Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

Huzza! huzza! let's raise the battle-cry,
And whip the Yankees from our land,
Or with them fall and die.
Rush on our Southron columns,
And make the brigands feel
That all the booty they will get,
Will be our Southron steel.
Huzza! huzza! let's raise (the) our banner high,
And nobly drive the Yankees out,
Or with them fall and die.

Rush on the columns--let every Southron brave
Nobly charge the accursed foe,
Or find a soldier's grave.
With bowie and with pike,
We'll rally to the field,
And bravely to the last we'll strike,
Resolved we'll never yield.
Huzza! huzza! etc.

We are fighting for our mothers, our sisters, and our wives;
For these, and our country's rights,
We'll sacrifice our lives.
Then, trusting still to Heaven,
We'll charge the invading host,
Till liberty and independence
Shall be the nation's boast.
Huzza! huzza! etc.

Then on with our columns--slay the vandal foe--
Beat them from our sunny soil,
And lay their colors low.
To the great God of nations
Our sacred cause confide,
For we are fighting for our liberty,
And He is on our side.
Huzza! huzza! etc.

A NEW RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.

WRITTEN FOR A LADY, BY JEFF. THOMPSON.

Missouri is the pride of the nation,
The hope of the brave and the free;
The Confederacy will furnish the rations,
But the fighting is trusted to thee;
For, brave boys, your soil has been noted,
And your flag has been trusted to you;
For freedom you have not yet voted,
But you fight for the Red, White, and Blue.
_Chorus_--Three cheers, etc.

The Stars shall shine bright in the heaven,
But the Stripes should be trailed in the dust,
For they are no longer the sign of the haven
Of the brave, of the free, or the just;
The Bars now in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the faithful and true;
O'er the home of the Southern brave
Shall float the new Red, White, and Blue.
_Chorus_--Three cheers, etc.

O JOHNNY BULL, MY JO JOHN.

AIR--"_John Anderson, my Jo_."

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

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! I wonder what you mean,
By sending all these frigates out, commissioned by the Queen;
You'll frighten off the Yankees, John, and why should you do so?
Best catch and sink, or burn them all, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Yankee hands profane,
Were laid in wanton insult upon the lion's mane,
He roared so loud and long, John, they quickly let him go,
And sank upon their trembling knees, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Lincoln first began
To try his hand at war, John, you were a peaceful man;
But now your blood is up, John, and well the Yankees know,
You play the ---- when you start, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John, let's take the field together,
And hunt the Yankee Doodles home, in spite of wind and weather,
And ere a twelvemonth roll around, to Boston we will go,
And eat our Christmas dinner there, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

"SOUTHRONS."

BY CATHERINE M. WARFIELD.

You can never win them back--
Never! never!
Though they perish on the track
Of your endeavor;
Though their corses strew the earth,
That SMILED upon their birth,
And blood pollutes each hearth-
Stone forever!

They have risen to a man,
Stern and fearless;
Of your curses and your ban
They are careless.
Every hand is on its knife,
Every gun is primed for strife,
Every PALM contains a life,
High and peerless!

_You have no such blood as theirs_
For the shedding:
In the veins of cavaliers
Was its heading:
_You_ have no such stately men
In your "abolition den,"
To march through foe and fen,
Nothing dreading!

They may fall before the fire
Of your legions,
Paid with gold for murderous hire--
_Bought allegiance_;
But for every drop you shed,
You shall have a mound of dead,
So that vultures may be fed
In our regions!

But the battle to the strong
Is not given,
When the Judge of Right and Wrong
Sits in heaven;
And the God of David still
Guides the pebble with _His will_;
There are giants yet to kill--
Wrongs unshriven!

"NIL DESPERANDUM."

_Inscribed to our Soldier-boys_,

BY ADA ROSE.

The Yankee hosts are coming,
With their glittering rows of steel,
And sharp, from many a skirmish,
Comes the rifle's ringing peal,
Warning you how very near
The Northern "Hessians" are,
With their overwhelming forces;
But ne'er must you despair.

For though they come on, surging
Like a mighty rolling sea,
They're _hired_ by their master, "Abe"--
_You_ fight for _Liberty_.
So bravely you must meet them,
And face the cannon's blare;
Your watchword, "Victory or Death,"
And never you despair.

True, the cloud is dark and lowering,
But behind a cheerful ray,
And the night is always darkest
Just before the break of day.
Have faith; the cloud will soon disperse,
For the light is surely there;
The day will soon be dawning,
So never you despair.

Go, emulate brave Washington,
Who led a little band,
To drive the proud oppressors
From off their happy land.
The enemy outnumbered,
By far, the "rebels" there;
But bravely they encountered them,
Nor yielded to despair.

'Tis said that "rebel" chieftain,
Ere they sought the battle's fray,
Would ask our Heavenly Father
To be their shield and stay;
And then they'd march with confidence,
Well knowing He'd be there;
And that must be the reason why
They never did despair.

Likewise, if you will ask Him,
He'll meet you on the field,
To be a guard about you,
And your support and shield;
The foe shall fly before you,
As you shout your victory there;
Then don't forget to plead with Him,
And never to despair.

PINE BLUFF, ARK.

ADDRESS OF THE WOMEN TO THE SOUTHERN TROOPS.

BY MRS. J. T. H. CROSS.

AIR--"_Bruce's Address_."

Southern men, unsheathe the sword,
Inland and along the board;
Backward drive the Northern horde--
Rush to Victory!

Let your banners kiss the sky,
Be "The Right" your battle cry!
Be the God of Battles nigh--
Crown you in the fight!

Pressing back the tears that start,
We behold your hosts depart,
Saying, with heroic heart,
Clothe your arms with might!

Lower the proud oppressor's crest!
Or, if he should prove the best,
Dead, not dishonored, rest
On the field of blood!

We--may God so give us grace!--
Sons will rear, to take your place;
Strong the foemen's steel to face--
Strong in heart and hand!

Death your serried ranks may sweep,
Proud shall be the tears we weep--
Sacredly our hearts shall keep
Memory of your deeds!

Though our land be left forlorn,
Spirit of the Southron-born
Northern rage shall laugh to scorn--
Northern hosts defy.

He that last is doomed to die
Shall, with his expiring sigh,
Send aloft the battle-cry,
"God defend the Right!"

THE CAVALIERS OF DIXIE.

BY BENJAMIN F. PORTER.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!
Who guard the Southern shores,
Whose standards brave the battle storm
Which o'er our border roars;
Your glorious sabers draw once more,
And charge the Northern foe;
And reap their columns deep,
Where the raging tempests blow,
And the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!
Though dark the tempest lower,
What arms will wear the tyrants chains,
What dastard heart will cower?
Bright o'er the night a sign shall rise
To lead to victory!
And your swords reap their hordes,
Where the battle tempests blow;
Where the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.

The South! she needs no ramparts,
No lofty towers to shield;
Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong,
Breastworks that never yield!
The thunders of your battle blades
Shall sweep the servile foe;
While their gore stains the shore,
Where the battle tempests blow;
Where the iron hail in floods descends
And the bloody torrents flow.

The battle-flag of Dixie!
With crimson field shall flame,
Her azure cross and silver stars
Shall light her sons to fame!
When peace with olive-branch returns,
That flag's white folds shall glow
Still bright on every height,
When storm has ceased to blow,
And the battle tempests roar no more;
Nor the bloody torrents flow.

Oh! battle-flag of Dixie!
Long, long, triumphant wave!
Where'er the storms of battle roar,
Or victory crowns the brave!
The Cavaliers of Dixie!
In woman's song shall glow
The fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow,
When the battle tempests rage no more
Nor the bloody torrents flow.[10]

LAND OF KING COTTON.

BY JO. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO.

AIR--"_Red, White, and Blue_."

Oh! Dixie, the land of King Cotton,
The home of the brave and the free;
A nation by Freedom begotten,
The terror of despots to be;
Wherever thy banner is streaming,
Base tyranny quails at thy feet,
And Liberty's sunlight is beaming,
In splendor of majesty sweet.
_Chorus_--Three cheers for our army so true,
Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee,
Beauregard, and our Davis, forever;
The pride of the brave and the free!

When Liberty sounds her war-rattle,
Demanding her right and her due,
The first land who rallies to battle
Is Dixie, the shrine of the true;
Thick as leaves of the forest in summer,
Her brave sons will rise on each plain;
And strike, until each vandal comer
Lies dead on the soil he would stain.
Three cheers for our army, etc.

May the names of the dead, that we cherish,
Fill memory's cup to the brim;
May the laurels they've won never perish,
Nor "star of their glory grow dim;"
May the States of the South never sever,
But champions of freedom e'er be;
May they flourish, Confed'rate forever,
The boast of the brave and the free.
Three cheers for our army, etc.[11]

THE GUERILLAS.

BY S. TEACKLE WALLIS.

Awake and to horse, my brothers!
For the dawn is glimmering gray,
And hark! in the crackling brushwood
There are feet that tread this way.

"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?"
"O God! I sicken to tell;
For the earth seems earth no longer,
And its sights are sights of hell!

"From the far-off conquered cities
Comes a voice of stifled wail,
And the shrieks and moans of the houseless
Ring out, like a dirge on the gale.

"I've seen from the smoking village
Our mothers and daughters fly;
I've seen where the little children
Sank down in the furrows to die.

"On the banks of the battle-stained river
I stood as the moonlight shone,
And it glared on the face of my brother,
As the sad wave swept him on.

"Where my home was glad, are ashes,
And horrors and shame had been there,
For I found on the fallen lintel
This tress of my wife's torn hair!

"They are turning the slaves upon us,
And with more than the fiend's worst art,
Have uncovered the fire of the savage,
That slept in his untaught heart!

"The ties to our hearths that bound him,
They have rent with curses away,
And maddened him, with their madness,
To be almost as brutal as they.

"With halter, and torch, and Bible,
And hymns to the sound of the drum,
They preach the gospel of murder,
And pray for lust's kingdom to come.

"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers!
Look up to the rising sun,
And ask of the God who shines there,
Whether deeds like these shall be done!

"Wherever the vandal cometh,
Press home to his heart with your steel,
And when at his bosom you can not,
Like the serpent, go strike at his heel.

"Through thicket and wood, go hunt him,
Creep up to his camp-fire side,
And let ten of his corpses blacken
Where one of our brothers hath died.

"In his fainting, foot-sore marches,
In his flight from the stricken fray,
In the snare of the lonely ambush,
The debts we owe him, pay.

"In God's hand alone is vengeance,
But he strikes with the hands of men,
And his blight would wither our manhood,
If we smite not the smiter again.

"By the graves where our fathers slumber,
By the shrines where our mothers prayed,
By our homes, and hopes, and freedom,
Let every man swear on his blade,

"That he will not sheathe nor stay it,
Till from point to hilt it glow
With the flush of Almighty vengeance,
In the blood of the felon foe."

They swore--and the answering sunlight
Leaped red from their lifted swords,
And the hate in their hearts made echo
To the wrath in their burning words.

There's weeping in all New England,
And by Schuylkill's banks a knell,
And the widows there and the orphans,
How the oath was kept, can tell.[12]

SOUTHERN MARSEILLAISE.

Ye men of Southern hearts and feeling,
Arm, Arm! your struggling country calls--
Hear ye the guns now loudly pealing,
From Sumter's high embattled walls!
Shall a fanatic horde in power
Send forth a base and hireling band,
To desolate our happy land,
And make our Southern freemen cower.
To arms, to arms! each one,
The sword unsheathe, raise the gun,
Then on, rush on, ye brave and free,
To death or victory.

Now clouds of war begin to gather,
And black and murky is our sky--
Shall we submit--no, never, never!
Let death or freedom be our cry--
In Heaven's justice firm relying,
We'll nobly struggle to be free,
And bravely gain our liberty,
Or die, our Northern foes defying.
To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

The peaceful homes of Texas burning,
And Harper's Ferry's blood-stained soil,
Proclaim how strong their hearts are yearning
For murder, pillage, crime, and spoil.
Shall we our feelings longer smother,
And bear with patience yet our wrongs,
Their jeers, their crimes, their taunts and thongs,
And greet them still as friend and brother?
To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

Their tyranny we'll bear no longer,
But burst asunder every tie,
Although in numbers they are stronger,
We will be free, or we will die!
Too long the South has wept, bewailing
That falsehood's dagger Yankees wield,
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
To arms, to arms, each one, etc.

_Beauregard Songster._

RICHMOND ON THE JAMES.

BY G. T. BURGESS.

A soldier of our army lay gasping on the field,
When battle's shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield.
He fell a youthful hero, before the foemen's aims,
On a blood-red field near Richmond, near Richmond on the James.

But one still stood beside him, his comrade in the fray,
They had been friends together through boyhood's happy day,
And side by side had struggled on field of blood and flames,
To part that eve near Richmond, near Richmond on the James.

He said, "I charge thee, comrade, the friend in days of yore,
Of the far, far distant dear ones that I shall see no more,
Though scarce my lips can whisper their dear and well-known names,
To bear to them my blessing from Richmond on the James.

"Bear my good sword to my brother, and the badge upon my breast,
To the young and gentle sister that I used to love the best;
But one lock from my forehead give my mother who still dreams
Of her soldier boy near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

"Oh, I wish that mother's arms were folded round me now,
That her gentle hand could linger one moment on my brow,
But I know that she is praying where our blessed hearth-light gleams,
For her soldier's safe return from Richmond on the James.

"And on my heart, dear comrade, close lay those nut-brown braids,
Of one who was the fairest of all our village maids;
We were to have been wedded, but death the bridegroom claims,
And she is far, that loves me, from Richmond on the James.

"Oh, does the pale face haunt her, dear friend, that looks on thee?
Or is she laughing, singing in careless girlish glee?
It may be she is joyous, and loves but joyous themes,
Nor dreams her love lies bleeding near Richmond on the James.

"And though I know, dear comrade, thou'lt miss me for a while,
When their faces--all that loved thee--again on thee shall smile;
Again thou'lt be the foremost in all their youthful games,
But I shall lie near Richmond--near Richmond on the James."

And far from all that loved him, that youthful soldier sleeps,
Unknown among the thousands of those his country weeps;
But no higher heart nor braver, than his, at sunset's beams,
Was laid that eve near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

The land is filled with mourning, from hall and cot left lone,
We miss the well-known faces that used to greet our own;
And long poor wives and mothers shall weep, and titled dames,
To hear the name of Richmond--of Richmond on the James.

FROM THE SOUTH TO THE NORTH.

BY C. L. S.

There is no union when the hearts
That once were bound together
Have felt the stroke that coldly parts
All kindly ties forever.
Then oh! your cruel hands draw back,
And let us be divided
In peace, since it is proved we lack
The grace to live united.

We can not bear your scorn and pride,
Your malice and your taunting,
That have for years our patience tried--
Your hypocritic canting.
We WILL not bow our necks beneath
The yoke that you decree us,
We WILL be free, though only death
Should have the power to free us!

Oh, Southern sons are bold to dare,
And Southern hearts courageous.
Nor meekly will they longer bear
Oppression so outrageous.
And you shall feel our honest wrath,
If hearts so cold _can_ feel;
Shall meet us in your Southern path
And prove our Southern steel.

We ask no favor at your hand,
No gifts and no affection;
But only peace upon our land,
And none of your protection.
We ask you now, henceforth, to know
We are a separate nation;
And be assured we'll fully show
We scorn your "proclamation."

We were not first to break the peace,
That blessed our happy land;
We loved the quiet, calm, and ease,
Too well to raise a hand,
Till fierce oppression stronger grew,
And bitter were your sneers--
Then to our land we must be true,
Or show a coward's fears!

We loved our banner while it waved
An emblem of our Union,
The fiercest danger we had braved
To guard that sweet communion.
But when it proved that "stripes" alone
Were for our sunny South,
And all the "stars" in triumph shone
Above the chilly North--

Then, not till then, our voices rose
In one tumultuous wave--
We WILL the tyranny oppose,
Or find a bloody grave!
Another flag shall lead our hosts
To battle on the plain,
The "rebels" will defy your boasts,
And prove your sneering vain!

There is no danger we could fear--
No hardship or privation--
To free the land we hold so dear,
From tyrannous dictation.
Blockade her ports--her seas shall swell
Beneath your ships of war,
And every breeze in anger tell
Your tyranny afar.

Her wealth may fail--her commerce droop
With every foreign nation;
But mark you, if her pride shall stoop,
Or her determination!
The products of her fields will be
For food and raiment too--
From mountain cliff to rolling sea
Her children will be true.

Her banner may not always wave
On victory's fickle breath,
The young, chivalrous, and the brave,
May feel the hand of death.
But, when her gallant sons have died,
Her daughters will remain--
Nor crushed will be the Southern pride,
Till they too, all are slain.

A BALLAD OF THE WAR.

BY GEORGE HERBERT SASS, OF S. C.

Watchman, what of the night?
Through the city's darkening street,
Silent and slow, the guardsmen go
On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down,
Falleth the wintry rain;
And the cold gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed,
As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows,
The sleet falls heavy and chill,
And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire,
As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.

Silent is all without
Save the sentry's challenge grim,
And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town
And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night?
Hark! from the old church tower
Rings loud and clear, on the wintry air,
The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in,
A summons deep and rude,
The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum
Of a gathering multitude.

And the dim and flickering torch
Sheds a red and lurid glare,
O'er the long dark line, where bayonets shine
Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard:
"Rest on your arms, my men."
Then the muskets clank through each serried rank,
And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes
Gaze down on that grim array,
For a rumor hath spread that that column dread
Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels,"
Whose camp lies heavy and still,
Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat
On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint,
As she thinks of her darling one,
Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky,
Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too,
Is the cheek of the fair young wife;
And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him
She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons,
Are the "rebels" the foe would smite,
And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear,
And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is,
There is each loving heart;
And sadly they gaze by the torch's blaze,
And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp,
None from that anxious throng?
Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town--
The way is dark and long.

No _man_ is left behind,
None that is brave and true,
And the bayonets bright, in the lurid light,
With menace stern shine through.

Guarded is every street,
Brutal the hireling foe;
Is there one heart here will boldly dare
So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room,
Alone a woman kneels,
With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face
And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow,
A matron, she, and fair,
Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak
Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer
Her pale lips move, and then,
Through the dreary night, like an angel bright,
On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way,
Through the lonely, misty street,
Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread
Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, ay, onward still,
Far past the weary town,
Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees,
And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on,
Breasting the cold, dank rain,
And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill
Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears
A dull and muffled tramp;
But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam
Shines out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge,
Her work of love is done;
She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height
Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden,
Who saved from a ruthless foe
Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown,
Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic
How a noble Scottish maid
Her own life gave, her king to save
From foul assassin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor,
Shall live in lasting fame,
Oh, close beside, in grateful pride,
We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children
Shall cluster round our knee,
With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days
When we swore that we would be free,

We'll tell them the thrilling story,
And we'll say to each childish heart,
"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need,
Be ready to do thy part."

_Southern Field and Fireside._

LAND OF THE SOUTH.

BY A. F. LEONARD.

AIR--"_Friend of my Soul_."

Land of the South! the fairest land
Beneath Columbia's sky!
Proudly her hills of freedom stand,
Her plains in beauty lie.
Her dotted fields, her traversed streams
Their annual wealth renew.
Land of the South! in brightest dreams
No dearer spot we view.

Men of the South! a free-born race,
They vouch a patriot line;
Ready the foemen's van to face,
And guard their country's shrine.
By sire and son a haloing light
Through time is borne along--
They "nothing ask but what is right,
And yield to nothing wrong."

Fair of the South! rare beauty's crown
Ye wear with matchless grace;
No classic fair of old renown
Deserve a higher place.
Your vestal robes alike become
The palace and the cot;
Wives, mothers, daughters! every home
Ye make a cherished spot.

Flag of the South! aye, fling its folds
Upon the kindred breeze;
Emblem of dread to tyrant holds--
Of freedom on the seas.
Forever may its stars and stripes
In cloudless glory wave;
Red, white, and blue--eternal types
Of nations free and brave!

States of the South! the patriot's boast!
Here equal laws have sway;
Nor tyrant lord, nor despot host,
Upon the weak may prey.
Then let them rule from sea to sea,
And crown the queenly isle--
Union of love and liberty,
'Neath Heaven's approving smile!

God of the South! protect this land
From false and open foes!
Guided by Thine all-ruling hand,
In vain will hate oppose.
So mote the ship of State move on
Upon the unfathomed sea;
Gallantly o'er its surges borne,
The bulwark of the free.

THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET!

BY JAS. R. RANDALL.

By blue Patapsco's billowy dash,
The tyrant's war-shout comes,
Along with the cymbal's fitful clash,
And the growl of his sullen drums.
We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills,
And we shall not forgive or forget;
There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills,
There's life in the old land yet!

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead;
We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred;
We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph tread
Of the peerless BEAUREGARD.
Then woe to your vile, polluting horde,
When the Southern braves are met;
There's faith in the victor's stainless sword,
There's life in the old land yet!

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind,
With the clank of an iron chain,
The spirit of freedom sings in the wind,
O'er _Merryman_, _Thomas_, and _Kane_;
And we, though we smite not, are not thralls,
Are piling a gory debt;
While down by McHenry's dungeon-walls
_There's life in the old land yet_!

Our women have hung their harps away,
And they scowl on your brutal bands,
While the nimble poignard dares the day,
In their dear defiant hands.
They will strip their tresses to string our bows,
Ere the Northern sun is set;
There's faith in their unrelenting woes,
There's life in the old land yet!

There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
'Tis vocal without noise,
It gushed o'er Manassas's solemn plains,
From the blood of the MARYLAND BOYS!
That blood shall cry aloud, and rise
With an everlasting threat;
By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies.
_There's life in the old land yet!_

THE MEN.

BY MAURICE BELL.

In the dusk of the forest shade
A sallow and dusty group reclined;
Gallops a horseman up the glade--
"Where will I your leader find?
Tidings I bring from the morning's scout--
I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen."
"Well, sir, stay not hereabout,
Here are only a few of 'the men.'

"Here no collar has bar or star,
No rich lacing adorns a sleeve;
Further on our officers are,
Let them your news receive.
Higher up, on the hill up there,
Overlooking this shady glen,
There are their quarters--don't stop here,
We are only some of 'the men.'

"Yet stay, courier, if you bear
Tidings that the fight is near,
Tell them we're ready, and that where
They wish us to be we'll soon appear;
Tell them only to let us know
Where to form our ranks, and when;
And we'll teach the vaunting foe
That they've met a few of 'the men.'

"We're _the men_, though our clothes are worn--
We're _the men_, though we wear no lace--
We're _the men_, who the foe have torn,
And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace;
We're the men who have triumphed before--
We're the men who will triumph again;
For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar,
And the clashing bayonets--'_we're the men_.'

"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars,
Of garments faded, and soiled and bare,
Yet who have for the 'stars and bars'
Praise, and homage, and dainty fare;
Mock the wearers and pass them on,
Refuse them kindly word, and then
Know, if your freedom is ever won
By human agents--_these are the men_!"

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY J. R. BARRICK.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Thy stars shall cheer each eye,
Thy folds a sacred banner be,
To all beneath our sky;
From where the blue Ohio flows,
Far to the sea-gulf's stream,
Borne by each gentle breath that blows,
Thy hues shall flush and gleam.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Type of a new estate,
Thy folds shall wave o'er land and sea,
And heart and home elate;
At thy approach shall tyrants quail
And despots, trembling, flee;
Nor wrong thy sway of right assail--
Nought mar thy liberty.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Bright symbol of a land
Wrung from the grasp of tyranny,
Ere fettered heart and hand;
Freedom fixed in thy firm embrace,
A home for age shall find,
Linking the high hopes of our race
With the grand march of mind.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
The one to which we clung
In years agone, hath ceased to be
The pride on which we hung;
Long trampled in the dust, that flag
Hath lost the charm it bore;
No longer vale, and glen, and crag,
Swell with its praise of yore.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Type of the Land of Flowers;
Thy stars shall light our victory
O'er all contending powers;
Where law and order still shall reign,
Thou shalt a signal be
To man, that he may still attain
The boon of Liberty!

GLASGOW, KY.

"STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY."

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

We see him now--the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew,
The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well;
Says he, "That's Banks--he's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well,
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old Blue-Light's going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it's his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
_In forma pauperis_ to God--
"Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod!
Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."

He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off--we'll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
"Quick-step! we're with him before dawn!"
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and by George!
Here's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Yankees, whipped before;
"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!"
Is "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah! widow, read with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand.
Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn.
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in "Stonewall's way."

GONE TO THE BATTLE-FIELD.

BY JOHN ANTROBUR.

The reaper has left the field,
The mower has left the plain;
And the reaper's hook, and the mower's scythe,
Are changed to the sword again;
For the voice of a hundred years ago,
When Freedom struck her mightiest blow,
Thrills every heart and brain.

The way-side mill is still,
And the wheel drips all alone,
For the miller's brother, and son, and sire,
And the miller's self have gone;
And their wives and daughters, tarrying still,
With smiles and tears about the mill,
Wave, wave their heroes on.

The grain is full and ripe,
And the harvest-moon is nigh,
But the farmer's son is among the slain,
And the father heard the cry;
And his ancient eyes flashed fires of old,
His hoary head rose strong and bold,
As, wild, he hurried by.

The corn is yet a-field,
But many a stalk is red;
Yet not with the autumn-tassel stained,
But the blood of heroes shed;
And their blood cries out from heaps of slain:
Oh, brothers, leave the sheaves of grain;
On, to the fields of the dead!

By every quiet farm,
Whence father and son had gone,
The fairest daughters of the land,
Brave-hearted, cheer us on,
With the tender smiles that shelter tears,
And words to thrill a soldier's ears,
When bloody fields are won.

Scarcely the form of man
Was seen on the long highway;
But patriot age, whose withered hands
Stretched feebly up to pray,
And children whose voices haunt us still,
Gathered on every knoll and hill,
Cheering us on our way.

Yonder, with feeble limbs,
A matron, with silver hair,
Knelt, trembling, down on the soldier's path,
And breathed to heaven a prayer,
With quivering lips, with streaming eyes:
"O God! preserve these gallant boys;
In battle, be Thou there!"

O, soldiers! such as these
Like household memories come;
For a thousand prayers ascend to-day
From those we left at home;
For the red, red field to-night may be
Our couch, our grave--while Victory
Shall shout above our tomb.

In battle's bloody hour
These pictures shall arise,
Of mothers, sisters, wives, and homes,
And red and streaming eyes;
And every arm shall stronger be,
For home, for God, for liberty,
And strike, while mercy dies.

HEADQUARTERS, _9th Regt. Virginia Vols._

RE-ENLISTMENT.

BY MRS. MARGARITA J. CANEDO.

What! shall we now throw down the blade,
And doff the helmet from our brows?
_Now_ see our holy cause betrayed,
And recreant prove to all our vows?
When first we drew these patriot swords,
"A nation's freedom!" was the cry;
Our faith was pledged in these proud words,
And heaven has sealed the oath on high.

Since then on dear-bought battle-plains
We've seen our martyr brethren die,
While on the soil that drank those stains,
Their native earth where now they lie,
The foe now treads--th' exulting foe,
And desecrates the hero-graves.
Say, can we peace or honor know
While there the accursed banner waves?

Dear are our homes, that smile afar;
Oft in the weary soldier's dreams,
While resting from the toils of war,
He sees the light that round them beams.
Dear are the loved and lovely maids
Shrined in the patriot soldier's heart;
Yet, while the foe our land invades,
In vain the longing tear may start.

_No!_ let the despot's hireling band,
Who feel not honor--know not faith,
Who war not for their native land,
Fly trembling from a dreaded death.
Our lives are to our country pledged,
Until her last red field is won;
For "liberty or death" is waged
The war where fights her faithful son.

Then plant that flag-staff in the earth,
And round it rally, every son
Who loves the State that gave him birth,
Till her proud sovereignty be won.
What though our limbs be weak with toil,
What though we bear full many a scar;
Huzza! here's to our native soil,
_We re-enlist, and for the war_!

SOUTHLAND.

THE PRIZE SONG.[13]

They sing of the East,
With its flowery feast,
And clime of the North, with its mountains of snow;
But give me the land
Where the breezes blow bland,
O'er realms of magnolia and myrtle below.
The land of the South,
The fair sunny South,
The flower-crowned South,
In its _grandeur_ for me.

Her sons are aye brave,
And no chains can enslave,
Though countless the hordes of their foemen may be;
Ah! see, even now,
As with battle-stained brow,
They vanquish the Northmen on land and on sea!
The land of the South,
The young gallant South,
The invincible South,
In its _valor_ for me.

Her daughters are fair
As the pure lilies there,
And cheer her brave soldiers for freedom to die;
Their smiles are the light
Of the war-clouded night,
Their tears are sweet dew-drops distilled from the sky.
The land of the South,
The sweet rosy South,
The starry-gemmed South,
In its _beauty_ for me!

In green blossomed dales,
And in violet vales,
And fields white with cotton, its dwellings once stood;
The spoilers now seek
Their vile vengeance to wreak,
And darken this Eden with ashes and blood!
The land of the South,
The opulent South,
The long-plundered South,
In its _richness_ for me!

Oh, who would not stand
With his life in his hand,
To shield such a land from the feet of the foe?
God made it thus free,
And oh, perish must we,
Before it can be in bondage laid low!
The land of the South,
The proud sovereign South,
The God-shielded South,
In its _freedom_ for me!

BEYOND THE POTOMAC.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.[14]

They slept on the fields which their valor had won!
But arose with the first early blush of the sun,
For they knew that a great deed remained to be done,
When they passed o'er the River.

They rose with the sun, and caught life from his light--
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight--
And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might,
Marching swift for the River.

On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills--
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills--
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills,
At the thought of the River.

On! the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes,
It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise,
And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies,
O'er the path to the River.

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore,
On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before,
Like the wings of Death-angels swept fast to the shore,
The green shore of the River.

As they march--from the hill-side, the hamlet, the stream--
Gaunt throngs, whom the Foeman had manacled, teem,
Like men just roused from some terrible dream,
To pass o'er the River.

They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair,
And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair,
While a peal as of victory swells on the air,
Rolling out to the River.

And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread,
Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed,
And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead--
Ay! press on to the River.

On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills,
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills,
As they pause by the River.

Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn,
At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn,
And she turned on the Foeman full statured in scorn,
Pointing stern to the River.

And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her breast,
With her low-lying billows all bright in the west,
For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest
Of the fair rolling River.

Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide.
(Hark, Despot! and hear the wild knell of your pride,
Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side
Of the calm flowing River.)

'Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall,
Vain! vain! to his God swells a desolate call,
For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall,
Since they passed o'er the River.

TRUE TO THE GRAY.

BY PEARL RIVERS.

I can not listen to your words, the land is long and wide;
Go seek some happy Northern girl to be your loving bride;
My brothers they were soldiers--the youngest of the three
Was slain while fighting by the side of gallant FITZHUGH LEE!

They left his body on the field (your side the day had won),
A soldier spurn'd him with his foot--_you_ might have been the one;
My lover was a soldier--he belonged to GORDON'S band;
A saber pierced his gallant heart--_yours_ might have been the hand.

He reel'd and fell, but was not dead, a horseman spurred his steed,
And trampled on the dying brain--_you_ may have done the deed:
I hold no hatred in my heart, no cold, unrighteous pride,
For many a gallant soldier fought upon the other side:

But still I can not kiss the hand that smote my country sore,
Nor love the foes who trampled down the colors that she bore;
Between my heart and yours there rolls a deep and crimson tide--
My brother's and my lover's blood forbid me be your bride.

The girls who loved the boys in gray--the girls to country true--
May ne'er in wedlock give their hands to those who wore the blue.

TELL THE BOYS THE WAR IS ENDED.

BY EMILY J. MOORE.

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

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
These were all the words he said;
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
In an instant more was dead.
Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful
Was the smile upon his face,
While the pain, of late so fearful,
Had not left the slightest trace.

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
And with heavenly visions bright
Thoughts of comrades loved were blended,
As his spirit took its flight.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
"Grant, O God, it may be so,"
Was the prayer which then ascended,
In a whisper deep, though low.

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
And his warfare then was o'er,
As by angel bands attended,
He departed from earth's shore.
Bursting shells and cannons roaring
Could not rouse him by their din;
He to better worlds was soaring,
Far from war, and pain, and sin.

BURN THE COTTON.

BY ESTELLE.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Let the solemn triumph rise;
Fanned by Freedom's breath, its white wing
Spreads her banner to the skies.
"Melt the bells" is but re-echoed
O'er our valley's gathered pride,
Lay the cotton on the altar
Where our loved have nobly died.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Does this sacrifice compare
With the battle-field red flowing
With the brave hearts offered there?
They no more shall strike for Freedom,
Never worship at her shrine--
To hurl back the fell invader,
To avenge them--it is thine.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Down the Mississippi's tide
Let it thunder, till its valleys
Catch the echo, far and wide--
Frowning in its wrath, it rises,
Spreads its dark wing o'er the land,
Vetoes, in its swelling fury,
Gain, to lure the robber band.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Pile the white fleece high and higher,
Till the heavens reflect the glory
Kindled by the patriot's fire.
This shall teach the haughty foeman,
Startle him too late, to find
Chains were never made for freemen,
Chains the Southern heart to bind.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Flaming sparks, instead of seed,
Shall be sown in death and terror
To the mongrel Yankee breed;
And the _crowns_ who nod attendance
On the treacherous Federal's lure,
Feel too late the want and ruin,
Unjust favor can not cure.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Let the record boldly stand;
Not a bale for "filthy lucre"--
_All_ for Freedom to our land.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
From its ashes there shall spring
Heralds of a new-born nation,
Claiming still that "Cotton's King!"

MEMPHIS, TENN., _May 16, 1862_.

THE PRINTERS OF VIRGINIA TO "OLD ABE."

BY HARRY C. TREAKLE.

Though we're exempt, we're not the _metal_
To keep in when duty calls;
But onward we will _press_, to settle
This knotty _case_, with leaden _balls_;
For our dear old mother State, the _fount_
From which we each our life did _take_,
Is _locked up_ by a Vandal horde,
And the honor of the _craft_'s at stake.

For _lean-faced_ Lincoln's after us--
His slim _shanks_ moving like a scout;
But long before his _job_ is done,
He'll find that all his _quads_ are _out_.
For with Lee our _headline_--worthy _guide_--
We, _galley_-slaves will never be,
But still _press_ onward by his side,
For that _fat take_, sweet liberty!

Soon Abe will find what he's about
Will cost him such a pile of rocks,
Before his cherished _work_ is _out_,
He'll have no _sorts_ in any _box_!
For his _bank_ is now so very low,
He scarce can _chase_ up _quoins_ to pay
The hired scum, the foreign foe,
Who comes to steal our rights away.

And his _chums_ now see, by his _foul matter_,
To set _clean proof_ he ne'er was _cast_,
And fears are felt that the gaunt old _ratter_
Will go _broadside_ to _hell_ at last,
Where his friend, the _devil_, will welcome him,
With _accents_ sweet--to his bosom fly,
_Revise_ his _foul proof-sheets_ once more,
And _knock_ his naked _form_ in _pi_.

And so to rush the base old _monk_ along,
And bring the quiet soon about,
We'll swell our _lines_ to _columns_ strong,
And give no quarters till he's _out_;
For Southern _jours._ now take a _stand_,
Their _foremen_ marshaled at their _head_,
And each with _shooting-stick_ in hand,
Resolved they will his _matter lead_.

And while a foe is in the field,
Our _hands_ still steady, our _leaders_ cool,
Death we'll _em-brace_ before we'll yield;
But, by God's help, we'll _stick_ and _rule_,
And when, in after years to come,
Our history's read by youth and sage,
They'll make a _side-note_ of "well done,"
On this our _volume's_ brightest _page_.

NORFOLK, VA., _April 4, 1862_.

THE MARSEILLES HYMN.

_Translated and adapted as an ode_,

BY B. F. PORTER, OF ALABAMA.

Sons of the South, arise! awake! be free!
Behold! the day of Southern glory comes.
See where the blood-stained flag of tyranny
Pollutes the air that breathes around your homes.
Rise! Southern men, from villages and farms,
Cry vengeance! Oh! shall worse than pirate slaves
Strangle your children in their mothers' arms,
And spit on dust that fills your fathers' graves?
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

What would these men, whose lives black treachery stains--
Conspirators, to plunder long endeared?
For whom these vile, these ignominious chains--
These fetters, for our brother's hands prepared?
Sons of the South, for us! Oh! bitter thought!
What transports should our burning souls inspire!
Shall Southern men, by mercenaries bought,
Be sold to vassalage, from son to sire?
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

What! shall this groveling race, who cringe for gold,
Make laws for Southern men, on Southern soil?
Shall these degenerate hordes, to avarice sold,
Crush freedom's sons, and Freedom's altars spoil?
Great God! oh! by these iron-shackled hands,
Ne'er shall our necks beneath their yokes be led.
Of despots such as these, shall Southern bands
Ne'er own the mastery, till every heart is dead.
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

Tremble, O tyrants! and you, perfidious tools,
Of every race and party long the scorn!
Tremble, ye base, ye parricidal fools,
The doom of treachery is already born.
All Southern men are heroes in the fray;
If fall they must, o'erpowered in the field,
Long as the race endures, each child for aye
Shall from his cradle strike the sounding shield.
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

Sons of the South! magnanimous in war,
Strike or withhold, as honor bids, your blows.
Spare, if you will, those victims from afar,
Who, ignorant of liberty, become your foes.
But for these bastards of a free-born bed,
These parasites, in Freedom's arms caressed,
These beasts, by sin and spoil and rapine bred,
Who dig for blood, deep in their mother's breast,
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

O sacred love of country! For the South,
Come, brave avengers, rush to every field.
Let cries of "Liberty" from every mouth
Sound the alarm, till the base traitors yield.
Under our glorious flag, let Victory
Respond to Freedom's call. Wipe off the stain
Of the invaders' feet. Dying, they will see
Thy triumph, and the land redeemed again.
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

_Nashville Gazette._

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON.

BY THE EXILE.

Aye, toll! toll! toll!
Toll the funeral bell!
And let its mournful echoes roll
From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole,
O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul
That ever in battle fell.

Yes, weep! weep! weep!
Weep for the hero fled!
For death, the greatest of soldiers, at last
Has over our leader his black pall cast,
And from us his noble form hath passed
To the home of the mighty dead.

Then toll! and weep! and mourn!
Mourn the fall of the brave!
For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation proud,
At whose very name the enemy cowed,
With the "crimson cross" for his martial shroud,
Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave.

His form has passed away;
His voice is silent and still;
No more at the head of "the old brigade,"
The daring men who were never dismayed,
Will he lead them to glory that never can fade--
Stonewall of the Iron Will!

He fell as a hero should fall;
'Mid the thunder of war he died.
While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared,
And the blood of the friend and foeman poured,
He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword
That erst was the nation's pride.

Virginia, his mother, is bowed;
Her tread is heavy and slow.
From all the South comes a wailing moan,
And mountains and valleys re-echo the groan,
For the gallant chief of her clans has flown,
And a nation is filled with woe.

Rest, warrior! rest!
Rest in thy laureled tomb!
Thy mem'ry shall live through all of earth's years,
And thy name still excite the despot's fears,
While o'er thee shall fall a nation's tears;
Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY MRS. C. D. ELDER.

Bright banner of freedom, with pride I unfold thee;
Fair flag of my country, with love I behold thee,
Gleaming above us, in freshness and youth,
Emblem of liberty--symbol of truth;
For this flag of my country in triumph shall wave
O'er the Southerner's home and the Southerner's grave.

All bright are the stars that are beaming upon us,
And bold are the bars that are gleaming above us;
The one shall increase in their number and light,
The other grow bolder in power and might;
For this flag of my country in triumph shall wave
O'er the Southerner's home or the Southerner's grave.

Those bars of bright red show our firm resolution
To die, if need be, shielding thee from pollution;
For man in this hour must give all he holds dear,
And woman her prayers and her words of high cheer,
If they wish this fair banner in triumph to wave
O'er the Southerner's home and the Southerner's grave.

To the great God of battles we look with reliance;
On our fierce Northern foe with contempt and defiance;
For the South shall smile on in her fragrance and bloom
When the North is fast sinking in silence and gloom;
For the flag of our country in triumph must wave
O'er the Southerner's home or the Southerner's grave.

NEW ORLEANS, LA.

THE SOUTH.

BY CHARLIE WILDWOOD.