Who rode with Smith around the land And Raleigh round the seas! Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Amid embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of many homes With loveliness and worth! We thought they slept! the sons who kept The names of noble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires! But still the Golden Horseshoe knights, Their Old Dominion keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep. Torch Hall, Ga.

C. S. A.

BY FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN.

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who, living, were true and tried for us, And, dying, sleep side by side for us; The martyr band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us? Ah! fearless on many a day for us, They stood in the front of the fray for us, And held the foeman at bay for us; And tears should fall Fore’er o’er all Who fell while wearing the gray for us. How many a glorious name for us, How many a story of fame for us They left: Would it not be a blame for us If their memories part From our land and heart, And a wrong to them, and a shame for us? No, no, no! they were brave for us, And bright were the lives they gave for us; The land they struggled to save for us Will not forget Its warriors yet Who sleep in so many a grave for us. On many and many a plain for us Their blood poured down all in vain for us, Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; They bleed—we weep, We live—they sleep, “All lost,” the only refrain for us. But their memories e’er shall remain for us, And their names, bright names, without stain for us; The glory they won shall not wane for us, In legend and lay Our heroes in gray Shall forever live over again for us.

THE SWEET SOUTH.

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

O the sweet South! the sunny, sunny South! Land of true feeling, land forever mine! I drink the kisses of her rosy mouth, And my heart swells as with a draught of wine; She brings me blessings of maternal love; I have her smile which hallows all my toil; Her voice persuades, her generous smiles approve, She sings me from the sky and from the soil! O, by her lonely pines that wave and sigh! O, by her myriad flowers, that bloom and fade, By all the thousand beauties of her sky, And the sweet solace of her forest shade, She’s mine—she’s ever mine— Nor will I aught resign Of what she gives me, mortal or divine; Will sooner part With life, hope, heart— Will die—before I fly! O, love is hers—such love as ever glows In souls where leap affection’s living tide; She is all fondness to her friends; to foes She glows a thing of passion, strength, and pride; She feels no tremors when the danger’s nigh, But the fight over and the victory won, How, with strange fondness, turns her loving eye In tearful welcome on each gallant son! O! by her virtues of the cherished past— By all her hopes of what the future brings— I glory that my lot with her is cast, And my soul flushes and exulting sings; She’s mine—she’s ever mine— For her will I resign All precious things—all placed upon her shrine; Will freely part With life, hope, heart— Will die—do aught but fly!

THE SOUTHERN CROSS.[19]

BY MRS. ELLEN KEY BLUNT.

In the name of God! Amen! Stand for our Southern rights! Arm, ye Southern men, The God of Battle fights! Fling the invaders far, Hurl back their work of woe, The voice is the voice of a brother, But the hands are the hands of a foe. They come with a trampling army, Invading our native sod— Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer! In the name of the Mighty God! They’re singing our song of triumph[20] Which was made to make us free, While they’re breaking away the heartstrings Of our nation’s harmony. Sadly it floateth from us, Sighing o’er land and wave, Till mute on the lips of the poet, It sleeps in his Southern grave. Spirit and song departed! Minstrel and minstrelsy! We mourn thee, heavy-hearted, But we will, we shall be free! They are waving our flag above us, With a despot’s tyrant will; With our blood they have stained its colors, And call it holy still. With tearful eyes, but steady hand, We’ll tear its stripes apart, And fling them like broken fetters, That may not bind the heart; But we’ll save our stars of glory, In the might of the sacred sign Of Him who has fixed forever Our Southern Cross to shine. Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer! Solemn and strong and sure! The strife shall not be longer Than God shall bid endure. By the life which only yesterday Came with the infant’s breath, By the feet which ere the morn may Tread to the soldier’s death! By the blood which cries to Heaven! Crimson upon our sod! Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer! In the name of the Mighty God! Paris, 1862.

PATRIOTISM.

The holy fire that nerved the Greek To make his stand at Marathon, Until the last red foeman’s shriek Proclaimed that Freedom’s fight was won, Still lives unquenched—unquenchable! Through every age its fires will burn— Lives in the hermit’s lonely cell, And springs from every storied urn! The hearthstone embers hold the spark Where fell Oppression’s foot hath trod; Through Superstition’s shadow dark It flashes to the living God! From Moscow’s ashes spring the Russ; In Warsaw Poland lives again; Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus, Strikes Liberty’s electric chain! Tell’s freedom-beacon lights the Swiss; Vainly the invader ever strives; He finds “Sic Semper Tyrannis” In San Jacinto’s bowie-knives! Than these—than all—a holier fire Now burns thy soul, Virginia’s son! Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire; Strike for the grave of Washington! The Northern rabble aims for greed; The hireling parson goads the train— In that foul crop from bigot seed, Old “Praise God Barebones” howls again! We welcome them to “Southern lands”— We welcome them to “Southern slaves”— We welcome them “with bloody hands To hospitable Southern graves!”

SONG FOR THE MARYLAND LINE.

BY J. D. M’CABE, JR.

By old Potomac’s rushing tide Our bayonets are gleaming; And o’er the bounding waters wide We gaze while tears are streaming. The distant hills of Maryland Rise sadly up before us, And tyrant bands have chained our land— Our mother, proud, that bore us. Our proud old mother’s queenly head Is bowed in subjugation; With her children’s blood her soil is red, And fiends in exultation Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, While her heart is torn with anguish; Old mother, on famed Manassas’s plains Our vengeance did not languish! We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, ’Mid shot and shell appalling; We heard your voice as it upward gushed From the Maryland life-blood falling. No pity we knew! Did they mercy show When they bound the mother that bore us? But we scattered death ’mid the dastard foe, Till they, shrieking, fled before us! We mourn for our brothers brave, that fell On that field, so stern and gory; But their spirits rose with our triumph-yell To the heavenly realms of glory. And their bodies rest on the hard-won field— By their love so true and tender; We’ll keep the prize they would not yield, We’ll die, but we’ll not surrender. And, mother, we wait but the signal-blast, To rush to redeem thy glory; We may fall, but our conquering dust shall rest On thy soil, so famed in story. The tyrant’s flag shall no longer shine, Thy liberty to smother, When the word is passed to the Maryland Line, To strike for their loved old mother.

CONFEDERATE LAND.

BY H. H. STRAWBRIDGE.

States of the South! Confederate land! Our foe has come—the hour is nigh; His bale-fires rise on every hand— Rise as one man, to do or die! From mountain, vale, and prairie wide, From forest vast, and field, and glen, And crowded city, pour thy tide, Oh! fervid South! of patriot men. Up! old and young; the weak, be strong! Rise for the right—hurl back the wrong, And foot to foot, and hand to hand, Strike for our own Confederate land! Make every house, and rock, and tree, And hill, your forts; and fen and flood Yield not! our soil shall rather be One waste of flame, one sea of blood! Fear not their steel, but fear their gold— Not Yankee force, but Yankee fraud; Trust not the race—as false as cold— Whose very prayers are lies to God. Up! old and young, etc. Armed, or unarmed, stand fearless forth, Sons of the South! stand, wife and maid! Against the foul insidious North, Our babes shall wield the battle-blade! On! though perennial be the strife, For honor dear, for hearth-stone fire; Give blow for blow! take life for life! “Strike! till the last armed foe expire!” Up! old and young, etc.

THE BANNER SONG.

BY JAMES B. MARSHALL.

Up, up with the banner, the foe is before us, His bayonets bristle, his sword is unsheathed, Charge, charge on his line with harmonious chorus, For the prayers go with us that beauty has breathed. He fights for the power of despot and plunder, While we are defending our altars and homes; He has riven the firmly-knit Union asunder, And to bind it with Tyranny’s fetters he comes. Like the prophet Mokanna, whose veil so resplendent, His monstrous deformity closely concealed, Duplicity marks Lincoln’s course, and dependent On falsehood is every fair promise revealed. When that veil shall be raised, Freedom’s last feast be taken, A banquet to which all his followers will crowd; Oh, horror of horrors! who can view it unshaken? Without sense they will sit all in suppliance bowed! We do not forget that they once were our brothers, That we sat in our boyhood around the same board, That our heart’s best idolatry blest the same mothers, And to the same fathers libations we poured. We rallied around the same star-spangled standard, When called to the field by the tocsin of war: But they from our side have unfeeling wandered, And we strip from our flag every recusant star. They have forced us to stand by our own Constitution, To defend our lov’d homesteads, our altars and fires, While they tamely submit to a tyrant’s pollution, Beneath whose foul tread their own freedom expires. Then up with the banner, its broad stripes wide flowing— ’Tis the emblem of Liberty—flag of the free; Let it wave us to triumph, and every heart glowing, Nerve each arm’s bravest blow for its lov’d Tennessee.

THE SOUTHERN HOMES IN RUINS.

BY R. B. VANCE.

Many a gray-haired sire has died, As falls the oak, to rise no more, Because his son, his prop, his pride, Breathed out his last all red with gore. No more on earth, at morn, at eve, Shall age and youth, entwined as one— Nor father, son, for either grieve— Life’s work, alas, for both is done! Many a mother’s heart has bled While gazing on her darling child, As in its tiny eyes she read The father’s image, kind and mild; For ne’er again his voice will cheer The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, Fast falling on the orphan’s head! Many a little form will stray Adown the glen and o’er the hill, And watch with wistful looks the way For him whose step is missing still; And when the twilight steals apace O’er mead, and brook, and lonely home, And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face— The cry will be, “Oh, papa, come!” And many a home’s in ashes now, Where joy was once a constant guest, And mournful groups there are, I trow, With neither house nor place of rest; And blood is on the broken sill,[21] Where happy feet went to and fro, And everywhere, by field and hill, Are sickening sights and sounds of woe; There is a God who rules on high, The widow’s and the orphan’s friend, Who sees each tear and hears each sigh That these lone hearts to Him may send! And when in wrath He tears away The reasons vain which men indite, The record-book will plainest say Who’s in the wrong, and who is right.

’TIS MIDNIGHT IN THE SOUTHERN SKY.

BY MRS. M. J. YOUNG.

’Tis midnight in the Southern sky— See the starry cross decline! The watching flowers, all bath’d in tears, Creep o’er the mournful sign! But that decline but serves to mark A bright and glorious hour, Whose gleaming splendors shall then crown With stars the simplest flower! A day that in its turn shall tell Of the starry cross uprighted! Then weep not—ev’ry change is well— All wrongs shall be requited!

“STACK ARMS.”

BY JOSEPH BLYTHE ALSTON.[22]

“Stack arms!” I’ve gladly heard the cry, When, weary with the dusty tread Of marching troops, as night grew nigh, And sank upon my soldier bed, And calmly slept; the starry dome Of heaven’s blue arch my canopy, And mingled with my dreams of home, The thoughts of Peace and Liberty. “Stack arms!” I’ve heard it, when the shout, Exulting, rang along our line, Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, Captured, dispersed; its tones divine Then came to mine enraptured ear, Guerdon of duty nobly done, And glistened on my cheek the tear Of grateful joy for victory won. “Stack arms!” In faltering accents, slow And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, A broken, murmuring wail of woe, From manly hearts by anguish wrung. Like victims of a midnight dream, We move, we know not how nor why, For life and hope but phantoms seem, And it would be relief—to die.

THE INVOCATION.

BY B. W. W.

God bless the land of flowers, And turn its winter hours To bright summer time! Be the brave soldier’s friend, And from dangers defend, When Northern balls descend On the Southern line! Father, we implore Thee, Let Thy people go free From their foes once more! And they will bend the knee, And Thine the praise shall be, On sunny land and sea, As in days of yore! Lord, bid the carnage cease, Let the banner of peace Again be unfurled! Two nations make from one, And when the work is done, Over both reign alone— Saviour of the world!

DOFFING THE GRAY.

BY LIEUTENANT FALLIGANT.

Off with your gray suits, boys, Off with your rebel gear! They smack too much of the cannon’s peal, The lightning flash of your deadly steel, The terror of your spear. Their color is like the smoke That curled o’er your battle-line; They call to mind the yell that woke When the dastard columns before you broke, And their dead were your fatal sign. Off with the starry wreath, Ye who have led our van; To you ’twas the pledge of glorious death, When we followed you over the gory heath, Where we whipped them man to man. Down with the cross of stars— Too long hath it waved on high; ’Tis covered all over with battle-scars, But its gleam the Northern banner mars— ’Tis time to lay it by. Down with the vows we’ve made, Down with each memory— Down with the thoughts of our noble dead— Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid, And down with Liberty.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY FATHER A. J. RYAN.

Take that banner down, ’tis weary, Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary, Furl it, hide it, let it rest; For there’s not a man to wave it— For there’s not a soul to lave it In the blood that heroes gave it. Furl it, hide it, let it rest. Take that banner down, ’tis tattered; Broken is its staff, and shattered; And the valiant hearts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! ’tis hard for us to fold it— Hard to think there’s none to hold it— Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh. Furl that banner, furl it sadly; Once six millions hailed it gladly, And three hundred thousand madly, Swore it should forever wave— Swore that foeman’s sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever— That their flag should float forever O’er their freedom or their grave! Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that banner—it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe; For though conquered, they adore it, Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it— Oh! how wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so! Furl that banner; true ’tis gory, But ’tis wreathed around with glory, And ’twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust; For its fame, on brightest pages— Sung by poets, penned by sages— Shall go sounding down to ages— Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that banner—softly, slowly; Furl it gently, it is holy, For it droops above the dead. Touch it not, unfurl it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people’s hopes are fled.

FOLD IT UP CAREFULLY.

Gallant nation, foiled by numbers, Say not that your hopes are fled; Keep that glorious flag which slumbers, One day to avenge your dead. Keep it till your children take it, Once again to hail and make it All their sires have bled and fought for, All their noble hearts have sought for, Bled and fought for all alone. All alone! aye, shame the story, Millions here deplore the stain, Shame, alas! for England’s glory, Freedom called, and called in vain. Furl that banner, sadly, slowly, Treat it gently, for ’tis holy: ’Till that day—yes, furl it sadly, Then once more unfurl it gladly— Conquered Banner—keep it still![23]

WHY CAN NOT WE BE BROTHERS?

BY CLARENCE PRENTICE.

Why can not we be brothers? the battle now is o’er; We’ve laid our bruis’d arms on the field, to take them up no more; We who have fought you hard and long, now overpower’d stand As poor defenseless prisoners in our own native land. Chorus—We know that we are Rebels, And we don’t deny the name, We speak of that which we have done With grief, but not with shame. But we have rights most sacred, by solemn compact bound, Seal’d by the blood that freely gush’d from many a ghastly wound; When Lee gave up his trusty sword, and his men laid down their arms, It was that they should live at home, secure from war’s dire harms. And surely, since we’ve now disarm’d, we are not to be dreaded; Our old chiefs, who on many fields our trusty columns headed, Are fast within an iron grasp, and manacled with chains, Perchance, ’twixt dreary walls to stay as long as life remains! Oh! shame upon the coward band, who in the conflict dire, Went not to battle for their cause, ’mid the ranks of steel and fire, Yet now, since all the fighting’s done, are hourly heard to cry: “Down with the traitors! hang them all, each Rebel dog shall die!” We know that we were Rebels, we don’t deny the name, We speak of that which we have done with grief, but not with shame! And we never will acknowledge that the blood the South has spilt, Was shed defending what we deem’d a cause of wrong and guilt.

REUNITED.

BY FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN.[24]

Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountain’s height, Deeper than the ocean’s flow, Stronger than thy own proud might; Oh! Northland, to thy sister land Was late thy mercy’s generous deed and grand. Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed; Its mist of green o’er battle plain For nigh two decades spring had breathed; And yet the crimson life-blood stain From passive swards had never paled, Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed. Between the Northland, bride of snow, And Southland, brightest sun’s fair bride, Swept, deepening ever in its flow, The stormy wake, in war’s dark tide: No hand might clasp across the tears, And blood, and anguish of four deathless years. When summer, like a rose in bloom, Had blossomed from the bud of spring, Oh! who could deem the dews of doom Upon the blushing lips could cling? And who could believe its fragrant light Would e’er be freighted with the breath of blight? Yet o’er the Southland crept the spell, That e’en from out its brightness spread; And prostrate, powerless, she fell, Rachel-like, amid her dead. Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, The waiting grave would welcome, as its guest. The Northland, strong in love, and great, Forgot the stormy days of strife; Forgot that souls with dreams of hate, Or unforgiveness, e’er were rife. Forgotten was each thought and hushed, Save—she was generous and her foe was crushed. No hand might clasp, from land to land; Yea! there was one to bridge the tide; For at the touch of Mercy’s hand The North and South stood side by side: The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, In Charity’s espousals are made one. “Thou givest back my sons again,” The Southland to the Northland cries; “For all my dead, on battle plain, Thou biddest my dying now uprise: I still my sobs, I cease my tears, And thou hast recompensed my anguished years. “Blessings on thine every wave, Blessings on thine every shore, Blessings that from sorrows save, Blessings giving more and more, For all thou gavest thy sister land, Oh! Northland, in thy generous deed and grand.”

INDEX.

A Ballad of the War. George Herbert Sass, 179. A Cry to Arms. Henry Timrod, 72. “A. M. W.,” 68. Address of the Women to the Southern Troops. Mrs. Jane T. H. Cross, 160. Alexandria, The Martyr of, 36. Alston, Joseph Blythe, of South Carolina, 305. A New Red, White, and Blue. Jeff Thompson, 153. Antrobur, John, 196. A Poem for the Times. John R. Thompson, 5. A Poem which Needs no Dedication. James Barron Hope, 264. “A Rebel,” 92. Arise. C. G. Poynas, 20. Arm for the Southern Land. Mirabeau B. Lamar, 235. “A Soldier’s Wife,” 256. “Atlanta Confederacy,” 62. Ballard, Sallie E., of Texas, 44. Band in the Pines, The. John Esten Cooke, 230. Banner Song, The. James B. Marshall, 299. Barrick, J. R., of Kentucky, 192. Battle-field of Manassas, The. M. F. Bigney, 98. Battle at Bull Run, The. “Ruth,” 137. Battle-Call. Annie Chambers Ketchum, 131. Beaufort, F. P., 108. Beauregard Songster, The, 171. Bell, Maurice, 190. Beyond the Potomac. Paul H. Hayne, 204. Bigney, M. F., 98, 126. Blue Cockade, The. Mary Walsingham Crean, 83. Blunt, Mrs. Ellen Key, 292. Bombardment of Vicksburg. Paul H. Hayne, 278. Bonnie Blue Flag, The. Harry Macarthy, 135. Box, Rev. A. M., 78. Boy-Soldier, The. A Lady of Savannah, 284. Burgess, G. T., 172. Burn the Cotton. “Estelle,” 211. “B. W. W.,” 306. Call All! Call All! “Georgia,” 31. Canedo, Mrs. Margarita J., 199. “Caroline,” 23. Cavaliers of Dixie, The. Benj. F. Porter, 162. “Charleston Mercury,” 23. Chivalrous C. S. A. “B.,” 96. Civile Bellum. “The Once United States,” 271. “C. L. S.,” 175. Confederate Flag, The. J. R. Barrick, 192. Confederate Flag, The. Mrs. C. D. Elder, 222. Confederate Flag, The. Father A. J. Ryan, 309. Confederate Land. By H. H. Strawbridge, 298. “Confederate Prisoner,” 226. Confederate Song. Capt. E. Lloyd Wailes, 109. Cooke, John Esten, 230. “Cora,” 252. Crean, Mary Walsingham, 83. Cross, Mrs. J. T. H., 160. C. S. A. Father Ryan, 288. Cummins, Alex. H., 248. Dixie. Albert Pike, 38. “De G.,” 81. Doffing the Gray. Lieutenant Falligant, 307. Dying Soldier, The. James A. Mecklin, 239. Elbert, Evan, 27. Elder, Mrs. C. D., 222. Estelle, 211, 260. Estres, William C., 243. Ethnogenesis. Henry Timrod, 9. Falligant, Lieutenant, of Savannah, Georgia, 307. Farewell to Brother Jonathan. “Caroline,” 23. Flash, Henry L., of Texas, 85, 246. “Follow, Boys, Follow!” Millie Mayfield, 273. Fold it up Carefully. Sir Henry Houghton, 311. Freer, M. C., 111. French, L. Virginia, 129. From the South to the North. C. L. S., 175. “Georgia,” 31. Girls of the Monumental City. “Confederate Prisoner,” 226. God Save the South. Reuben Nason, 268. Gone to the Battle-field. John Antrobur, 196. Gray, Nanny, 30. Guerillas, The. S. Teackle Wallis, 166. Harp of the South. “Cora,” 252. Harp of the South, Awake. J. M. Kilgour, 17. Hayne, Paul H., 204, 278. Heart of Louisiana, The. Harriet Stanton, 63. Heart Victories. “A Soldier’s Wife,” 256. “H. M. L.,” 128. Holcombe, Wm. H., of Louisiana, 77. Holtz, Robert E., 149. Hood, Thomas B., 139. Hope, James Barron, 264. Houghton, Sir Henry, Bart., 312. Invocation, The. B. W. W., 306. Jackson. Henry L. Flash, 246. Jackson, Gen. H. R., of Louisiana, 114. Jacobus, Mrs. J. J., 33. “J. H. H.,” 66. Johnson, Bradley T., 19. Justice is our Panoply. De G., 81. Kentucky. “Estelle,” 260. Ketchum, Anna Chambers, 131. Keyes, Julia L., of Ala., 121. Kilgour, J. M., 17. Killum, John, 233. Lamar, Gen. M. B., 235, 269. Land of King Cotton. Jo. Augustine Signiago, 164. Land of the South. A. F. Leonard, 185. Legion of Honor, The. H. L. Flash, 85. Leonard, A. F., 185. Lomas, Henry, 253. Lorrimer, Laura, 142. Macarthy, Harry, 135. Manassas. “A Rebel,” 92. Marseilles Hymn, The. B. F. Porter, of Alabama, 216. Marshall, James B., 299. Martin, Rev. J. H., 45. Martyr of Alexandria, The. James W. Simmons, 36. Mayfield, Millie, 90, 249, 273. Maryland. James R. Randall, 69. McCabe, J. D., Jr., 296. McLemore, John C., of South Carolina, 87. Mecklin, James A., 239. Meek, A. B., of Mobile, Alabama, 52. Melt the Bells. F. Y. Rockett. 47. Miles, George H., of Balt., 123. Monody on the Death of Gen. Stonewall Jackson. “The Exile,” 220. Moore, Emily J., 210. “M. S.,” 241. Murden, E. O., 54. My Wife and Child. Gen. H. R. Jackson, of Louisiana, 114. Nason, Reuben, 268. New Orleans “True Delta,” 43. “Nil Desperandum.” Ada Rose, 158. No Surrender. “N. P. W.,” 234. No Union Men. Millie Mayfield, 249. “N. P. W.,” 146, 234. O Johnny Bull, my Jo John, 154. Old Betsy. John Killum, 233. Old Rifleman, The. Frank Ticknor, M. D., 119. Only One Killed. Julia L. Keyes, 121. On! Southron, on! M. B. Lamar, 269. Ordered Away, The. Mrs. J. J. Jacobus, 33. Our Boys are Gone. Col. Hamilton Washington, 141. Overall, John W., of La., 41, 145, 259. Patriotism, 294. “P. E. C.,” 116. Pensacola, To my Son. M. S., 241. Pierpont, James, 29. Pike, Albert, of Arkansas, 38. Porter, Benjamin F., of Alabama, 162, 216, 228. Poynas, C. G., of South Carolina, 20. Prentice, Clarence, 312. Printers of Virginia to Old Abe, The. Harry C. Treakle, 214. Prize Song, The, 201. Randall, James R., of Maryland, 69, 188. Rebels! ’tis a Holy Name! “Atlanta Confederacy,” 61. Re-enlistment. Mrs. Margarita J. Canedo, 199. Requier, A. J., of Alabama, 143. Reunited. Father Ryan, 315. “Richmond Examiner,” 52. Richmond on the James. G. T. Burgess, 172. Right Above the Wrong, The. John W. Overall, 41. Rivers, Pearl, 208. Rivers, W. P., 281. Rockett, F. Y., 47. Rose, Ada, 158. “Ruth,” 137. Ryan, Father A. J., 276, 288, 309, 315. Sass, George Herbert, of South Carolina, 179. Savannah, A Lady of, 284. Seventy-Six and Sixty-One. John W. Overall, 259. Signiago, Jo. Augustine, 164. Simmons, Jas. W., of Texas, 36. Simms, Wm. Gilmore, 290. Soldier Boy, The. H. M. L., 128. Soldier’s Heart, The. F. P. Beaufort, 108. Song for the Maryland Line. J. D. McCabe, Jr., 296. Song of the Glorious Southland, Mrs. Mary Ware, 231. Song of the Privateer. Alex. H. Cummins, 248. Sons of Freedom. Nanny Gray, 30. South in Arms, The. Rev. J. H. Martin, 45. South is Up, The. P. E. C., 116. Southern Cross, The. St. George Tucker, 14. Southern Cross, The. Ellen Key Blunt, 292. Southern Gathering Song. L. Virginia French, 129. Southern Homes in Ruins, The. R. B. Vance, 302. Southern Marseillaise. “Beauregard Songster,” 170. Southern Pleiades, The. Laura Lorrimer, 142. Southern Sentiment. Rev. A. M. Box, 78. Southern Song. M. C. Freer, 111. Southern Song of Freedom. J. H. H., 65. Southern War Song. N. P. W., 146. Southland. “The Prize Song,” 201. Southern Mother’s Charge, The. Thomas B. Hood, 139. “Southrons.” Catharine M. Warfield, 156. Southron’s War Song, The. J. A. Wagener, 80. “Stack Arms!” J. Blythe Alston, of South Carolina, 305. Stanton, Harriet, 63. Stars and Bars, The. A. J. Requier, 143. Stonewall Jackson’s Way, 194. Strawbridge, H. H., 298. Sweet South, The. Wm. Gilmore Simms, 290. Sumter, A Ballad of 1861. E. O. Murden, 54. Tell the Boys the War is Ended. Emily J. Moore, 210. “The Exile,” 220. The March. John W. Overall, 145. The Men. Maurice Bell, 150. There’s Life in the Old Land Yet. J. R. Randall, 188. There’s Nothing going Wrong. A. M. W., 67. “The South.” Charlie Wildwood, 223. “The Star of the West.” “Charleston Mercury,” 22. The Sword of Robert Lee. Father Ryan, 276. Thinking of the Soldiers, 237. Thompson, Jeff., 153. Thompson, John R., of Virginia, 5. Ticknor, Frank, M. D., of Georgia, 119, 286. Timrod, Henry, of South Carolina, 9, 72. ’Tis Midnight in the Southern Sky. Mrs. M. J. Young, 304. To My Soldier Brother. Sallie E. Ballard, 44. To the Tories of Virginia. “Richmond Examiner,” 49. Treakle, Harry C., 214. True to the Gray. Pearl Rivers, 208. Tucker, St. George, of Virginia, 14. Turtle, The, 245. Uniform of Gray, The. Evan Elbert, 27. United States, The Once, 273. Up! Up! let the Stars of our Banner. M. F. Bigney, 126. Vance, R. B., of North Carolina, 302. Virginia: Late but Sure! William H. Holcombe, 77. Virginians of the Valley. Frank Ticknor, M. D., 286. Volunteers to the Melish. W. C. Estres, 243. Wagener, J. A., of South Carolina, 80. Wailes, Capt. E. Lloyd, 109. Wallis, S. Teackle, of Maryland, 166. War Christian’s Thanksgiving, The. George H. Miles, of Maryland, 123. Ware, Mrs. Mary, 231. Warfield, Catharine M., of Mississippi, 156. War Song. A. B. Meek, of Mobile, 52. War Song. By a Lady, 75. War Song. J. H. Woodcock, 151. War Song of the Partisan Rangers. B. F. Porter, 228. Washington, Col. Hamilton, of Texas, 141. “We Come! We Come!” Millie Mayfield, 90. We Conquer or Die. James Pierpont, 29. We’ll be Free in Maryland. Robert E. Holtz, 149. What the Spirits of the Fathers say. Henry Lomas, 253. “What the Village Bell said.” John McLemore, 87. Whoop! the Doodles, 31. Why can not We be Brothers? Clarence Prentice, 312. Wildwood, Charlie, 223. Woodcock, J. H., 151. Yankee Devil, The. W. P. Rivers, 281. Young, Mrs. M. J., 304.

THE END

Footnotes:

[1] Written on the occasion of the meeting of the Confederate Congress, at Montgomery, February 4, 1861, and published in the “Charleston Courier.”

[2] These lines were published, and respectfully dedicated to Captain Bradley T. Johnson, of the Frederick (Md.) Volunteers, now (1861) in service in Virginia, by his friend J. M. Kilgour, their author.

[3] These lines were written when General Beauregard appealed to the people of the South to contribute their bells, that they might be melted into cannon.

[4] The writer has a husband, three sons, two nephews, other relatives and friends, in the companies mentioned, to whom these lines are most respectfully inscribed.—Charleston Mercury.

[5] Virginia adopted her act of Secession on April 17, 1861.

[6] The author of this song was mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines.

[7] Dedicated to the Crescent Regiment, of New Orleans, Col. M. J. Smith.

[8] These verses were published, early in 1862, in the Raleigh (N. C.) “Register.” From the camp of the Massachusetts Twenty-Second Regiment, they were sent as a part of a letter to the “Boston Traveller,” on May 31st, of the same year, and printed in that paper on the 6th of June.

[9] A good clergyman, on being censured for introducing a “song tune” into his choir at church, replied that he “did not think it fair that the devil should have all the good music.” In like manner, we will never give up “Hail Columbia” to the Abolitionists. It is ours; and we mean to hold, as one of our dearest rights, this, the grandest march ever composed by mortal man.

[10] This song was very popular with the Southern troops, and was sung with great effect to the measure of “Ye Mariners of England.”

[11] This song was published in the Memphis “Appeal,” in December, 1861, was a great favorite with Tennessee troops, and was sung even after the peace was declared.

[12] It may add something to the interest with which these stirring lines will be read, to know that they were composed within the walls of a Yankee Bastile. They reach us in manuscript, through the courtesy of a returned prisoner.—Richmond Examiner.

[13] The publisher of “The Southern Soldier’s Prize Songster,” Mr. W. F. Wisely, of Mobile, Alabama, determined to use his efforts to produce a collection of original songs, solely by Southern writers, “offered a premium of fifty dollars” for the best song suited to the present time. A committee of three gentlemen (Rev. Dr. Pierce, Hon. Percy Walker, and G. Y. Overall, Esq.) were appointed to make the award. Near thirty pieces were submitted in competition, most of them possessing high literary merit. After much deliberation, the committee selected the piece entitled “Southland,” as the most meritorious. The author’s name was not given, he only requesting in his note that the money, if awarded him, should be paid over for the benefit of our necessitous soldiers. This modesty will add to the attractiveness of his piece, which is the first in the present volume.—Preface to “The Southern Soldier’s Prize Songster, containing Martial and Patriotic Pieces (chiefly original) applicable to the present war. Mobile, Ala.: W. F. Wisely, No. 38 St. Michael St., 1864.”

[14] This piece was originally published in the “Richmond Whig” at the time of “Stonewall” Jackson’s last descent upon Maryland.

[15] Heard after Pelham died.

[16] The incident with which I have illustrated my opinion of the policy of those who would have us wait for a “reaction at the North,” may be found in “Milman’s Latin Christianity,” vol. iii, p. 133.

[17] It has been stated, by one professing to have witnessed the fact, that, some weeks after the beginning of this terrific bombardment, not only were ladies seen coolly walking the streets, but that in some parts of the town children were observed at play, only interrupting their sports to gaze and listen at the bursting shells.

[18] Ghote—an imaginary evil being among Eastern nations.

[19] These lines were dedicated “to His Excellency President Davis, from his fellow-citizens, Ellen Key Blunt, J. T. Mayson Blunt, of Maryland and Virginia.”

[20] “The Star-Spangled Banner,” written by Francis Scott Key, a progenitor of Mrs. Blunt.

[21] These lines were suggested by the following, published in “Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper”: “We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern women know more. Blood has not dripped on our door-sills yet; shells have not burst above our homesteads. Let us pray they never may.”

[22] Written in the prison of Fort Delaware, Del., on hearing of General Lee’s surrender.

[23] reply to “The Conquered Banner,” by Sir Henry Houghton, Bart., of Great Britain.

[24] Written after the yellow-fever epidemic of 1878.

Transcriber’s Note: Punctuation has been corrected without note.