Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Young wives and sisters have buckled your armor on;
Maidens ye love bid ye _go_ to the battle-field;
Strong arms and stout hearts have many a vict'ry won,
_Courage_ shall strengthen the weapons ye wield.
Wild passions are storming,
Dark schemes are forming,
_Deep snares_ are laid, but they _shall not_ enthrall ye;
Justice your cause shall greet,
Laurels lay at your feet,
If each brave band be watchful and wary.
March, march, etc.

Let fear and unmanliness vanish before ye;
Trust in the Rock who will shelter the righteous;
Plant _firmly_ each step on the soil of the _free_--
A heritage left by the sires who bled for us.
May each heart be bounding,
When trumpets are sounding,
And the dark traitors shall strive to surround ye;
The great God of Battle
Can _still_ the war-rattle,
And brighten the land with a sunset of glory.
March, march, etc.

VIRGINIA--LATE BUT SURE!

BY W. H. HOLCOMBE.

The foe has hemmed us round: we stand at bay,
Here we will perish, or be free to-day!
To drum and bugle sternly sounding,
The Southern soldier's heart is bounding;
But stay--oh stay! Virginia is not here!
Hush your strains of martial cheer;
O bugle, peace!
O war-drum, cease!
Virginia is not here!
Suspend, O chief, your word of fight!
She will be soon in sight!
Her children never called in vain!
She comes not--comes not: the disgrace
Were bitterer than the tyrant's chain!
Oh, death! we dare thee face to face!

A gun! the foe's defiant shot--be still!
Hurrah! an answering gun behind the hill;
And o'er its summit wildly streaming
The squadrons of Virginia gleaming![5]
Hurrah! hurrah! the Old Dominion comes!
Blow your bugles! beat your drums!
O doubt accurst!
The last is first--
The Old Dominion comes!
She grasps her thunderbolts of war;
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Now loose, O chief! your battle storm!
We hang impatient on your breath;
Here in the flashing front we form!
Virginia!--victory or death!

SOUTHERN SENTIMENT.

BY REV. A. M. BOX.

The North may think that the South will yield,
And seek for a place in the Union again;
But never will Southrons abandon the field
And place themselves under _tyrannical reign_.

Sooner by far would we yield to the grave,
Than form an alliance with so hated a foe;
To join the "old Union" would be to enslave
Ourselves, our children, in want and in woe!

What! sons of the South! submit to be ruled
By the minions of Abraham Lincoln, the fool?
Our fair ones insulted--our wealth all controlled
By Yankees, free negroes, and every such tool!

Heaven forbid it! and arm us with might,
To drive back our foes, and grind them to dust!
In every conflict may we put them to flight,
Aided by thee, thou God of the just!

Our bosoms we'll bare to the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,
To prevail in the cause is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die!

The battle is not to the strong we know,
But to the just, the true, and the brave--
With faith in our GOD, right onward we'll go,
Our country, our loved ones, to save.

THE SOUTHRON'S WAR-SONG.

BY J. A. WAGENER.

Arise! arise! with main and might,
Sons of the sunny clime!
Gird on the sword; the sacred fight
The holy hour doth chime.
Arise! the craven host draws nigh,
In thundering array;
Arise, ye brave! let cowards fly--
The hero bides the fray.

Strike hard, strike hard, thou noble band;
Strike hard, with arm of fire!
Strike hard, for God and fatherland,
For mother, wife, and sire!
Let thunders roar, the lightning flash;
Bold Southron, never fear!
The bayonet's point, the saber's clash,
True Southrons do and dare!

Bright flow'rs spring from the hero's grave;
The craven knows no rest!
Thrice curs'd the traitor and the knave!
The hero thrice is bless'd.
Then let each noble Southron stand,
With bold and manly eye:
We'll do for God and fatherland;
We'll do, we'll do, or die!

_Charleston Courier._

JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY.

BY DE G.

We're free from Yankee despots,
We've left the foul mud-sills,
Declared for e'er our freedom--
We'll keep it spite of ills.

Bring forth your scum and rowdies,
Thieves, vagabonds, and all;
March down your Seventh Regiment,
Battalions great and small.

We'll meet you in Virginia,
A Southern battle-field,
Where Southern men will never
To Yankee foemen yield.

Equip your Lincoln cavalry,
Your NEGRO _light_-brigade,
Your hodmen, bootblacks, tinkers,
And scum of every grade.

Pretended love for negroes
Incites you to the strife;
Well, come each Yankee white man,
And take a negro wife.

You'd make fit black companions,
Black heart joined to black skin;
Such _unions_ would be glorious--
They'd make the Devil grin.

Our freedom is our panoply--
Come on, you base _black_-guards,
We'll snuff you like wax-candles,
Led by our Beauregards.

P. G. T. B. is not alone,
Men like him with him fight;
God's providence is o'er us,
_He_ will protect the right.

THE BLUE COCKADE.

BY MARY WALSINGHAM CREAN.

God be with the laddie, who wears the blue cockade!
He's gone to fight the battles of our darling Southern land;
He was true to old Columbia, till more sacred ties forbade--
Till 'twere treason to obey her, when he took his sword in hand;
And God be with the laddie, who was true in heart and hand,
To the voice of old Columbia, till she wronged his native land!

He buckled on his knapsack--his musket on his breast--
And donned the plumed bonnet--sword and pistol by his side;
Then his weeping mother kissed him, and his aged father bless'd,
And he pinned the floating ribbon to his gallant plume of pride.
And God be with the ribbon, and the floating plume of pride!
They have gone where duty called them, and may glory them betide!

He would not soil his honor, and he would not strike a blow,
For he loved the aged Union, and he breath'd no taunting word;
He would dare Columbia, till she swore herself his foe--
Forged the chains for freemen--when he buckled on his sword.
And God be with the freeman, when he buckled on his sword!
He lives or dies for duty, and he yields no inch of sward.

The foes they come with thunder, and with blood and fire arrayed,
And they swear that we shall own them--they the masters, we the slaves;
But there's many a gallant laddie, who wears a blue cockade,
Will show them what it is to dare the blood of Southern braves!
And God be with the banner of those gallant Southern braves!
They may nobly die as freemen--they can never live as slaves!

THE LEGION OF HONOR.

BY H. L. FLASH.

Why are we forever speaking
Of the warriors of old?
Men are fighting all around us,
Full as noble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving,
Mind and muscle, heart and soul,
With the reins of judgment keeping
Passions under full control.

Noble hearts are beating boldly
As they ever did on earth;
Swordless heroes are around us,
Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses,
Building up the purer laws,
Scattering the dust of ages,
Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no "right divine"
In kings and princes from the rest;
In their creed he is the noblest
Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them--
Diamond stars they laugh to scorn--
Each will wear a "Cross of Honor"
On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom--
Like the noble Hebrew youth,
Striking down Goliath's error
With the God-blessed stone of truth.

Marshaled 'neath the Right's broad banner,
Forward rush these volunteers,
Beating olden wrong away
From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them,
But the _coming_ times will say
(Speaking of the slandered present),
"There _were_ heroes in that day."

Why are we then idly lying
On the roses of our life,
While the noble-hearted struggle
In the world redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion,
Ever foremost in the fray--
Battling in the name of Progress
For the nobler, purer day.

"WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID."

BY JOHN M'LEMORE, OF S. C.

Full many a year in the village church,
Above the world have I made my home;
And happier there, than if I had hung
High up in air in a golden dome;
For I have tolled
When the slow hearse rolled
Its burden sad to my door;
And each echo that woke,
With the solemn stroke,
Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.

I know the great bell of the city spire
Is a far prouder one than such as I;
And its deafening stroke, compared with mine,
Is thunder compared with a sigh;
But the shattering note
Of his brazen throat,
As it swells on the Sabbath air,
Far oftener rings
For other things
Than a call to the house of prayer.

Brave boy, I tolled when your father died,
And you wept when my tones pealed loud;
And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame
Your mother dear lay in her shroud:
And I rang in sweet tone
The angels might own,
When your sister you gave to your friend;
Oh! I rang with delight,
On that sweet summer night,
When they vowed they would love to the end!

But a base foe comes from the regions of crime,
With a heart all hot with the flames of hell;
And the tones of the bell you have loved so long
No more on the air shall swell:
For the people's chief,
With his proud belief
That his country's cause is God's own,
Would change the song,
The hills have rung
To the thunder's harsher tone.

Then take me down from the village church,
Where in peace so long I have hung;
But I charge you, by all the loved and lost,
_Remember the songs I have sung_.
Remember the mound
Of holy ground
Where your father and mother lie
And swear by the love
For the dead above
To beat your foul foe, or die.

Then take me; but when (I charge you this)
You have come to the bloody field,
That the bell of God, to a cannon grown,
You will ne'er to the foeman yield.
By the love of the past,
Be that hour your last,
When the foe has reached this trust;
And make him a bed
Of patriot dead,
And let him sleep in this holy dust.[6]

"WE COME! WE COME!"

BY MILLIE MAYFIELD.[7]

We come! we come for Death or Life,
For the Grave or Victory!
We come to the broad Red Sea of strife,
Where the black flag waveth free!
We come as Men, to do or die,
Nor feel that the lot is hard,
When _our_ Hero calls--and our battle-cry
Is "On, to Beauregard!"

Up, craven, up! 'tis no time for ease,
When the crimson war-tide rolls
To our very doors--up, up, for these
Are times to try men's souls!
The purple gore calls from the sod
Of our martyred brothers' graves,
And raises a red right hand to God
To guard our avenging braves.

And unto the last bright drop that thrills
The depths of the Southern heart,
We must battle for our sunny hills,
For the freedom of our Mart--
For all that Honor claims, or Right--
For Country, Love, and Home!
Shout to the trampling steeds of Might
Our cry--"We come! we come!"

And let our path through their serried ranks
Be the fierce tornado's track,
That bursts from the torrid's fervid banks
And scatters destruction black!
For the hot life leaping in the veins
Of our young Confederacy,
Must break for aye the galling chains
Of dark-browed Treachery.

On! on! 'tis our gallant chieftain calls
(He must not call in vain),
For aid to guard his homestead walls--
Our Hero of the Plain!
We come! we come, to do or die,
Nor feel that the lot is hard:
"God and our Rights!" be our battle cry,
And, "On, to Beauregard!"

MANASSAS.

BY A REBEL.

Upon our country's border lay,
Holding the ruthless foe at bay,
Through chilly night and burning day,
Our army at Manassas.

To them our eager eyes were turned,
While many a restless spirit burned,
And many a fond heart wildly yearned,
O'er loved ones at Manassas.

For fast the Vandals gathered, strong
In wealth and numbers, all along
Our highways pressed a countless throng,
To battle at Manassas.

With martial pomp and proud array,
With burnished arms and banners gay,
Panting for the inhuman fray,
They rolled upon Manassas.

The opening cannons' thunders rent
The air, and ere their charge was spent,
Muskets and rifles quickly sent
Death to us at Manassas.

But, like a wall of granite, stood
The true, the great, the brave, the good,
Who, firmly holding field and wood,
Guarded us at Manassas.

They promptly answered fire with fire;
Danger could not with fear inspire
Their hearts, whose courage rose the higher,
When death ruled at Manassas.

At dawn the murderous work begun;
The battle fiercely raged at noon;
Evening drew on--'twas not done--
The carnage at Manassas.

Oh, trembling Freedom! didst thou stay
Throughout that agonizing day,
To watch where victory would lay
Her laurels at Manassas?

Yea! and thy potent trumpet tone
Ordered our gallant warriors on,
To the bold charge which for thee won
The triumph at Manassas.

Well might the dastard foemen yield,
When Right and Vengeance joined to wield
The well-aimed ball and glittering steel,
Which hurled them from Manassas.

They broke, and fear lent wings to feet
Flying before our chargers fleet,
Which followed up their wild retreat--
Their mad rout at Manassas.

Strike! Southrons, strike! for ne'er a foe
So worthy of your every blow
Can your good swords and carbines know,
As those who sought Manassas.

For that our homes are still secure,
Our wives and sisters still left pure,
Our altars drip not with our gore;
Thanks, victors of Manassas!

Thy charmed trumpet sound, O Fame!
Let music catch the loud refrain,
While in a glad, triumphant strain,
We celebrate Manassas.

And every soldier's breast shall fire
With emulation, and desire
To equal--fame can point no higher--
The heroes of Manassas.

Alas! that many writhe in pain,
Whose precious blood was spilt to gain
Glory and freedom on thy plain--
Thy bloody plain, Manassas.

If sympathy can aught avail,
If fervent prayers with Heaven prevail,
In your behalf they shall not fail,
Poor wounded of Manassas.

Alas! that blended with the tone
Of triumph, breathes the stifled moan
For many brave, whose dear lives won
The victory of Manassas.

A grateful nation long shall keep
Their memory, and flock to weep
Above the turf where softly sleep
The martyrs of Manassas.

HANOVER CO., VA., _July 30_.

CHIVALROUS C. S. A.

BY "B."

AIR--"_Vive la Compagnie!_"

I'll sing you a song of the South's sunny clime,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Which went to house-keeping once on a time;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Like heroes and princes they lived for awhile,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
And routed the Hessians in most gallant style;
Bully for C. S. A.!
_Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!
Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!
In C. S. A.! In C. S. A.!
Aye, in chivalrous C. S. A.!

They have a bold leader--Jeff. Davis his name--
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Good generals and soldiers, all anxious for fame;
Bully for C. S. A.!
At Manassas they met the North in its pride,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
But they easily put McDowell aside;
Bully for C. S. A.!
_Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

Ministers to England and France, it appears,
Have gone from the C. S. A.!
Who've given the North many fleas in its ears;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Reminders are being to Washington sent,
By the chivalrous C. S. A.!
That'll force Uncle Abe full soon to repent;
Bully for C. S. A.!
_Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

Oh, they have the finest of musical ears,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Yankee Doodle's too vulgar for them, it appears;
Bully for C. S. A.!
The North may sing it and whistle it still,
Miserable U. S. A.!
Three cheers for the South!--now, boys, with a will!
And groans for the U. S. A.!
_Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

THE BATTLE-FIELD OF MANASSAS.

BY M. F. BIGNEY.

Fill, fill the trump of fame
With the name--
MANASSAS--the battle-field of pride;
Where Freedom's heroes fought with their spirits all aflame,
Where the Gospel of Liberty was sounded with acclaim,
Where heroes for Liberty have died!

Come, Fancy, once again
Fill the plain with armed men;
Let us see the struggling hosts of Wrong and Right;
Let the tide of battle pour,
Fight and conquer o'er and o'er,
Till we glow with inspiration at the sight.

There's glory in the air:
Everywhere
Glory rises from the ground,
All around.
A hundred thousand men,
Gather in from hill and glen,
And for battle fierce and bloody they are bound.

See, see the cohorts come,
To the sound of fife and drum;
They're the foemen of the North
Coming forth,
In the pride of conscious might;
They would trample down the Right,
As forth they come, those foemen of the North.

The flag which they bear
Is a snare:
Its Stripes writhe as snakes upon the air;
And its Stars, no longer bright,
Tell of chaos and of night,
And of how they yet
Will set
In despair.

On comes the lengthening line,
As if eager for the wine
Which from the press of battle freely flows;
And from the Southern heart
Such wine will freely start,
As the pledge to each hecatomb of foes.

On comes the lengthened line,
And a "higher law" _divine_;
The snakes on their banners seem to hiss;
"Destruction to the South,"
Bursts in hate from every mouth,
And the demon-words are held akin to bliss.

A brave, heroic band,
Hand to hand,
To meet the shock of battle are prepared;
For wife and child they stand--
For home and native land;
Oh, pray that every hero may be spared!

The drum and fife may sound,
But their stirring notes are drowned
In the roar and the thunder of the guns;
The death-charged bullets fly,
And the shells ascend the sky--
They are offerings to God's and Freedom's sons.

Where Freedom nerves the arm,
There's a charm;
Where Freedom stirs the heart,
Fears depart.
Oh, sacred is the strife,
And the sacrifice of life,
Where Freedom's chosen heroes point the dart.

God! how the freemen press!
There's distress
In each lead and iron shower that they send;
Their countless columns pour,
Like the waves in wild uproar,
Beating on a rocky shore
They would rend.

But firm as rocks our band
Grandly stand--
For home and native land
Hand to hand.
How the proud invaders reel,
As with shot and shell and steel,
Destruction wide we deal,
Sternly grand!

Again, and yet again,
These wild, fanatic men--
Those foemen that invade our Southern homes--
Still rally to the cry:
"We must conquer here, or die!
The laurel, or the fate of hellish gnomes!"

Again, and yet again,
Southern men
Force the fierce insulting foe to retire.
Again the Northmen fall,
And to Heaven vainly call,
While they yell,
"There is hell
In Southern fire!"

Speed, Beauregard the brave, onward speed!
Speed, Davis unto Johnson, in his need!
Hurrah! the foemen fly!
Send the victor shout on high,
For Heaven still rewards the daring deed.

How fearfully they bleed--
Man and steed!
Oh, how their dying prayer
Rends the air!
All this for Northern greed,
All that strange, fanatic creed,
Which so wickedly they heed.
_Do not spare!_

"The Southron is accurst"--
So they say;
"He's baser than the worst
Beast of prey;"
And the African is white,
In those Northern foemen's sight,
As the lily, when it greets the god of day.

Then drive them to their lair;
Do not spare!
Let shot and shell reply
To their cry.
Though their bodies taint the air,
And become the vulture's fare,
It is just that such invading hordes should die.

McDowell, in the van,
Sees his beaten columns fly!
He calls on God and man
For the aid that both deny;
The army he would rally, as it runs.
Thus, thus, McDowell raves:
"Know ye not, ye unworthy knaves,
That you fight the fight for slaves--
Sable ones;
Come, and purchase redder graves
With your guns."

But the guns are thrown away,
The invaders will not stay;
To them a fearful lesson has been read:
For miles strewn all around,
Encrimsoning the rich ground,
Lie their fallen friends--the wounded and the dead.

The sun slopes down the west,
But the foe in wild unrest
Rushes on, though destruction follows fast.
The Southern cavalcade
Dyes with red each trusty blade,
And the carnage is terrible and vast!

Oh, where is Scott, the chief?
Why brings he not relief?
And Patterson, the tardy, where is he?
And where is Abe, the Great,
With his cap and cloak of state?
He should see
How his warriors can flee.

Fear lendeth speed to flight,
And the foe invokes the night
To let its starless curtain quickly fall;
But it falleth all too slow,
For the terrors of the foe,
And it seems to them the shadow of a pall.

A Nemesis concealed
In the shades of wold and field,
Breathes of vengeance to the foemen as they run;
They are rushing in despair,
But there's carnage everywhere,
And they know not what to welcome or to shun.

Ten thousand of their slain
Strew the plain;
The shrieks from ten thousand more arise;
And the ghosts
From their hosts
Wail despairingly and vain,
In their pain,
For a welcome to the skies.

At morning, in their pride,
Side by side,
They went forth in their might
To the fight;
And now they flee in fear,
Trembling like the stricken deer,
At the saber and the spear--
It is night.

They came forth to destroy,
With a fierce, fanatic joy,
And boasted of the Rebels they would slay;
But, ere the set of sun,
There are hundreds chased by one,
And they pray their legs to bear them safe away.

For miles strewn all around
O'er the ground,
The records of their flight
Meet the sight:
Bodies 'neath the horses' tread;
Bodies living; bodies dead;
And the swords and guns most beautifully bright!

But let us leave the foe
In their woe.
To the God of Peace and Battle let us go.
Let us praise the King of Kings,
'Neath whose wide-expanded wings
There is shelter for his children here below.
His arm, unseen, uprears
Freedom's spears;
If Freedom's voice be weak,
His will speak
In the cannon's thunder tones,
Though the answer be in groans,
And though a thousand tyrant hearts may break.

THE SOLDIER'S HEART.

BY F. P. BEAUFORT.

The trumpet calls, and I must go
To meet the vile, invading foe;
But listen, dearest, ere we part--
Thou hast, thou hast the soldier's heart!

It could not be so true to thee
Were it not true to liberty;
Far rather fill a soldier's grave
Than live a dastard and a slave!

Thine eyes shall light dark danger's path,
The gloomy camp, the foeman's wrath;
Above the battle's fiery storm,
I shall behold thy beauteous form!

With thoughts of thee, for thy dear sake,
Redoubled efforts I will make;
And strike with an avenging hand
For lady-love and native land!

Then fare thee well, the trumpet's sound
Commands me to the battle ground;
But listen, dearest, ere we part--
Thou hast, thou hast the soldier's heart.

CONFEDERATE SONG.

AIR-"_Bruce's Address_."

Written for and dedicated to the Kirk's Ferry Rangers, by their Captain, E. Lloyd Wailes. Sung by the Glee Club on the 4th of July, 1861, at the Kirk's Ferry barbecue (Catahoula, La.), after the presentation of a flag, by the ladies, to the Kirk's Ferry Rangers.

Rally round our country's flag!
Rally, boys, haste! do not lag;
Come from every vale and crag,
Sons of liberty!

Northern Vandals tread our soil,
Forth they come for blood and spoil,
To the homes we've gained with toil,
Shouting, "Slavery!"

Traitorous Lincoln's bloody band
Now invades the freeman's land,
Armed with sword and firebrand,
'Gainst the brave and free.

Arm ye then for fray and fight,
March ye forth both day and night,
Stop not till the foe's in sight,
Sons of chivalry.

In your veins the blood still flows
Of brave men who once arose--
Burst the shackles of their foes;
Honest men and free.

Rise, then, in your power and might,
Seek the spoiler, brave the fight;
Strike for God, for Truth, for Right:
Strike for Liberty!

SOUTHERN SONG.

BY M. C. FREER.

TUNE--"_Wait for the Wagon_."

Come, all ye sons of freedom,
And join our Southern band,
We are going to fight the Yankees,
And drive them from our land.
Justice is our motto,
And Providence our guide,
So jump into the wagon,
And we'll all take a ride.
_Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, the dissolution wagon;
The South is the wagon, and we'll all take a ride.

Secession is our watchword;
Our rights we all demand;
To defend our homes and firesides
We pledge our hearts and hands.
Jeff. Davis is our President,
With Stephens by his side;
Great Beauregard our General;
He joins us in our ride.
_Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Our wagon is the very best;
The running gear is good;
Stuffed round the sides with cotton,
And made of Southern wood.
Carolina is the driver,
With Georgia by her side;
Virginia holds the flag up,
While we all take a ride.
_Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

The invading tribe, called Yankees,
With Lincoln for their guide,
Tried to keep Kentucky
From joining in the ride;
But she heeded not their entreaties--
She has come into the ring;
She wouldn't fight for a government
Where cotton wasn't king.
_Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Old Lincoln and his Congressmen,
With Seward by his side,
Put old Scott in the wagon,
Just for to take a ride.
McDowell was the driver,
To cross Bull Run he tried,
But there he left the wagon
For Beauregard to ride.
_Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Manassas was the battle-ground;
The field was fair and wide;
The Yankees thought they'd whip us out,
And on to Richmond ride;
But when they met our "Dixie" boys,
Their danger they espied;
They wheeled about for Washington,
And didn't wait to ride.
_Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Brave Beauregard, God bless him!
Led legions in his stead,
While Johnson seized the colors
And waved them o'er his head.
To rising generations,
With pleasure we will tell
How bravely our Fisher
And gallant Johnson fell.
_Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.[8]

MY WIFE AND CHILD.

BY GEN. HENRY R. JACKSON, OF GEORGIA.

The tattoo beats, the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies;
The night with solemn pace moves on,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.
I think of thee, oh, dearest one!
Whose love my early life has blest;
Of thee and him, our baby son,
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.

God of the tender, hover near
To her whose watchful eye is wet;
The mother, wife--the doubly dear--
And cheer her drooping spirits yet.
Now, while she kneels before thy throne,
Oh, teach her, Ruler of the Skies!
No tear is wept to thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies.

That thou canst stay the ruthless hand
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by thy stern command
The battle's lost, the soldier's slain.
By day, by night--in joy or woe--
By fear oppressed, or hopes beguiled,
From every danger, every foe,
Oh, God! protect my wife and child!

THE SOUTH IS UP.

BY P. E. C.

The South is up in stern array--
Chasseurs and Zouaves and Gallic Guard--
Types of their veteran fathers gray,
Of war-marked visage, saber-scarred--
The children of Marengo's plains,
Of Austerlitz and Waterloo,
When tyrants dare to speak of chains
We'll do as their brave sires would do.
The sturdy German, hardy Pole,
Who knows how Kosciusko fell--
The Tyrolean, who feels his soul
Fired with that spark which gave them Tell.

The South is up! Italia's sons--
A Garibaldi in each form--
Their hands are grasping freemen's guns,
Their bosoms feel his valor warm;
Their crimson shirts, in bloody fields,
Like walls of flame shall front the foeman;
In that dread hour whoever yields,
'Tis not the offspring of the Roman;
No renegade, to scorn his brother
While guarding their adopted mother--
One feeling, _nationale_ and grand,
Still binds them to their native land.

The South is up! those brawny hands
That bless in peace or crush in war,
Who fought on India's burning sands,
At Egypt's Nile, and Trafalgar;
That reckless mirth, that fiery joy,
On field, or fort, or slippery deck,
From Clontarf's plains to Fontenoy,
At Quatre Bras or old Quebec;
Magenta, Malakoff, Redan,
Has heard their Celtic "Clear the way!"
The slandered, exiled Irishman
Stands for his Southern home to-day;
And when, perchance, in Death's eclipse
He grasps her flag with 'legiance due,
The last breath lingering on his lips
Might proudly say, I'm Irish, too!

The South is up! her native sons,
Whose spirit prompts them to be free,
Spring forth to man their trophied guns,
So bravely won at Monterey--
Surpassing Buena Vista's deeds,
Or Palo Alto's feats again,
Though wives be wreathed in widow's weeds
And children weep for fathers slain.
What! think to bind the South? 'Tis vain!
Freedom's inheritors at birth,
Not all the leagued infernal train,
If they were mustered here on earth,
Those flashing eyes, like gleaming steel,
Those hero boys and veterans gray!
Oh, yes! the throbbing heart can feel--
The South is up in stern array.

Yet sad 'twill grieve the Southern heart
To meet their brethren foot to foot,
But cancers on a vital part
Must now be severed branch and root;
They share with us a blood-bought fame
From foreign foe and savage grim;
The memory of our George's name,
Revered by us, is dear to them;
Our ships in every clime have shown,
Where jealous monarchies might see,
What stars upon our flag have grown
From old _thirteen_ to _thirty-three_;
Soldier to lead, or sage to teach,
Deep-scienced minds, of knowledge vast,
The great one's fame, as in a niche,
Lives in the history of the past.
Now, pausing o'er our doubtful fate
We _have been_, or we _shall be_, great.

THE OLD RIFLEMAN.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

Now, bring me out my buckskin suit!
My pouch and powder, too!
We'll see if seventy-six can shoot
As sixteen used to do.

Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright!
Our triggers quick and true!
As far, if not as _fine_ a sight,
As long ago, we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint!
A real white and blue;
Perhaps 'twill win the _other_ tint,
Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your brass percussion-caps!
Old "shut-pan" suits as well!
There's something in the _sparks_; perhaps
There's something in the smell!

We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed!
The red-skin Indian, too!
We never thought to draw a bead
On Yankee-doodle-doo!

But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart!
Those days are mostly done;
And now we must revive the art
Of shooting on the run!

If Doodle must be meddling, why,
There's only this to do:
Select the black spot in his eye
And let the daylight through!

And if he doesn't like the way
That Bess presents the view,
He'll, maybe, change his mind and stay
Where the good Doodles do!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know,
Who kissed the Testament;
To keep the Constitution? No!
_To keep the Government!_

We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool,
And take him half and half;
We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool,
And _miss_ him if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks
By which a war is won;
Especially how seventy-six
Took Tories on the run.

ONLY ONE KILLED.

BY JULIA L. KEYES.

Only one killed in Company B,
'Twas a trifling loss--one man!
A charge of the bold and dashing Lee,
While merry enough it was, to see
The enemy, as he ran.

Only one killed upon our side--
Once more to the field they turn.
Quietly now the horsemen ride,
And pause by the form of the one who died,
So bravely, as now we learn.

Their grief for the comrade loved and true
For a time was unconcealed;
They saw the bullet had pierced him through;
That his pain was brief--ah! very few
Die thus on the battle-field.

The news has gone to his home, afar--
Of the short and gallant fight;
Of the noble deeds of the young La Var,
Whose life went out as a falling star
In the skirmish of the night.

"Only one killed! It was my son,"
The widowed mother cried;
She turned but to clasp the sinking one,
Who heard not the words of the victory won,
But of him who had bravely died.

Ah! death to her were a sweet relief,
The bride of a single year.
Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief,
Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf,
Now trodden and brown and sere!

But no, she must bear through coming life
Her burden of silent woe,
The aged mother and youthful wife
Must live through a nation's bloody strife,
Sighing and waiting to go.

Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars,
Are meeting no more to part,
They can smile once more through the crystal bars--
Where never more will the woe of wars
O'ershadow the loving heart.

THE WAR CHRISTIAN'S THANKSGIVING.

_Respectfully dedicated to the War Clergy of the United States._

BY GEORGE H. MILES, OF BALTIMORE.

Oh, God of battles! once again,
With banner, trump and drum,
And garments in thy wine-press dyed,
To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded,
Unto Thine altars go;
With brother's blood, by brothers shed,
Our glad libations flow.

From pest-house and from dungeon foul,
Where, maimed and torn, they die,
From gory trench and charnel-house,
Where, heap on heap, they lie.

In every groan that yields a soul,
Each shriek a heart that rends,
With every breath of tainted air,
Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank Thee for the saber's gash,
The cannon's havoc wild;
We bless Thee for the widow's tears,
The want that starves her child!

We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit
The torch and fanned the flame;
That lust and rapine hunt their prey,
Kind Father, in Thy name!

That for the songs of idle joy
False angels sang of yore,
Thou sendest war on earth--ill-will
To men for evermore!

We know that wisdom, truth and right
To us and ours are given;
That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath,
To do the work of heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste
Are pleasant in Thine eyes--
Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate,
Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.

Let not our weakness fall below
The measure of Thy will,
And while the press hath wine to bleed,
Oh, tread it with us still!

Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught
Fond fools, of yore, to love;
Give us Thy vengeance as our own--
Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,
The pages of Thy word,
And learn the blessed curses there,
On them that sheathe the sword.

Where'er we tread may deserts spring,
Till none are left to slay;
And when the last red-drop is shed,
We'll kneel again--and pray!

UP! UP! LET THE STARS OF OUR BANNER.

BY M. F. BIGNEY.

_Respectfully dedicated to the Soldiers of the South._

Up! up! Let the stars of our banner
Flash out like the brilliants above!
Beneath them we'll shield from dishonor
The homes and the dear ones we love.
With "God and our Right!"
Our cry in the fight,
We'll drive the invader afar,
And we'll carve out a name
In the temple of Fame
With the weapons of glorious war.

Arise with an earnest endeavor--
A nation shall hallow the deed;
The foe must be silenced forever,
Though millions in battle may bleed.
With "God and our Right!" etc.

Strong arms and a conquerless spirit
We bring as our glory and guard:
If courage a triumph can merit,
Then Freedom shall be our reward.
With "God and our Right!" etc.

Beneath the high sanction of Heaven,
We'll fight as our forefathers fought;
Then pray that to us may be given
Such guerdon as fell to their lot.
With "God and our Right!" etc.

THE SOLDIER BOY.

BY H. M. L.

I give my soldier boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not: but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling, base or low,
I give my soldier boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood,
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as clear, as clear of mood
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains.
So when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by these heartfelt strains,
I give my soldier boy a blade.

LYNCHBURG, VA., _May 18, 1861_.

A SOUTHERN GATHERING SONG.

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH.

AIR--"_Hail Columbia_."[9]

Sons of the South, beware the foe!
Hark to the murmur deep and low,
Rolling up like the coming storm,
Swelling up like sounding storm,
Hoarse as the hurricanes that brood
In space's far infinitude!
Minute guns of omen boom
Through the future's folded gloom;
Sounds prophetic fill the air,
Heed the warning--and prepare!
Watch! be wary--every hour
Mark the foeman's gathering power--
Keep watch and ward upon his track
And crush the rash invader back!

Sons of the brave!--a barrier stanch
Breasting the alien avalanche--
Manning the battlements of RIGHT;
Up, for your _Country_, "_God, and right!_"
Form your battalions steadily,
And strike for death or victory!
Surging onward sweeps the wave,
Serried columns of the brave,
Banded 'neath the benison
Of Freedom's godlike Washington!
Stand! but should the invading foe
Aspire to lay your altars low,
Charge on the tyrant ere he gain
Your iron arteried domain!

Sons of the brave! when tumult trod
The tide of revolution--God
Looked from His throne on "the things of time,"
And two new stars in the reign of time
He bade to burn in the azure dome--
The freeman's LOVE and the freeman's HOME!
Holy of Holies! guard them well,
Baffle the despot's secret spell,
And let the chords of life be riven
Ere you yield those gifts of Heaven!
_Io paean!_ trumpet notes
Shake the air where our banner floats;
_Io triumphe!_ still we see
_The land of the South is the home of the free!_

BATTLE-CALL.

Nec temere, nec timide.

_Dedicated to her Countrymen, the Cavaliers of the South._

BY ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM.

Gentlemen of the South!
Gird on your flashing swords!
Darkly along your borders fair
Gather the ruffian hordes!
Ruthless and fierce they come;
Even at the cannon's mouth
To blast the glory of your land,
Gentlemen of the South!

Ride forth in your stately pride,
Each bearing on his shield
Ensigns your fathers won of yore
On many a well-fought field.
Let this be your battle-cry,
Even to the cannon's mouth,
_Cor unum via una!_ Onward!
Gentlemen of the South!

Brave knights of a knightly race,
Gordon and Chambers and Gray,
Show to the minions of the North
How valor dares the fray!
Let them read on each spotless crest,
Even at the cannon's mouth,
_Decori decus addit avito_,
Gentlemen of the South!

Morrison, Douglas, Stuart,
Erskine and Bradford and West,
Your gauntlets on many a hill and plain
Have stood the battle's test.
_Animo non astutia!_
March to the cannon's mouth,
Heirs of the brave dead centuries,
Gentlemen of the South!

Call out your stalwart men,
Workers in brass and steel,
Bid the swart artisans come forth
At sound of the trumpet's peal;
Give them your war-cry, Erskine,
_Fight_ to the cannon's mouth--
Bid the men _forward_, Douglas, forward!
Yeomanry of the South!

Brave hunters, ye have met
The fierce black bear in the fray,
Ye have trailed the panther night by night,
Ye have chased the fox by day;
Your prancing chargers pant
To dash at the gray wolf's mouth,
Your arms are sure of their quarry--forward!
Gentlemen of the South!

Fight! that the lowly serf
And the high-born lady, still
May bide in their proud dependency,
Free subjects of your will;
Teach the base North how ill--
At the belching cannon's mouth--
He fares who touches your household gods,
Gentlemen of the South!

From mother, and wife, and child,
From faithful and happy slave,
Prayers for your sake ascend to Him
Whose arm is strong to save.
We check the gathering tears,
Though ye go to the cannon's mouth;
_Dominus providebit!_ Onward!
Gentlemen of the South!

DUNROBIN COTTAGE.

THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG.

BY HARRY MACARTHY.

We are a band of brothers, and natives to the soil,
Fighting for the property we gained by honest toil,
And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far:
Hurrah for the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!
_Chorus_--Hurrah! hurrah! for the bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star.

As long as the Union was faithful to her trust,
Like friends and like brothers, kind were we and just;
But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar,
We hoist on high the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

First, gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand;
Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand;
Next, quickly, Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida--
All raised the flag, the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Ye men of valor, gather round the banner of the right;
Texas and fair Louisiana join us in the fight.
Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesmen are;
Now rally round the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

And here's to brave Virginia! the Old Dominion State
With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate.
Impelled by her example, now other States prepare
To hoist on high the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Then here's to our Confederacy; strong we are and brave,
Like patriots of old we'll fight, our heritage to save;
And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer;
So cheer for the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Then cheer, boys, cheer, raise the joyous shout,
For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out;
And let another rousing cheer for Tennessee be given,
The single star of the bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be eleven!

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_."