Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Come! come! come!
Come, brothers you are called;
Come, each one unappalled;
Come and defend your home!

Come! come! come!
The cannon's belching roar,
The musket's deadly pour--
Cry, men, defend your home!

Come! come! come!
Let the invitation sound,
Through town and country round,
Come, men, defend your home!

Come! come! come!
With a prayer to Him on high;
God grant us victory,
While fighting for our home.

Come! come! come!
Wait not, lest you live to see
Your loved ones crushed by tyranny,
And desolate your home!

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC TO-NIGHT.

By LAMAR FONTAINE.

Music by J. H. HEWETT.

[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of a battle;
Not an officer lost! only one of the men
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
And their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon,
And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night wind
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed,
Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender.
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"

The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then--
That night, when the love, yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers his gun closer up to his breast,
As if to keep down the heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,
And his footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha, Mary, good-by!"
And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
And the picket's off duty forever!

"INDEPENDENCE DAY."

Oh, Freedom is a blessed thing!
And men have marched in stricken fields,
And fought, and bled, to nobly grasp
The glorious fruit that freedom yields.
Then let the banner float the air,
The fairest ones of freedom's types--
The stars are fading one by one--
What matter? We have still the stripes!
Oh! happy men of Maryland,
Remember! we have still the stripes!

Why heed the cannon in your streets,
The bayonets that block your way?
Rejoice, for you were free men once,
And this is, "Independence Day."
Then let the banner float the air,
The fairest one of freedom's types--
The stars are fading one by one--
What matter? we have still the stripes!
Oh! happy men of Maryland,
Remember! we have still the stripes!

FLIGHT OF DOODLES.

I come from old Manassas, with a pocket full of fun--
I killed forty Yankees with a single-barrelled gun;
It don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
Big Yankee, little Yankee, all run or die.

I saw all the Yankees at Bull Run,
They fought like the devil when the battle first begun,
But it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you or I
They took to their heels, boys, and you ought to see 'em fly.

I saw old Fuss-and-Feathers Scott, twenty miles away,
His horses stuck up their ears, and you ought to hear 'em neigh;
But it don't make niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
Old Scott fled like the devil, boys; root, hog, or die.

I then saw a "Tiger," from the old Crescent City,
He cut down the Yankees without any pity:
Oh! it don't make a diff-a-bitterence to neither you nor I,
We whipped the Yankee boys, and made the boobies cry.

I saw South Carolina, the first in the cause,
Shake the dirty Yankees till she broke all their jaws;
Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
South Carolina give 'em--boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw old Virginia, standing firm and true,
She fought mighty hard to whip the dirty crew;
Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
Old Virginia's blood and thunder, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw old Georgia, the next in the van,
She cut down the Yankees almost to a man;
Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
Georgia's some in a fight, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw Alabama in the midst of the storm,
She stood like a giant in the contest so warm;
Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
Alabama fought the Yankees, boys, till the last one did fly.

I saw Texas go in with a smile,
But I tell you what it is, she made the Yankees bile;
Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
Texas is the devil, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw North Carolina in the deepest of the battle,
She knocked down the Yankees and made their bones rattle;
Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
North Carolina's got the grit, boys; root, hog, or die.

Old Florida came in with a terrible shout,
She frightened all the Yankees till their eyes stuck out;
Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I,
Florida's death on Yankees; root, hog, or die.

LAND OF KING COTTON.

By JO. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO.

_Air--"Red, White and Blue."_

(This was a favorite song of the Tennessee troops, but especially of the 13th and 154th Regiments. Memphis _Appeal_, Dec. 9, 1861.)

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, Johnson, 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 that 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 then strike, until each vandal comer
Lies dead on the soil he would stain.
CHORUS.

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 the champions of freedom e'er be;
May they flourish Confed'rate forever,
The boast of the brave and the free.
CHORUS.

THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY.

As sung by MISS SALLIE PARTINGTON, in the "Virginia Cavalier," Richmond, Va., 1863. Composed by Captain G. W. ALEXANDER.

_Air--"The Boy with the Auburn Hair."_

The sentiments of this song pleased the Confederate Soldiers, and for more than a year, the New Richmond Theatre was nightly filled by "Blockade Rebels," who greeted with wild hurrahs, "Miss Sallie," the prima donna of the Confederacy.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart's name,
He's off to the wars and gone,
He's fighting for his Nannie dear,
His sword is buckled on;
He's fighting for his own true love,
His foes he does defy;
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy.

CHORUS.--Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
He is my only joy,
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy.

When Bob comes home from war's alarms,
We start anew in life,
I'll give myself right up to him,
A dutiful, loving wife.
I'll try my best to please my dear
For he is my only joy;
He is the darling of my heart
My Southern soldier boy.

CHORUS.--Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
He is my only joy,
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy.

Oh! if in battle he was slain,
I am sure that I should die,
But I am sure he'll come again
And cheer my weeping eye;
But should he fall in this our glorious cause,
He still would be my joy
For many a sweetheart mourns the loss,
Of a Southern soldier boy.

CHORUS.--Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
I'd grieve to lose my joy,
But many a sweetheart mourns the loss
Of a Southern soldier boy.

I hope for the best, and so do all
Whose hopes are in the field;
I know that we shall win the day,
For Southrons never yield,
And when we think of those that are away,
We'll look above for joy,
And I'm mighty glad that my Bobby is
A Southern soldier boy.
CHORUS.

REBEL IS A SACRED NAME.

Written by an inmate of the old Capitol Prison, Washington City.

Rebel is a sacred name;
Traitor, too, is glorious;
By such names our father's fought--
By them were victorious.

CHORUS--Gaily floats our rebel flag
Over hill and valley--
Broad its bars, and bright its stars,
Calling us to rally.

Washington a rebel was,
Jefferson a traitor,--
But their treason won success,
And made their glory greater.
CHORUS.

O'er our southern sunny strand
Vandal feet are treading;
And the Hessians on our land
Devastation spreading.
CHORUS.

Can you then inactive be?
Maidens fair are saying;
And their bright eyes shame us out
With this long delaying.
CHORUS.

Rouse ye, children of the free,
Rally to our streamer;
The vandal flag floats o'er our land,--
Awaken, Southern dreamer!
CHORUS.

Rebel arms shall win the fight,
Rebel prayers defend us;
Rebel maidens greet us home,
When tyrants no more rend us.
CHORUS.

THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER.

Words and Music by JOHN M. HEWETT.

Our flag is unfurl'd and our arms flash bright,
As the sun rides up the sky;
But ere I join the doubting fight,
Lovely maid, I would say, "Good by."
I'm a young volunteer, and my heart is true
To the flag that woos the wind;
Then, three cheers for that flag and our country, too,
And the girls we leave behind.

CHORUS.--Then adieu! then adieu! 'tis the last bugle's strain
That is falling on the ear;
Should it so be decreed that we ne'er meet again,
Oh! remember the young volunteer.

When over the desert, thro' burning rays,
With a heavy heart I tread;
Or when I breast the cannon's blaze,
And bemoan my comrades dead,
Then, then, I will think of my home and you,
And our flag shall kiss the wind;
With huzza for our cause and our country, too,
And the girls we leave behind.
CHORUS.

GOOBER PEAS.

Words by A. PENDER.

Music by P. NUTT.

[The music of this song can be obtained of Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

One of the most widely known Confederate Songs. The melody suited a soldier, and in his gayest mood he rolled out: "Peas! Peas! Peas!" with a gusto that was charming.

Sitting by the roadside on a summer day,
Chatting with my messmates, passing time away,
Lying in the shadow underneath the trees,
Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas!

CHORUS.--Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas! eating goober peas!
Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas!

When a horseman passes, the soldiers have a rule,
To cry out at their loudest, "Mister, here's your mule,"
But another pleasure enchantinger than these,
Is wearing out your grinders, eating goober peas!
CHORUS.

Just before the battle the General hears a row,
He says "The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now,"
He turns around in wonder, and what do you think he sees?
The Georgia militia eating goober peas!
CHORUS.

I think my song has lasted almost long enough,
The subject's interesting, but the rhymes are mighty rough,
I wish this war was over, when free from rags and fleas,
We'd kiss our wives and sweethearts and gobble goober peas!
CHORUS.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

By H. WALTHER.

[Permission of Henri Wehrmann.]

To arms! Oh! men in all our Southern clime,
Do you not scent the battle from afar,
And hear the ringing clash of armor chime,
Where men have met all panoplied for war?
To arms! Let not your country call in vain
For willing hearts to shield her from the foe,
But let the ardor of a patriot's fame
Brightly within each manly bosom glow.

CHORUS.--But let the ardor of a patriot's fame
Brightly within each manly bosom glow.

To arms! in this, your country's hour of need!
Behold her beautiful and broad domain,
And say, if patriot hearts shall freely bleed
To keep it sacred from invasion's stain?
To arms! and don the panoply of war,
Stay not like cowards from the battle-field;
But with your armor on, march where the roar
Of cannon tells you that your brothers bleed!
CHORUS.

The trumpet and the clarion sound to arms,
The noisy drum in solemn echo beats,
And martial music, robed in all her charms,
The magic words, To arms! To arms! repeats.
To arms! The mortal combat has begun,
Rush on and fight amidst the deadly fray,
Nor pause until the work is nobly done,
And honor crowns us with her wreath of bay!

CANNON SONG.

Aha! a song for the trumpet's tongue!
For the bugle to sing before us,
When our gleaming guns, like clarions,
Shall thunder in battle chorus!
Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing,
Where the black bombs whistle o'er us,
With rolling wheel and rattling peal
They'll thunder in battle chorus!

CHORUS.--With the cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash,
With the cannon's roar and rattle,
Let Freedom's sons, with their shouting guns,
Go down to their country's battle!

Their brassy throats shall learn the notes
That make old tyrants quiver;
Till the war is done, or each TYRRELL gun
Grows cold with our hearts forever!

Where the laurel waves o'er our brothers graves,
Who have gone to their rest before us
Here's a requiem shall sound for them
And thunder in battle chorus!
CHORUS.

By the light that lies in our Southern skies,
By the spirits that watch above us;
By the gentle hands in our Summer lands,
And the gentle hearts that love us!
Our father's faith let us keep till death,
Their fame in its cloudless splendor--
As men who stand for their mother land,
And die--but never surrender!
CHORUS.

CHIVALROUS C. S. A.

_Air--"Vive la Compagnie."_

I'll sing you a song of the South's sunny clime,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Which went to housekeeping once on a time;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Like heroes and princes they lived for a while,
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.

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.

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.

NORTH CAROLINA'S WAR SONG.

_Air--"Annie Laurie."_

We leave our pleasant homesteads,
We leave our smiling farms,
At the first call of duty
We rush at once to arms;
We rush at once to arms,
To guard our coasts we fly,
For the land our mothers lived, on
Bravely to bleed or die.

Up, boys, and quit your pleasure,
Up, men, and quit your toil!
The invader's foot must never
Be pressed upon our soil;
Be pressed upon our soil,
In which our fathers sleep;
Their blessed graves our care, boys,
Most sacredly must keep.

'Twas in our brave old State, men,
That first of all was sung,
The thrilling song of freedom
That through the land hath rung;
That through the land hath rung,
And we'll sound its notes once more,
Till our men and children shout
From the mountain to the shore.

Sweet eyes are filled with tears, men,
Sweet tears of love and pride,
As our wives and sweethearts bid us
Go meet whate'er betide,
Go meet whate'er betide,
And God our guide shall be,
As we drive the foe before us,
And rush to victory.

THE HOMESPUN DRESS.

By CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR.

_Air--"Bonnie Blue Flag."_

Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl,
And glory in the name,
And boast it with far greater pride
Than glittering wealth or fame.
We envy not the Northern girl,
Her robes of beauty rare,
Though diamonds grace her snowy neck,
And pearls bedeck her hair.

CHORUS.--Hurrah! Hurrah!
For the sunny South so dear,
Three cheers for the homespun dress
The Southern ladies wear!

The homespun dress is plain, I know,
My hat's palmetto, too;
But then it shows what Southern girls
For Southern rights will do.
We send the bravest of our land,
To battle with the foe,
And we will lend a helping hand--
We love the South, you know.
CHORUS.

Now Northern goods are out of date;
And since old Abe's blockade,
We Southern girls can be content
With goods that's Southern made.
We send our sweethearts to the war;
But, dear girls; never mind--
Your soldier-love will ne'er forget
The girl he left behind.
CHORUS.

The soldier is the lad for me--
A brave heart I adore;
And when the sunny South is free,
And when fighting is no more,
I'll choose me then a lover brave,
From out that gallant band.
The soldier lad I love the best
Shall have my heart and hand.
CHORUS.

The Southern land's a glorious land,
And has a glorious cause;
Then cheer, three cheers for Southern rights,
And for the Southern boys!
We scorn to wear a bit of silk,
A bit of Northern lace,
But make our homespun dresses up,
And wear them with a grace.
CHORUS.

And now, young man, a word to you:
If you would win the fair,
Go to the field where honor calls,
And win your lady there.
Remember that our brightest smiles
Are for the true and brave,
And that our tears are all for those
Who fill a soldier's grave.
CHORUS.

THE BANNER SONG.

By JAMES B. MARSHALL.

Up, up with the banner, the foe is before us,
His bayonets bristle, his sword is unsheathed,
Charge, charge on his line with harmonious chorus,
For the prayers go with us that beauty has breathed.

He fights for the power of despot and plunder,
While we are defending our altars and homes;
He has riven the firmly knit Union asunder,
And to bind it with tyranny's fetters he comes,
Like the prophet Mokanna, whose veil so resplendent,
His monstrous deformity closely concealed;
Duplicity marks Lincoln's course, and dependent
On falsehood is every fair promise revealed.

When that veil shall be raised, Freedom's last feast be taken,
A banquet to which all his followers will crowd;
Oh, horror of horrors! who can view it unshaken?
Without sense they will sit all in suppliance bowed!
We do not forget that they once were our brothers,
That we sat in our boyhood around the same board,
That our heart's best idolatry blest the same mothers,
And to the same fathers libations we poured.

We rallied around the same star-spangled standard,
When called to the field by the tocsin of war,
But they from our side have unfeelingly wandered,
And we strip from our flag every recusant star.
They have forced us to stand by our own constitution,
To defend our lov'd homesteads, our altars and fires,
While they tamely submit to a tyrant's pollution,
Beneath whose foul tread their own freedom expires.

Then up with the banner, its broad stripes wide flowing,
'Tis the emblem of Liberty--flag of the free;
Let it wave us to triumph, and every heart glowing,
Nerve each arm's bravest blows for its lov'd Tennessee.

THE VOLUNTEER.

Permission of H. WEHRMAN.

Arranged by J. C. VIERECK.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

The hour was sad, I left the maid,
A lingering farewell taking;
Her sighs and tears my steps delayed,
I thought her heart was breaking.
In hurried words her name I blessed,
I breathed the vows that bind me,
And to my heart in anguish pressed
The girl I left behind me.

Then to the East we bore away
To win a name in story,
And, there, where dawns the sun of day,
There dawned our sun of glory.
Both blazed in noon on Manassas' plain,
Where, in the post assigned me,
I shared the glory of that fight--
Sweet girl I left behind me!

Full many a name our banners bore
Of former deeds of daring--
But they were of the days of yore,
In which we had no sharing;
But now, our laurels freshly won,
With the old ones shall entwin'd be,
Still worthy of our sires, each son,
Sweet girl I left behind me!

The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning,
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee,
And of my fond returning.
But should I ne'er return again,
Still worth thy love thou'lt find me,
Dishonor's breath shall never stain
The name I leave behind me.

READING THE LIST.

"Is there any news of the war?" she said;
"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
Was the man's reply,
Without lifting his eye
To the face of the woman standing by.
"'Tis the very thing I want," she said;
"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."

He read the list--'twas a sad array
Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;
In the very midst was a pause, to tell
That his comrades asked, "Who is he, pray?"
"The only son of the widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply
Of his Captain nigh.
What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear!

"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!
Oh, God! but my heart is sorrow sick!
Is he wounded?" "No! he fell," they say,
"Killed outright on that fatal day!"
But see, the woman has swooned away!

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light,
Slowly recalled the events of the fight;
Faintly she murmured, "Killed outright!
It has cost me the life of my only son,
But the battle is fought and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done!"

God pity the cheerless widow Gray,
And send from the halls of Eternal Day
The light of His peace to illume her way!

THE BARS AND STARS.

By W. A. HAYNES.

_Air--"Star Spangled Banner."_

Oh, the tocsin of war still resounds o'er the land,
And legions of braves are now rushing to battle,
Our lint-stocks are lighted, our guns are all manned,
Loud thunders the cannon, and musketry rattle,
Our hosts there are led
By the blue, white and red,
While the battle fiend flaps his pale wing o'er the dead.

CHORUS.--Let the bars and stars of our banner ever wave
O'er the land of the South, the home of the brave.

O, say, can you see through the mist and the gloom,
Through the clouds of the battle our stars brightly shining,
'Tis a beacon of hope, 'tis a signal of doom
To the hordes of the vandals our borders now lining;
Proud defiance we hurl
And our flag we unfurl,
Let it float, proudly float, in the gaze of the world.
CHORUS.

For thirty years or more, we have waited and prayed
That the chains of oppression and wrongs might be sundered,
But the black fiends of the North, with their plans foully laid,
Have raised up a whirlwind and the old ship's now foundered.
We shouted the alarm,
We spoke of our wrongs,
Now the argument's exhausted, we'll stand by our arms.
CHORUS.

Oh! Manassas has been fought, and the field has been won,
And the brag guns of Sherman our brave boys have taken;
Our foes have retreated back to old Washington,
But the ranks of our Dixie still remain there unshaken;
And over the graves
Of the New York Zouaves
The bars and the stars now triumphantly waves.
CHORUS.

WAR SONG.

_Charleston Mercury._

Respectfully inscribed to the companies mentioned.

_Air--"March, march, Ettrick and Toviotdale."_

March, march on, brave "Palmetto" boys,
"Sumpter" and "Lafayettes" forward in order;
March, march "Calhoun" and "Rifle" boys,
All the base Yankees are crossing the border,
Banners are round ye spread,
Floating above your head,
Soon shall the Lone Star be famous in story,
On, on, my gallant men,
Vict'ry be thine again;
Fight for your rights till the green sod is gory.

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 but watchful and wary.

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.

THE SOUTHERN FLAG.

_Tune_--"_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea._"

Three cheers for the Southern flag,
That floats upon the gale,
Once more fling out its flapping folds,
And make its foeman quail.
And make each foeman quail, my boys,
While, like an earthquake roar,
Goes forth our war cry through the land,
For liberty once more.

CHORUS.--Three cheers for the Southern flag,
That floats above the gale,
Once more fling out its flapping folds,
And make its foeman quail.

Oh, for an Abolition crowd,
I hear old Abe cry out,
Affrighted by the march of foes,
The freeman's mighty shout.
That shouting welcomes to our heart,
The freeman's chosen man--
Jeff Davis--who now heads our hosts,
And leads the glorious van.
CHORUS.

Full brightly waves our flag in air,
O'er Sumpter's fort just won.
And soon o'er Pickens' towering heights
It will glitter in the sun.
It will glitter in the sun, my boys,
And fan the battle cloud,
The struggling freeman's sigh of hope,
The fallen heroes' shroud.
CHORUS.

And now three cheers for the glorious flag,
That victory has won,
And may it soon be towering o'er
The Dome at Washington.
The Dome at Washington, my boys,
While Abolition hosts
Shall quail and shake before the flag--
The freeman's glorious boast.
CHORUS.

THE STARS AND THE BARS.

O, the South is the queen of all nations,
The home of the brave and the true--
She makes no vain demonstration;
But shows what her brave sons can do;
Her freedom and advancement they cherish--
"Our rights, our liberties," they cry,
"To the rescue, we'll win the fight or perish,
For the Southern boys never fear to die."

CHORUS.--Then hurrah for the "Stars and Bars,"
No stain on its folds ever be--
Its glory dishonor never mars,
And 'twill yet grace the land of the free.

Bring forward the tankard and fill it,
Ye sons that are loyal and brave,
Our blood--O, how freely we'll spill it,
We are fighting for freedom or the grave;
Our armies may be scattered and disbanded,
Yet the wild-woods we still will infest--
Yet shall fear the brave foe tho' single-handed,
When the death rattle burst from his breast.
CHORUS.

Though black clouds sometimes may darken,
And shadow the bright sunny sky;
To the rumbling of cannon we'll hearken,
Which tells of the foe as they fly.
Tho' thousands may fall stark and gory,
Their requiem from gun and cannon mouth,
They'll win fame, freedom and glory;
And all for the loved "Sunny South."
CHORUS.

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 4th 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, nor 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,
Arm'd 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!

LEE AT THE WILDERNESS.

By MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE.

'Twas a terrible moment!
The blood and the rout!
His great bosom shook
With an awful doubt.
Confusion in front,
And a pause in the cries:
And a darkness like night
Passed over our skies:
There were tears in the eyes
Of General Lee.

As the blue-clad lines
Swept fearfully near,
There was wavering yonder,
And a break in the cheer
Of our columns unsteady:
But "WE ARE HERE! _We_ are ready
With rifle and blade!"
Cried the Texas Brigade
To General Lee.

He smiled--it meant death,
That wonderful smile;
It leaped like a flame
Down each close set file;
And we stormed to the front
With a long, loud cry--
We had long ago learned
How to charge and to die:
There was faith in the eye
Of General Lee.

But a sudden pause came,
As we dashed on the foe,
And our scathing columns
Swayed to and fro;
Cold grew our blood,
Glowing like wine,
And a quick, sharp whisper
Shot over our line,
As our ranks opened wide--
_And there by our side
Rode General Lee._

How grandly he rode!
With his eyes on fire,
And his great bosom shook
With an awful desire!
But, "Back to the rear!
'Till you ride to the rear
We will not do battle
With gun or with blade!"
Cried the Texas Brigade
To General Lee.

And so he rode back;
And our terrible yell
Stormed up to the front;
And the fierce, wild swell,
And the roar and the rattle,
Swept into the battle
From General Lee.

I felt my foot slip
In the gathering fray--
I looked, and my brother
Lay dead in my way.
I paused but one moment
To draw him aside;
Ah! the gash in his bosom
Was bloody and wide!
But he smiled, for he died
For General Lee.

Christ! 'twas maddening work;
But the work was done,
And a few came back
When the hour was won.
Let it glow in the peerless
Records of the fearless--
The charge that was made
By the Texas Brigade
For General Lee.

A SOUTHERN SONG.

By "L. M.," in _Louisville Courier_.

If ever I consent to be married,
And who would refuse a good mate?
The man whom I give my hand to,
Must believe in the rights of the State.

To a husband who quietly submits
To negro-equality sway,
The true Southern girl will not barter
Her heart and affections away.

The heart I may choose to preside o'er,
True, warm, and devoted must be,
And have true love for a Union
Under the Southern Liberty Tree.

Should Lincoln attempt to coerce him
To share with the negro his right,
Then, smiling, I'd gird on his armor,
And bid him God-speed in the fight.

And if he should fall in the conflict,
His memory with tears I will grace;
Better weep o'er a patriot fallen,
Than blush in a Tory embrace.

We girls are all for a Union,
Where a marked distinction is laid
Between the rights of the mistress
And those of the kinky-haired maid.

THE TEXAN MARSEILLAISE.

By JAMES HAINES, of Texas.

Sons of the South, arouse to battle!
Gird on your armor for the fight!
The Northern Thugs, with dread "war's rattle,"
Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;
Meet them as ocean meets in madness
The frail bark on the rocky shore,
When crested billows roam and roar,
And the wrecked crew go down in sadness:

CHORUS.--Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!
Scatter yon vandal hordes!
Despots and bandits, fitting food
For vultures and your swords.

Shall dastard tyrants march their legions
To crush the land of Jackson--Lee?
Shall freedom fly to other regions,
And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?
Or shall their "footprints' base pollution"
Of Southern soil in blood be purged,
And every flying slave be scourged
Back to his snows in wild confusion.
CHORUS.

Vile despots, with their minions knavish,
Would drag us back to their embrace;
Will freemen brook a chain so slavish?
Will brave men take so low a place?
O, Heaven! for words--the loathing, scorning
We feel for such a Union's bands:
To paint with more than mortal hands,
And sound our loudest notes of warning.
CHORUS.

What! Union with a race ignoring
The charter of our Nation's birth?
Union with bastard slaves adoring
The fiend that chains them to the earth?
No! we reply in tones of thunder,
No! our staunch hills fling back the sound--
No! our hoarse cannon echo round--
No! evermore remain asunder!
CHORUS.

THE BATTLE OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

The tyrant's broad pennant is floating
In the South, o'er our waters so blue:
On our homes now his foul eye is gloating;
The homes of the brave and the true.

CHORUS.--But our flag at the "head of the Passes,"
Is borne by men brave and true;
We will teach them to fear our "Manassas;"[2]
Three cheers for _our_ Red, White, and Blue.

We will give his proud fleet such a greeting
As the storm-cloud's shaft to the tree;
As the rock to the wave in their meeting--
Is the stroke of the brave and the free.
CHORUS.

Though his minions may come as the locust,
And outnumber the sands of the sea,
Their numbers will serve to provoke us,
To dare, to die, or live free.
CHORUS.

Every breeze from the "Crescent" is laden
With defiance to the despot on our shore;
Strong men, the child, and each maiden,
Join in chorus with the cannon's loud roar.
CHORUS.

SONG FOR THE SOUTH.

Of all the mighty nations, in the East or in the West,
Our glorious Southern nation is the greatest and the best;
We have room for all true Southrons, with our Stars and Bars unfurled,
And a general invitation to the people of the world.

CHORUS.--Then, to arms, boys! to arms, boys! make no delay,
Come from every Southern State, come from every way,
Our army isn't large enough, Jeff Davis calls for more,
To hurl the vile invader from off our Southern shore.

Ohio is our northern line, far as her waters flow,
And on the south is the Rio Grande and the Gulf of Mexico;
While between the Atlantic Ocean, where the sun begins to rise,
Westward to Arizona, the land of promise lies.
CHORUS.

While the Gulf States raise the cotton, the others grain and pork,
North and South Carolina's factories will do the finer work;
For the deep and flowing waterfalls that course along our hills,
Are "just the things" for washing sheep and driving cotton mills.
CHORUS.

Our Southern boys are brave and true, and joining heart and hand
And are flocking to the "Stars and Bars" as they are floating o'er the
land.
And all are standing ready, with their rifles in their hands,
And invite the North to open graves down South in Dixie's land.
CHORUS.

SONG OF THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER.

By "P. E. C.," in _Richmond Examiner_.

_Tune_--"_Barclay and Perkins' Drayman._"

These lines were written Jan. 8, 1861, for a friend, who expected to sing them in the theatre, but thought at the time to be too much in the secession spirit.

I'm a soldier, you see, that oppression has made!
I don't fight for pay or for booty;
But I wear in my hat a blue cockade,
Placed there by the fingers of Beauty.
The South is my home, where a black man is black,
And a white man there is a white man;
Now I am tired of listening to Northern clack,--
Let us see what they will do in a fight, man.

The Yankees are cute; they have managed, somehow,
Their business and ours to settle;
They make all we want, from a pin to a plough,
Now we'll show them some Southern mettle.
We have had just enough of their Northern law,
That robbed us so long of our right, man,
And too much of their cursed abolition jaw,--
Now we'll see what they'll do in a fight, man!

Their parsons will open their sanctified jaws,
And cant of our slave-growing sin, sir;
They pocket the _profits_, while preaching the laws,
And manage our cotton to spin, sir.
Their incomes are nice, on our sugar and rice,
Though against it the hypocrites write, sir;
Now our dander is up, and they'll soon smell a mice,
If we once get them into a fight, sir.

Our cotton bales once made a good barricade,
And can still do the State a good service;
With them and the boys of the blue cockade,
There is power enough to preserve us.
So shoulder your rifles, my boys, for defense,
In the cause of our freedom and right, man;
If there's no other way for to learn them sense,
We may teach them a lesson in fight, man.

The stars that are growing so fast on our flags,
We treasure as Liberty's pearls,
And stainless we'll bear them, though shot into rags;
They were fixed by the hands of our girls,
And fixed stars they shall be in our national sky,
To guide through the future aright, man,
And your Cousin Sam, with their gleam in his eye,
May dare the whole world to fight, man.

THE DYING SOLDIER BOY.

By A. B. CUNNINGHAM, of Louisiana.

_Air--"Maid of Monterey."_

Upon Manassas' bloody plain a soldier boy lay dying!
The gentle winds above his form in softest tones were sighing;
The god of day had slowly sank beneath the verge of day,
And the silver moon was gliding above the milky way.

The stars were shining brightly, and the sky was calm and blue,
Oh, what a beautiful scene was this for human eyes to view!
The river roll'd in splendor, and the wavelets danc'd around,
But the banks were strew'd with dead men, and gory was the ground.

But the hero-boy lay dying, and his thoughts were very deep,
For the death-wound in his young side was wafting him to sleep;
The thought of home and kindred away on a distant shore,
All of whom he must relinquish, and never see them more.

And as the night-breeze passed by, in whispers o'er the dead,
Sweet memories of olden days came rushing to his head;
But his mind was weak and deaden'd, so he turned from where he lay,
As the Death-angel flitted by, and call'd his soul away!

THE SOUTHERN BANNER.

By COL. W. S. HAWKINS, C. S. A., Camp Chase, Ohio.

Sing-ho! for the Southerner's meteor flag
As 'tis flung in its pride to the breeze,
From the happy glen and the beetling crag,
'Tis the pride of the land and the seas.

Hurrah! for the scintillant Cross of Red,
As it waves and glances in light,
Beneath it our brothers grandly tread,
To battle for God and right.

The flag for which Southrons had gladly died
Is the badge of the tyrant now,
And for it no blush of joy or pride
Suffuseth the cheek or brow.

* * * * *

Sing ho! for the Southerner's flag for aye,
And ho! for its beautiful Cross;
It shall be the signal of bold array
Where the windy surges toss.

On a traitor's heart be the curses of night,
And palsied the craven hand
That fails in the hazard of furious fight
For God and our Native Land.

Hurrah! as over the hills it waves,
Or is borne on the ocean's breast,
Hurrah! as it leads our valorous braves,
Or is drooped o'er the hero's rest.

Whether it greets the uprising sun
Or is bathed in the western light,
Beneath it shall all our hopes be won
For "God will defend the right."

O, JOHNNY BULL, MY JO JOHN.

_Air--"John Anderson, my Jo."_

In December, 1861, eighty-seven British ships-of-war were lying in the waters of the West Indies. This fact 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?
But 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 twelve-month roll around, to Boston we will go,
And eat our Christmas dinner there, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

MORGAN'S WAR-SONG.

By GEN. BASIL DUKE, of Kentucky.

_Air--A combination of the "Marseillaise" and the "Old Granite State."_

Ye sons of the South, take your weapons in hand,
For the foot of the foe hath insulted your land:
Sound! sound the loud alarm!
Arise! arise and arm!
Let the hand of each foeman grasp the sword to maintain
Those rights which, once lost, he can never regain.

CHORUS.--Gather fast 'neath our flag,
For 'tis God's own decree,
That its folds shall still float
O'er a land that is free!

See ye not those dark clouds which now threaten the sky?
Hear ye not that stern thunder now bursting so nigh?
Shout! shout your battle-cry!
Win! win this fight or die!
What our fathers achieved our own valor can keep,
And we'll save our fair land or we'll sleep our last sleep!
CHORUS.

On our hearts and our arms and our God we rely,
And a nation shall rise, or a people shall die.
Form! form the serried line!
Advance! advance our proud ensign:
To your country devote every life that she gave,
Let the land they invade give their army its grave.
CHORUS.

Though their plunder-paid hordes come to ravage our land,
Give our fields to the spoiler, our homes to the brand,
Our souls are all aglow,
To face the hireling foe.
Give the robbers to know that we _never_ will yield,
While the arm of one Southron a weapon can wield.
CHORUS.

From our far Southern shore now arises a prayer,
While the cry of our women fills with anguish the air.
O! list that pleading voice,
Each youth now make his choice;
Now tamely submit like a coward or slave,
Or rise and resist like the free and the brave.
CHORUS.

Kentucky! Kentucky! can you suffer the sight
Of your sisters insulted, your friends in the fight?
Awake! be free again!
O! break the tyrant's chain:
Let each hand seize the sword it drew for the right,
From the homes of your fathers drive the dastard in flight.
CHORUS.

KNOXVILLE, TENN., July 4, 1862.

FOR BALES.

_Air--"Johnny, fill up the bowl."_

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

We all went down to New Orleans,
For Bales, for Bales;
We all went down to New Orleans,
For Bales, says I;
We all went down to New Orleans
To get a peep behind the scenes,
"And we'll all drink stone blind,
Johnny, fill up the bowl."

We thought when we got in the "ring,"
For Bales, for Bales;
We thought when we got in the "ring,"
For Bales, says I;
We thought when we got in the "ring,"
Greenbacks would be a dead sure thing,
"And we'll all drink stone blind,
Johnny, fill up the bowl."

The "ring" went up with bagging and rope,
For Bales, for Bales;
Upon the "Black Hawk" with bagging and rope,
For Bales, says I;
Went up "Red River" with bagging and rope,
Expecting to make a pile of "soap,"
"And we'll all drink stone blind,
Johnny, fill up the bowl."

But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks,
For Bales, for Bales;
But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks,
For Bales, says I;
But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks,
Burned up the cotton and whipped old Banks,
"And we'll all drink stone blind,
Johnny, fill up the bowl."

Our "ring" came back and cursed and swore,
For Bales, for Bales;
Our "ring" came back and cursed and swore,
For Bales, says I;
Our "ring" came back and cursed and swore,
For we got no cotton at Grand Ecore,
"And we'll all drink stone blind,
Johnny, fill up the bowl."

Now let us all give praise and thanks,
For Bales, for Bales;
Now let us all give praise and thanks,
For Bales, says I;
Now let us all give praise and thanks
For the victory (?) gained by General Banks,
"And we'll all drink stone blind,
Johnny, fill up the bowl."

THE SONG OF THE SOUTH.

Hurrah for the South, the glorious South! the land of song and story--
Her name shall ring, and the world shall sing her honor, fame, and glory;
For the skies above, which smiled in love, are dark with hearth-fires
burning;
She rises in might to defend the right, on her treacherous brethren
turning.

CHORUS.--Sons of the South, arise! arise!
For never shall fall upon her--
The land we love all the earth above,
One stain of dark dishonor.

Hurrah for the South, the gallant South, with her great heart proudly
beating;
She takes her stand at Freedom's hand, and dreams not of retreating;
Oh! Southern boys, for fireside joys, with their hearts so brave and
tender,
Will relentlessly fight, and to death's dark night alone will they
surrender.
CHORUS.

No Northern band shall rule this land--to the breeze give Freedom's
banner,
As its glowing folds o'er our land unroll, from mountain and savannah;
O'er river and lake the sound shall break, and swell with thundering
glory;
Hurrah for the South! the noble South! the land of war and story!
CHORUS.

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.

* * * * *

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.

LADIES, TO THE HOSPITAL!

By "PERSONNE," Correspondent of the _Charleston Courier_.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,
Turn the key on your jewels to-day,
And the wreath of your tendril-like tresses,
Braid back in a serious way:
No more delicate gloves, no more laces;
No more trifling in boudoir or bower;
But come with your souls in your faces,
To meet the stern wants of the hour.

Look around! By the torch-light unsteady,
The dead and the dying seem one;
What? trembling and paling already,
Before your mission's begun?
These wounds are more precious than ghastly;
Time presses her lips to each scar,
While she chants of that glory which vastly
Transcends all the horrors of war.

"... How mellow
The light showers down on that brow."]

Pause here by this bedside. How mellow
The light showers down on that brow;
Such a brave, brawny visage! Poor fellow!
Some homestead is missing him now;
Some wife shaded her eyes in the clearing;
Some mother sits moaning, distressed;
While the lov'd one lies faint but unfearing,
With the enemy's ball in his breast.

Here's another; a lad--a mere stripling--
Picked up on the fields almost dead,
With the blood through the sunny hair rippling,
From a horrible gash in the head!
They say he was first in the action,
Gay-hearted, quick-handed and witty;
He fought till he dropped with exhaustion,
In front of our fair Southern city.

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city,
With a spirit transcending his years;
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,
And wet his pale lips with your tears:
Touch him gently; most sacred that duty
Of dressing that poor shatter'd hand;
God spare him to rise in his beauty,
And battle once more for his land!

Who groan'd? What a passionate murmur:
"In Thy mercy, oh God! let me die!
Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,"
That musket ball's entered his thigh:
Turn the light on those poor furrow'd features,
Gray-haired and unknown, bless thee, brother!
Oh Heaven! that one of Thy creatures
Should e'er work such woe on another.

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your 'kerchief
Let the tatter'd old collar go wide!
See! he stretches out blindly to see if
The surgeon still stands by his side:
"My son's over yonder--he's wounded--
O this ball has entered my thigh!"
And again he burst out all a tremble,
"In Thy mercy, O God, let me die!"

Pass on: It is useless to linger
While other are claiming your care;
There is need for your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympathy there:
There are sick ones athirst for caressing;
There are dying ones raving of home
There are wounds to be bound with a blessing
And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest
Of death in its ghastliest view;
The nearest as well as the farthest
Is here with the traitor and true;
And crown'd with your beautiful patience,
Made sunny with love at the heart;
You must balsam the wounds of a nation,
Nor falter nor shrink from your part.

Up and down through the wards where the fever
Stalks noisome and gaunt and impure,
You must go with your steadfast endeavor
To comfort, to counsel, to cure!
I grant you the task is superhuman,
But strength will be given to you
To do for those lov'd ones, what woman
Alone in her pity can do.

And the lips of the mothers will bless you,
As angels sweet visaged and pale;
And the little ones run to caress you,
And the wives and the sisters cry Hail!
But e'en if you drop down unheeded,
What matter? God's ways are the best!
You have pour'd out your life where 'twas needed,
And He will take care of the rest.

TO THE DAVIS GUARD.

By LIEUT. W. P. CUNNINGHAM.

Soldiers! raise your banner proudly,
Let it pierce our Texan sky--
Hurrah! it was shouted loudly--
"We will do it or we'll die!"