Chapter I: Wish I Was in Dixie's Land (1)

By DAN D. EMMETT.

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

I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten,
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land!
In Dixie land whar I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin',
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

CHORUS.--Den I wish I was in Dixie--
Hooray, hooray!
In Dixie land I'll took my stan'!
To lib an' die in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie
Away, away,
Away down south in Dixie.

Ole Missus marry "Will-de-Weaber,"
William was gay deceber
Look away, etc.
But when he put his arm around 'er
He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder
Look away, etc.
CHORUS.

His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber,
But dat did not seem to grieb 'er,
Look away, etc.
Ole Missus acted de foolish part,
An' died for a man dat broke her heart,
Look away, etc.
CHORUS.

Now, here's a health to de next ole Missus,
Ah! all de gals dat want to kiss us,
Look away, etc.
But if you want to drive 'way sorrow,
Come an' hear dis song to-morrow,
Look away, etc.
CHORUS.

Dar's buckwheat cakes an' Injun batter,
Makes you fat, or a little fatter,
Look away, etc.
Den hoe it down and scratch your grabble,
To Dixie's Land I'm bound to trabble,
Look away, etc.
CHORUS.

CAMPAIGN BALLAD.

By REV. J. E. CARNES.

Young Florida sends forth her clan--the old Dominion's brave,
With sons of Texas, lead the van to glory or the grave;
Now, by the fame of Yorktown's name, and by the Alamo,
The sons will not the fathers shame, though mightier be the foe.

From desecrated Maryland come out a faithful few,
And old Kentucky sends a band to God and Freedom true;
There comes a thrill from Sharpsburg's rill--and from the "bloody
ground,"
Heap'd with the mounds of Perryville, the spectral slogans sound!

And Alabama's well-tried host into the Grey line wheels,
From wasted farms, beleaguered coast, from Florence to Mobile;
The torch-lit home, whence kindred roam, has lent its wings their fire;
And wrongs, tear-writ in mem'ry's tome, to deeds of blood inspire.

Ho, Louisiana! vengeance fraught by rapine's hellish scenes,
Comes vanward with the blended thought of Mansfield--New Orleans;
By spicy groves, where beauty roves, and where the Yankees swarm,
With vandal feet, in hireling droves, she swears her vengeance warm.

Arkansas strikes Missouri's hand--they cross the bayonet,
Each thinking of a glorious band with blood of kindred met;
They bless the Post, whose little host fought all but treason well;
And Elkhorn's grief and Springfield's boast their patriot bosoms swell.

From where the cypress droppeth down tear-dews on Jackson's tomb;
From where the darkest mountains frown, and brightest valleys bloom,
All broad of breast, with lance in rest, and in their swift-streams free,
Pour down the bravest and the best of sinewy Tennessee.

With Vicksburg boiling in their veins, the Mississippians cheer,
With wildest joy, the trumpet-strains that speak the battle near;
O hear! O hark! the name of Stark is passed along the line--
A thousand eyes more keenly mark where gathering foes combine.

From Chickamauga to the flames that o'er Savannah glare,
Inspired by Bee and Barton's names the Georgians, too are there;
By the sad path of Sherman's wrath all thro' their staid old state,
They swear themselves to deeds of scath, and righteous love of hate!

The Carolinas seek the fray--the scarr'd of every fight,
From far Manassas' glorious day to Fisher's bloody night;
Grand deeds of old their hearts unfold, and later memories clasp,
While rifle stock and hilt of gold are griped with fiercer grasp.

Now make one more immortal plain, ye men of battle skill,
Ye of the comprehensive brain and the undaunted will;
Now, Robert Lee! there comes to thee the all-decisive hour!
God make thy flashing blade to be the lightning of his power!

Now, Beauregard and Johnston, now as in your other fight,
With mutual heart and answering brow inspire the hosts of right!
Now, Bragg and Hood, who oft withstood, and oft have charged the foe,
Come with a hand and will as good to lay the vandal low.

Rise, Longstreet, with a face that shines as bright as battle's flash,
Where'er along the closing lines the burnish'd bayonets crash;
Now, Forrest, aid with such a blade as made Fort Pillow quail;
Now, Hill and Hardee, undismay'd, direct the iron hail.

Ho! Smith, Magruder, Taylor, Price and Walker in your spheres,
Warm with your zeal the hearts of ice, and charm the coward's fears!
For by the tree of Liberty God planted on this shore,
This fight should be a victory or ye should breathe no more.

Now, Davis! on the mount of State, discern the Lord's command,
While faith and courage on thee wait, and lift each cheering hand,
To beckon all, from farm and street, and make the laggard feel
A wish to meet the first that greets the carnival of steel!

Let Honor beat the rataplan and Duty quick obey--
Make "yea" an instant Tagerman, and "no" at once a Ney!
Upon the blood our best have spilled, pledge me with common breaths
War to the hilt with Yankee guilty, for "Liberty or Death!"

OUR GLORIOUS FLAG.

A VICKSBURG SONG.

_Air--"Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still."_

There is freedom on each fold, and each star is freedom's throne,
And the free, the brave, the bold, guard thine honor as their own;
Ev'ry danger hast thou known that the battle's storm can fill,
Thy glory hath not flown--we proudly wave thee still.
Ev'ry danger, etc.

Floating in the morning light, Freedom's sun! thou shinest far,
Floating thro' the murky night, all shall see thee, Freedom's star!
For _sic semper_ thy refrain, and thy motto e'er shall be,
Let tyrants wear the chain--I am--I will be free!

O'er the land or the sea where the hurling waves are torn,
In the calm, the storm, the breeze, be thy standard proudly borne;
For there's freedom on each fold, and each star's freedom's throne--
The free, the brave, the bold, thy glory is their own.

THE HOUR BEFORE EXECUTION.

By MISS MARIA E. JONES.

Hark! the clock strikes! All, all that now remains,
Is one short hour of this fast fleeting life,
And then farewell the terrors and the strife,
The heavenly joys, the sorrows of long years,
It's holy rapture, the corroding pains--
That fill the heart with rapture or with tears.

Farewell, old world! I never knew 'till now
How well I lov'd thee; and my wayward heart
Still fondly clings to thee--but we must part!
Let not my proud heart in that parting fail!
How can I weep to leave thee? I whose brow
Hath oft been bared to battle's iron hail!

My heart beats proudly, yet the coward tears
Steal from my eyes and bathe my pallid cheek;
God! what womanly weakness do they speak
And would half say, that the brave Southern spy
Who had scorned death and mock'd his idle fears,
Had, at last, forgotten how to die.

O beauteous earth! each well remember'd place--
All that I lov'd comes up before my mind--
The lov'd and cherished I must leave behind--
Stand out before me! every verdant spot
In my life's desert I can clearly trace,
E'en to those pictures I had deemed forgot.

I see my mother standing in the door
Of my lov'd home, as in the evening breeze
The curtains wave, and the gigantic trees,
Stretching their arms to welcome me again,
Cast dark'ning shadows on the bare bright floor--
Mother, dear mother! you will watch in vain.

Watch for the coming of my eager feet,
My warm embraces and tender, loving kisses--
They will not come! dear mother, you will miss
Your boy's lov'd presence, and in vain will seek,
The well known form that you were wont to greet
With tender kisses upon brow and cheek.

The tall, green trees will cast their lengthen'd shade
Across the prairie, and the shadows pale
Will fill your home, and the wild winds will wail
With frantic madness, as they swiftly sweep
Thro' the dark forests where your children play'd--
Where all save one in death's embraces sleep.

And he will fill an unhonor'd far-off grave,
Unmark'd and lone! The hated foeman's scorn,
Will soon be o'er. This glorious, golden morn
I leave my life, my honor and my fame,
To nobly die as fits a soldier brave--
Who asks of Southrons but an honor'd name?

The hour is gone! and I must meet my doom,
And die, as should a soldier always die,
With unblanch'd cheek, and proudly scornful eye,
While stern defiance doth my bosom swell--
Farewell to earth and all its beauteous bloom--
My country! mother! one long, last farewell!

THE BLACK FLAG.

By PAUL H. HAYNE.

Like the roar of the wintry surges on a wild tempestuous strand,
The voice of the madden'd millions comes up from an outraged land;
For the cup of our woe runs over, and the day of our grace is past,
And Mercy has fled to the Angels, and Hatred is King at last!

CHORUS.--Then up with the Sable Banner!
Let it thrill to the War God's breath,
For we march to the watchword--Vengeance!
And we follow the Captain--Death!

In the gloom of the gory breaches, on the ramparts wrapt in flame,
'Mid the ruin'd homesteads, blacken'd by a hundred deeds of shame;
Wheresoever the vandals rally, and the bands of the alien meet,
We will crush the heads of the hydra with the stamp of our armed feet.

They have taught us a fearful lesson! 'tis burn'd on our hearts in fire,
And the souls of a host of heroes leap with a fierce desire;
And we swear by all that is sacred, and we swear by all that is pure,
That the crafty and cruel dastards shall ravage our homes no more.

We will roll the billows of battle back, back on the braggart foe,
'Till his leaguer'd and stricken cities shall quake with a coward's
throe;
They shall compass the awful meaning of the conflict their lust begun,
When the Northland rings with wailing, and the grand old cause hath
won.[8]

BANKS' SKEDADDLE.

You know the Federal General Banks,
Who came through Louisiana with his forty thousand Yanks;
His object was to execute the Abolition law,
With as mongrel a horde of soldiers as creation ever saw;
There were Irish and English, and Spanish and Dutch,
And negroes and Yankees, and many more such,
All dress'd out in blue coats and fine filagree--
But such a skedaddle you never did see!

CHORUS.--Doodle, doodle, Yankee doodle, doodle, dee,
O such a skedaddle you never did see!

They came prepared to shear our sheep and gather in our crops,
And thus destroy the government by knocking down its props;
They'd rob us of our wheat and wool, our poultry and such things,
And steal the ladies' jewelry, their dresses and their rings;
They had scythe-blades and whiskey, and sheep shears and hams,
And threshes and jack-knives, and jellies and jams,
O glorious their object--a nation to free!
But such a skedaddle you never did see!

The veterans of Vicksburg, who never had been whipped,
All swore that not a leaflet of their laurels should be clipped;
They wanted to see Texas, and the famous Texas boys,
Who thro' the whole Confederacy were making such a noise;
They had banners and mottoes, and trumpets and drums,
And small arms and cannon, and round shot and bombs,
Their most famous column, the "Feds" did agree--
But such a skedaddle you never did see!

How first they saw the Texans and heard the Texan yell--
But whether men or devils they declare they could not tell,
They faced about, at "double quick," and run with all their might,
For they had seen the "elephant," and did not like the sight;
They left baggage and Enfields, and knapsacks and shoes,
And pickles and blankets, and negroes and stews,
And broke for the river as fast as might be--
But such a skedaddle you never did see!

Helter, skelter, neck or nothing, driven by their fears,
From ev'ry side the Texan yell was ringing in their ears!
Still on they rush'd, like quarter-horses, shouting as they ran,
"The Rebels take the hindmost--now save himself who can!"
They had gunboats and transports, and all sorts of crafts,
They were all clad in iron, with guns fore and aft,
In these they expected in safety to flee--
But such a skedaddle you never did see!

AWAKE! TO ARMS IN TEXAS!

_Air--"Dixie."_

Hear ye not the sound of battle,
Sabre clash and musket rattle?
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
Hostile footsteps on your border;
Hostile columns tread in order;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!

CHORUS.--O, fly to arms in Texas! to arms! to arms!
From Texas land we'll rout the band
That comes to conquer Texas--
Awake, awake, and rout the foe from Texas.

See the red smoke hanging o'er us;
Hear the cannon's booming chorus;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
See our steady columns forming;
Hear the shouting--hear the storming,
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
CHORUS.

All the Northmen's forces coming;
Hark! the distant rapid drumming:
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
Prouder ranks than theirs were driven,
When our Mexic ties were riven;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas.
CHORUS.

Gird your loins, with sword and sabre;
Give your lives to freedom's labor;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
What though ev'ry heart be sadden'd--
What though all the land be redden'd--
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
CHORUS.

Shall this boasting, mad invader,
Trample Texas and degrade her?
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
By our fathers' proud example,
Texas soil they shall not trample;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
CHORUS.

Texans! meet them on the border;
Charge them into wild disorder;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
Hew the vandals down before you,
Till the last inch they restore you;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
CHORUS.

Through the echoing hills resounding,
Hear the Texan bugles sounding;
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
Arouse from ev'ry hill and valley;
List the bugle! Rally! rally!
Awake, awake, awake in Texas!
CHORUS.

THE CAPTURE OF SEVENTEEN OF COMPANY H, FOURTH TEXAS CAVALRY.

_Air--"Wake Snakes and Bite a Biskit."_

'Twas early in the morning of eighteen sixty-three,
We started out on picket, not knowing what we'd see;
The bridge we knew was floating. If the Yankees should pursue,
We knew we should be captured if running we'd not do.

To stop and give them battle, we never tho't of it--
The shot at us did rattle, so we tho't we'd better "git,"
The captain tried to rally us, and so did brave young Linn;
And Rader, too, with pistol drawn--Fenly next "put in."

Rainbolt, too, with angry words attempts to stop our flight,
They tell us yet to stop with them, and give the Yankees fight:
They saw they could not stop us--to try it would be vain--
So their only chance of safety was to give their steeds the rein.

Now this portion of my story will cause your hearts to bleed,
It tells of those who halted while going at full speed.
First came Billy Eddins, with musket shot in thigh,
He was told by the Yankees, "surrender now or die!"

Then came poor Johnny Burns, with sabre cut in head,
And near by him, and wounded, stood the still unconquer'd Red;
Then Oscar, and June Harris stood near in sore affright--
Then came the young De Marcus, in none the better plight.

Yarborough, too, with chalky cheek, was walking down the road--
The Yankees had to some extent relieved him of his load;
His overcoat he had pulled off, and in his shirt he stood,
In woeful plight, he was a sight,--his face contain'd no blood.

Then came the lively Lilly, with teeth hard set in wrath,
To think that some had pass'd him by, but pick'd him up at last!
Then Burnes came, and Maynard, then Graham and Jim Baugh--
The gallant Bone was found alone, and bro't back from afar.

But of the handsome Parton I must not fail to tell;
His graceful way of riding you all remember well;
But to-day the fates concluded to stop his wild career,
So from his horse was jolted by a musket from the rear.

The gallant Hill, and dashing Dees, were spurring for dear life,
When a Yankee rode with perfect ease upon them with a knife;
"Surrender, now, my pretty pair; and do it quickly too,
Stop at once and turn your mare, or I will run you through."

They stopp'd at once, and faced about and to the rear did start;
And back they came, with legs quite lame, with faint and sinking heart:
And there they saw a crowd who were gobbled up that day--
They were the twain that made seventeen, and we were marched away.

ALABAMA.

Words by LAURA LORRIMER.

Music by J. W. GROSCHEL.

Over vale and over mountain
Pealing forth in triumph strong,
Comes a lofty swell of music,
Alabama's greeting song.
In the new-born arch of glory,
So, she burns, the central star,
Never shame shall blight its grandeur,
Never cloud its radiance mar.

CHORUS.--Alabama, Alabama,
Listen, Southrons, to the strain,
Alabama, Alabama,
Shout the rallying cry again.

As the gulf waves rushing shoreward,
Break in music echoes grand,
Alabama sends this greeting,
Proudly to her sister band.
This her ultimatum, burning,
In each heart of Southern flame,
Peace, if gained not by dishonor,
But far better war than shame.
CHORUS.

Let the "Northern Lion" couchant,
On his bleak and froze plain,
Lift his shaggy front in wonder,
And defiant shake his mane.
Sunward soars the mighty eagle,
And where blossom brighter bowers,
Than amid the green savannahs
Of this sunny land of ours.
CHORUS.

And her sons will rise in legions,
Bleed and die at her behest,
Ere a hostile Northern footstep
Trample, conqueror, on her breast.
This the faith she plights her sisters,
In this glorious Southern band,
Side by side she will be with them,
Heart with heart, and hand to hand.
CHORUS.

IMOGEN.

By MAJ.-GEN. J. B. MAGRUDER.

Wake! dearest, wake! 'tis thy lover who calls, Imogen;
List! dearest, list! the dew gently falls, Imogen;
Arise to thy lattice, the moon is asleep,
The bright stars above us their bright vigils keep.

CHORUS.--Then fear not, my Imogen,
Thou'rt dearer than life!
The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife, Imogen,
The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife.

Thy steed is impatient his mistress to bear, Imogen,
Home to her lover, on the prairie afar, Imogen,
Belov'd as a maiden, adored as a wife,
Thou shalt be forever the star of my life.

AN OLD TEXAN'S APPEAL.

By REUBEN E. BROWN.

Come all ye temper'd hearts of steel--come, quit your flocks and farms,
Your sports, your plays, your holidays, and hark! away to arms!
And hark! away to arms!
Your sports, your plays, your holidays,
And hark! away to arms!

For a soldier is a gentleman--his honor is his life--
And he that won't fight at his post shall ne'er stay with his wife!
Shall ne'er stay with his wife!
And he that won't fight at his post,
Shall ne'er stay with his wife!

For love and honor are the same, they are so near alike,
They neither can exist alone, but flourish side by side.

Our country calls us to the field--let's not a moment stay;
Gird on your arms with cheerfulness, and fearless march away.

No foreign power shall us enslave--no Northern tyrant reign;
'Twas independence made us free, and freedom we'll maintain.

The rising world shall sing of us a thousand years to come,
And children to their children tell what glories we have won.

Farewell, sweethearts! 'tis for awhile; my dear, sweet girls, adieu;
Let's drive these Northern dogs away, we'll come and stay with you.

And when the war is over, boys, we'll then sit down at ease--
We'll plow and sow, and reap and mow, and do just as we please.

ARISE! YE SONS OF FREE-BORN SIRES!

(Lines prompted by the spirit that pervaded the soldiers of Galveston on receiving the news of our disaster.)

By A. E. MORRIS, Company C, Twentieth Infantry.

Arise! ye sons of free-born sires; arise! your country save;
Kindle again the wonted fires that animate the brave:
Your heritage your foes menace--secure it from their foul embrace--
Your chains asunder burst!
What tho' they count as harvest-seed--as fathers bled, their sons must
bleed,
Or be forever accursed!

The boasted chivalry of yore you can, you must, maintain;
Let not the scars our fathers bore for us, be borne in vain!
Degenerate sons of noble sires, by baleful, wild, fanatic fires,
And madden'd folly mov'd,
Profaned their Hero's sacred dust--betrayed their country's sacred trust,
And double traitors proved.

They've rais'd the fratricidal hand--they've shed their brother's blood--
Spread desolation thro' your land with sword and fire and blood,
Your desecrated altars lie ensanguin'd in the deepest dye
Of holy thing's profaned
Your homes and towns in ruins piled--your matrons, maids--your very child
With foul pollution stained.

Then rise, ye sons of free-born sires, _once_ more! and freedom's won,
Kindle again the fervid fires that glow'd in sixty-one!
Your heritage your foes menace--secure it from their foul embrace--
Your chains asunder burst!
What tho' they count as harvest-seed--as fathers bled, their sons must
bleed,
Or be fore'er accursed!

GAY AND HAPPY.

We're the boys so gay and happy,
Wheresoever we chance to be--
If at home, or on camp duty,
'Tis the same, we're always free!

CHORUS.--Then let the Yanks say what they will,
We'll be gay and happy still;
Gay and happy, gay and happy,
We'll be gay and happy still.
CHORUS.

We've left our homes, and those we cherish
In our own dear Texas land!
We would rather fight and perish
Side by side, and hand in hand.
CHORUS.

Old Virginia needs assistance--
Northern hosts invade her soil--
We'll present a firm resistance,
Courting danger, fire and toil.
CHORUS.

Then let drums and muskets rattle--
Fearless as the name we bore,
We'll not leave the field of battle
While a Yank is on our shore.
CHORUS.

BAYLOR'S PARTISAN RANGERS.

By MARY L. WILSON, of San Antonio, Texas.

_Air--"Dixie."_

Hear the summons, sons of Texas!
Now the fierce invaders vex us,
Come on, come on, come on for Texas!
Daring, dauntless, reckless Ranger!
First in glory, first in danger--
Come on, come on for Texas.

CHORUS.--Exalt the fame of Texas, strike home, strike home!
Where Baylor leads the foeman bleeds!
Then strike with him for Texas--
Come on, come on, ye gallant sons of Texas!

Awhile ago they dared defy us--
Now they meet us but to fly us;
Bright the stars and bars are gleaming!
Bright our future star is beaming!
CHORUS.

By base Butler's proclamation,
By our sister's defamation,--
By the sword of justice sheathless,
Be the fires of vengeance quenchless.
CHORUS.

* * * * *

Honor, safety, vengeance call you,
Ere the tyrant's chains enthrall you--
Cities burning, women wailing!
Shall their tears be unavailing?
CHORUS.

Fiercely now the vandal's smiting,
Southern homes his torch is blighting--
Well he knows he'll conquer never,
So would ruin us forever.
CHORUS.

A Texan's name, who would not wear it?
Well the foe has learned to fear it!
Green the laurels for you springing,
Bright the halo 'round you clinging.
CHORUS.

Chosen by the gallant Morgan!
The North has heard the Texan slogan;
Rangers, ask not, give not quarter!
Be your pathway marked with slaughter!
CHORUS.

THE HORSE MARINES AT GALVESTON.

_Air--"Barring of the Door."_

It was on a New Year's morn so soon,
Before the break of day, Oh!
General Magruder had laid his plan
To catch the Yankees in the Bay, Oh!

CHORUS.--Skedaddle, skedaddle, leave horse, spur and saddle,
Charge! Horse Marines, with a hoo-way!
Skedaddle, skedaddle, the Yankees will toddle;
Rush on them with pistol and bowie--
O, skedaddle!

Magruder march'd down through Galveston town,
And placed his men on the shore, Oh!
And the fight then began when he fired the first gun,
And the fleet replied with a roar, Oh!
CHORUS.

The Yankees' big shot flew fast, thick and hot,
They thought they'd gain'd the day, Oh!
When Bagby and Green, with the new Horse Marine,
Came rushing down the Bay, Oh!
CHORUS.

The two bayou boats went to butting like goats,
The big steamer's deck to gain, Oh!
Then L'on Smith, that trump, he made the first jump,
Right abroad of the Harriet Lane, Oh!
CHORUS.

Let it not be forgotten, that Jim Dowlan, the Briton,
Pitch'd in through flood and through flame, Oh!
From the sinking boat swam to the Bayou City ram,
And boarded the Harriet Lane, Oh!
CHORUS.

Then flew the white flag o'er the Federal rag;
The Yankees cried stop! just at light, Oh!
By cunning and lies, to get off with the prize
We had fairly won in the fight, Oh!
CHORUS.

But General Bill Scurry, was in too great a hurry,
To wait for a three hours' truce, Oh!
He bagged all ashore, and would have bagged more,
Had any been lying around loose, Oh!
CHORUS.

Old General Magruder will let no intruder
Our soil with his footsteps pollute, Oh!
The Arizona Brigade, with L'on Smith as aid,
Will send them to--Butler, the brute, Oh!
CHORUS.

Then rejoice, O rejoice, ye Texans, rejoice;
Charge! Horse Marines, with a hoo-way!
The invaders are dead, ta'en pris'ner, or fled--
They can't stand the pistol and bowie.
CHORUS.

I'M THINKING OF THE SOLDIER.

By MARY E. SMITH, of Austin, Texas.

O, I'm thinking of the soldier as the evening shadows fall,
As the twilight fairy sketches her sad picture on the wall;
As the trees are resting sadly on the waveless silence deep,
Like the barks upon the ocean when the winds are hush'd to sleep.

All my soul is with the absent, as the evening shadows fall;
While the ghosts of night are spreading o'er the dying light a pall;
As the robes of day are trailing in the halls of eventide,
And yon radiant star is wooing blushing eve to be his bride.

I have shunn'd the cosy parlor--for a silence lingers there,
Since our lov'd one went to battle, and we find a vacant chair;
And a sigh is stealing upward, as the evening spirits come,
With the zephyrs, to the bowers of this sadly deserted home.

For when soft "good nights" are ended there's a room not like the rest,
Since a soldier left that chamber and that pillow is unprest;
O, my soul is in a shadow, and my heart cannot be gay,
As the eve with low refraining comes to shroud the dying day.

For I'm dreaming of the soldier, on his pallet bed of straw;
As the leaves are growing yellow and November winds are raw--
And a vision comes before me of aching, fever'd brow;
And a proud form blighted, blasted, strangely, strangely alter'd now.

And I feel that strong heart beating fainter, fainter with each breath,
Fluttering softly in its prison, fluttering thro' the gate of death;
And a voice of sad despairing stirs my heart's deep fountain now,--
As my hand is slowly wandering o'er that strangely altered brow.

And a sigh, soul full of longing, fills the chambers of my soul--
While the quivering heart-strings whisper "Life's a tale that soon is
told;"
God of Love, receive the soldier on that dim mysterious shore,
Where the weary are at rest and souls are sad, ah! nevermore.

Still the dusky sybil, "Future," on her dim, prophetic leaves,
Writes that death will claim the soldier, when he gathers up his sheaves;
This is why I'm ever sighing, and my heart cannot be gay,
As the eve with low refraining comes to shroud the dying day.

That is why I still am sighing as the deep gray shadows fall,
As the twilight spirit settles down her shadows in the hall,
And I'm praying for the soldier from a soul with sorrow sore,
For our soldier boys have left us--gone, perchance, to come no more.

THE BATTLE OF GALVESTON.

By MRS. L. E. CAPLEN, Galveston.

_Air--"The Harp that once thro' Tara's Halls."_

'Twas on that dark and fearful morn,
That anxious hearts beat high!
And many from their friends were torn
Beneath the wintry sky.

But hark! what cannon roar is that?
Terrific--but sublime--
Wafting some mortals to their graves,
Far from their Northern clime.

As the battle rag'd, voices high
Echoed along the shore,
For death or victory was nigh
Amid the battle's roar.

The Yanks appeared to gain the ground,
Their hopes were sure and high,
Our little boats then hove in sight,
Which caused their men to cry.

Magruder, for example sake,
The cannon first did fire,
When soon their boats were made to quake--
When one embrac'd his sire.

But death hath taken for his own
Their Captain, Lee, Monroe--
And many more they lost that day,
Whose death they'll long deplore.

But were we favored? Sure we were,
For victory was ours!
But death had stolen our gallant Wier;
Our tears did fall in showers.

Another one, deserving most,
The brave and noble son!
Sherman! thy country's pride! is lost--
A death most nobly won.

Come, all ye people, far and near,
Example you must take,
For Texas men and women are
Heroes for country's sake!

DEATH OF GEN. ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON.

By GEORGE B. MILROR, of Harrisburg.

The sun was sinking o'er the battle plain,
Where the night winds were already sighing,
While, with smiling lips, near his war-horse slain,
Lay a valiant chieftain dying!

And as he sank to his long, last rest,
The banner--once o'er him streaming--
He folded 'round his most gallant breast,
On the couch that knows no dreaming.

Proudly he lay on the battle-field,
On the banks of the noble river;
And the crimson stream from his veins did yield,
Without a pang or quiver!

There were hands that came to bind his wounds,
There were eyes o'er the warrior streaming,
As he rais'd his head from the bloody ground,
Where many a brave was sleeping.

"Now, away," he cried--"your aid is vain!
My soul will not brook recalling!
I have seen the tyrant enemy slain,
And like Autumn vine-leaves falling!

"I have seen our glorious banner wave
O'er the tents of the enemy vanquish'd--
I have drawn a sword for my country brave,
And in her cause now perish!

"Leave me to die with the free and the brave,
On the banks of my own noble river--
Ye can give me naught but a soldier's grave,
And a place in your hearts forever!"

GOD BLESS OUR SOUTHERN LAND.

Respectfully inscribed to Major-General J. B. Magruder, and sung on the occasion of his public reception in the city of Houston, Texas, Jan. 20, 1863.

God bless our Southern land,
God save our sea-girt land,
And make us free;
With justice for our shield,
May we on battle field
Never to foemen yield
Our liberty.

O Lord! protect the Chief
Who to our prompt relief
From threaten'd woe,
Hasten'd to lead the way;
Nor faltered in the fray,
When from our beauteous Bay
He drove the foe.

And may the gallant band
Worthy in his command
Ever to be,
Have of Thy watchful care
Ever a plenteous share,
Inspiring each to dare
For home and thee.

"O Lord our God! arise,
Scatter our enemies,
And make them fall!"
And when, with peace restored,
Each man lays by the sword,
May he with joy record
Thy mercies all.

SOUTHERN BATTLE SONG.

_Air--"Bruce's Address."_

Raise the Southern flag on high!
Shout aloud the battle cry!
Let its echoes reach the sky--
"God and Southern Rights."

Sons of wealth, and sons of toil,
Will ye yield your land for spoil,
Drive the foe from Southern soil!
Glory now invites.

Rally round our banner bright
Let its stars of quenchless light
Dim the base invader's sight,
On the battle field.

When the death clouds darkly lower,
When the cannons blaze and roar,
Though its folds be drenched in gore,
We will never yield.

By our sires who fought and bled!
By Virginia's honored dead!
By the blood so lately shed!
We will make them know--

Southern hearts are true as steel,
Wrongs like ours are slow to heal,
Sooner will we die than kneel
To a Northern foe.

BOMBARDMENT AND BATTLES OF GALVESTON.

FROM JUNE 1, 1862, TO JANUARY 1, 1863.

By S. R. EZZELL, of Capt. Daly's Company.

_Air--"Auld Lang Syne."_

The Yankees hate the Lone Star State, because she did secede;
At Galveston they've now begun to make her soldiers bleed.
The "Old Blockade" her threats have made, that she will burn our town;
But Col. Cook, with piercing look, declares he'll stand his ground.

High in the breeze he soon did raise the flag with single star,
Saying, "Let them come, we'll give them some, before they are aware."
Along the coast he soon did post his batteries, well mann'd
By men of might, prepared to fight, behind breast-works of sand.

Like lions brave, their land to save, the cavalry do stand
Ready to charge the Yankee barge that first attempts to land;
Infantry, too, like soldiers true, who never yet did fail,
They long to greet the Yankee fleet with musketry like hail.

We wait to see the "Old Santee" come sailing into shore;
And then we'll fight for Southern rights, and make the cannon roar;
But if a fleet we have to meet, of gunboats large and strong,
We'll cross the bridge without a siege, and think it nothing wrong.

When on mainland, we'll take our stand, and all their hosts defy;
There we will fight for Southern rights--we'll fight them till we die.

* * * * *

Two months passed by, they came not nigh, but only cruis'd around,
As if to find the channel's wind, for which they oft did sound;
But this was all, the Eagle bald, did not attempt to land;
His courage fail'd, away he sailed, and made no more demand.

But Harriet Lane, she did remain, with quite a heavy fleet,
She came up nigher and open'd fire in order quite complete;
'Twas at Fort Point she did dismount our best and largest gun;
'Twas now in vain here to remain, so we for life did run.

'Mid bomb and grape we did escape, and not a life was lost;
Fearing the town they would burn down over the bridge we crossed;
Then on mainland we took our stand, determined not to yield,
Tho' bomb and ball should thickly fall, and we die on the field.

Gen. Herbert he came not near, but strangely stood aloof;
From San Antone he did look on, where was good old "4th proof."

* * * * *

Magruder came, a man of fame, the Texas boys to lead;
From Rio Grande he did command, to come with rapid speed;
"My plan is laid," he quickly said, "Galveston to retake;
Brave boys!" said he, "come, follow me; we'll make the Yankees quake."

Three bayou crafts, of shallow draught, with cotton breastworks neat;
Three hundred men, and three small guns, composed our Texas fleet;
Now ready quite, the Feds to fight, our land force did repair,
Along Strand Street, the Yanks to greet, just as our boats came near.

The Lone Star State must seal her fate, in ruin, shame and woe,
Or bravely fight for Southern rights, and triumph o'er the foe;
On New Year's morn, before day dawn, the year of sixty-three,
The New Year's gifts came flying swift, both from the land and sea.

The lightning glare, both far and near, the darkness did dispel;
Grape, bomb and ball did thickly fall, our forces to repel;
Magruder then said to his men, "Your country you must save,
And still maintain your glorious name, _the bravest of the brave_."

We fear'd them not, but bravely fought, our homesteads to maintain;
By break of day we had the Bay at our command again;
The Yankee fleet we did defeat, and captur'd all their crews,
Except a few who were untrue, and sail'd off under truce.

GENERAL TOM GREEN.

By MRS. WM. BARNES, of Galveston.

A warrior has fallen! a chieftain has gone!
A hero of heroes has sunk to his rest!
Those hands that wielded the sword and the sabre,
Now lie pulseless and cold o'er his motionless breast;
That voice that has gladden'd valiant comrades in arms,
And driven away their deep shadows of gloom,
Is seemingly hush'd to those seared-stricken hearts,
But loudly will speak from its still, hollow tomb!

Aye, seemingly hush'd, like the black, death-like waters,
As they mirror the face of the threatening sky;
But see ye the ripple that waves in the distance,
Warning the mariner that danger is nigh?
Aye, seemingly hush'd, like the dead, sullen calm,
As it heralds Vesuvius' virulent ire,
Ere she, out of her bosom, malignantly pours
Her dull molten lava, her columns of fire.

Aye, seemingly hush'd, but the words he has spoken
Lie deeply incased in the breasts of his men,
And tho' to the "echoless shore" he is wafted,
His voice will be heard yet again and again;
How oft-seated by the bivouac's bright fires,
While his men have stood 'round, wrapt in wondrous delight,
Has he spurred them to noble and chivalric deeds,
As he vividly pictured a forthcoming fight.

Full many a time has the rough, sunburnt hand
Dash'd the unbidden tear from the veteran's cheek,
As of home--that lov'd spot to each memory so dear--
With heartfelt emotion his chieftain would speak;
Aye, seemingly hush'd is the tongue of the warrior,
In their bosom its echo is lingering still;
Long as their pulse beats, its prompting they yield to--
Yes, long as their noble hearts have power to feel.

The hero of Valverde--the hero of Mansfield,--
Now sleeps the calm sleep of the happy and blest;
Those eyes once so lustrous are now sightless and dim,
Those limbs once so active have sunk to their rest;
O there let him lie where the first beams of morning
Shall shed o'er his tomb a soft halo of light,
And the moon's gentle rays that dear spot shall enliven,
As she glides on her course through the still, solemn night.

Plant the wild-tendriled vine and flowers of the prairie
O'er the grave of the chieftain that slumbereth there--
How sweetly they'll mingle their gentle perfumes with
The orphans' and widows' sweet incense of prayer;
Let the song of the whippoorwill, pensive and sad,
As he flits on the sprays of the green willow tree,
And the deep azure waves of the fair Colorado,
By day and by night his mournful requiems be!

HARD TIMES!

By M. B. SMITH, Co. C, Second Texas Volunteer Infantry.

Just listen awhile, and give ear to my song
Concerning this war, which will not take me long;
Old Lincoln, the blower, swore the Rebels he'd whip,
But thanks to my stars, he has not done it yet,
For it's hard times.

Manassa's the spot, if I recollect right,
Where Yankees and Southerners had their first fight;
We whipped them so badly, our boys thought it fun,
And ever since then they have called it Bull Run,
Those were grand times.

Old Lincoln had put in his very best man--
It was old General Scott who led in his clan--
But in facing Jeff Davis he couldn't shine,
For we captured his cakes, his brandies and wine,
Then we'd fine times.

Old Abe and the "Gen'ral" soon got at "out,"
Which caused the "Old Gen'ral" to complain of gout;
So he told Marse Abe that he would resign,
And he laid all the blame to the very hard times,
O, it was hard times.

McClellan was the next man put in the field,
With brass-hilted sword and a sole-leather shield;
He boasted quite loudly the Rebels he'd whip--
But you see, my dear friends, he's not done it yet,
For it's hard times.

Yet there was another, Gen. Buell, the great,
That followed our Beauregard clean thro' one State,
But at Tennessee River he got all his fill--
I'm certain he remembered the Shiloh Hill!

There were Banks, Shields and Fremont, big generals all,
While skirmishing 'round ran afoul of "Stonewall!"
With Longstreet and Hill, very near by his side,
Who said: "Wo-ee, Yankees, let's all have a ride!"

Old Jackson he then got around to their rear,
So the day was ours you can see very clear;
Then he sent a dispatch to brave General Lee,
"Drive all the Yankees into eternity?"

But at Gainesville station they made a bold stand,
Where they collected a formidable band,
And swore to their fill that the Rebels they'd whip,
But the Texans made them everlastingly "git!"

Now the last I've heard of McClellan, the third;
He was down on James River bogg'd up in the mud,
In a bend of the river, near a big pond,
The want of more news puts an end to my song.

AUGUST 13, 1862.

THE FLAG OF THE SOUTHLAND

By MAJOR E. W. CAVE, of Houston.

_Air--"I'm Afloat."_

Flag of the Southland! Flag of the free!
'Ere thy sons will be slaves, they will perish with thee!
Thy new-risen star shall light Liberty on,
'Till the hosts of the tyrant are scatter'd and gone!
Whether victory sits on the Southern plumes,
Or disaster doth come in some hour of gloom,
Freedom's hosts will still rally where'er thou shalt be,
O flag of the Southland! flag of the free!

Flag of the Southland! thy glory has been
To be baptized in blood 'midst the great battle's din,
From Manassas' red plains, o'er the mountains steep,
Thy stars kept their vigils, where Washington sleeps,
And the breezes of Vernon have borne on the shout
Of thy triumphant sons as the foes took the rout;
Valor's trio of genius--Beauregard, Johnston and Lee!
Guards the flag of the Southland--flag of the free!

The foe is upon us, but our flag it is there!
We have borne it in triumph--its defeat we can share;
Tho' our cities be burned, tho' our thousands be slain,
'Mid the flames of our altars we'll fight him again;
And while there's a spot where a patriot band
May show to the foe a desperate stand,
Southern hearts will defy him, their flag will still be
The flag of the Southland--the flag of the free!

In the hour of gloom now thy valorous sons show,
That freemen can die, but ne'er yield to the foe!
But our Shiloh has come--see the enemy flee!
His sceptre has sunk 'neath the swift Tennessee--
And the Southern heart and the Southern hand,
From classic Potomac to bold Rio Grande,
Still push on to battle, when floating they see
The flag of the Southland--the flag of the free!

ON TO GLORY.

Sons of freedom, on to glory,
Go where brave men do or die;
Let your names in future story
Gladden every patriot's eye;
'Tis your country calls you hasten,
Backward hurl the invading foe;
Freemen, never think of danger,
To the glorious battle go.

Oh, remember gallant Jackson,
Single-handed in the fight,
Death blows dealt the fierce marauder,
For his liberty and right;
Tho' he fell beneath their thousands,
Who that covets not his fame?
Grand and glorious, brave and noble,
Henceforth shall be Jackson's name.

Sons of freedom, can you linger,
When you hear the battle roar,
Fondly dallying with your pleasures
When the foe is at your door?
Never, no, we fear no idlers,
Death or Freedom's now the cry,
'Till the "Stars and Bars" triumphant
Spread their folds to every eye.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY.

Found on the body of a sergeant of the Old Stonewall Brigade, Winchester, Va.

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

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,
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 as pat--
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The "Blue Light Elder" knows o'er 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! 'tis 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! He'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,
There's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge--
Pope and his Yankees whipped before--
"Bayonet and grape!" hear Stonewall roar,
"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score
In 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,
Than get in "Stonewall's way."

TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF MAJ.-GEN. TOM GREEN.

By CAPTAIN EDWIN HOBBY.

In the land of the orange-groves, sunshine and flowers,
Is heard the funereal tread,
And darkly above it, the war-cloud lowers,
And a requiem swells thro' its orange bowers,
For the brave and noble dead;
Then trail'd be the banners in dust,
And muffled the martial drum,
His sword in its scabbard shall rust;
With their coming no more will he come--
The earth has received to her bosom its trust--
Ashes to ashes--and dust unto dust.

In the sunniest realm of that beautiful land,
Where spring-time her festival's keeping,
Where the blossoms of summer in splendor expand,
By the camp-fire light there's a sorrow bow'd band--
Their leader forever is sleeping:
Then plumed be their banners in black,
And softly the bugle be blown.
No more shall he be welcomed back
By hearts that were twined to his own,
'Till the voice from the King on his throne
To the earth goeth forth, to give up his trust--
Ashes to ashes, and dust unto dust.

A sun has been lost from that bright constellation,
Whose splendor illumines the sky;
It sank as we gazed in lov'd admiration;
Its leaves were the glory and pride of the nation,
'Twas Liberty's symbol on high,
And darkness now hangs on the face of the day;
The illustrious hero's at rest;
But the fruit of his genius is left us to say
How sublime was the Chief that is taken away;
How much of all hearts he possessed.

On New Mexico's mountains, his banners waved
In the face of the haughtiest foe--
All dangers he scorned, and all odds had he brav'd,
And victory seem'd on his banners engrav'd
When his genius directed the blow:
_Val Verde!_ a name that in song and story
Shall brighten our history's pages,
'Till crumbled in dust, is the record of glory,
'Till valor's forgotten, and nation's grow hoary,
Undimmed by the shadows of ages.

Massachusetts' black banner wav'd on Galveston's Strand,
The roll of her drums echoed nightly,
(Sad sound to the freemen who dwelt on the land),
It was heard by his ear, it was caught by his band,
A stain on our 'scutcheon unsightly:
Night closed and morn came, what a change had been wrought!
What proud banner floateth there now!
Ah! the victory's won--Green the battle has fought!
And the cross of the South, morning's golden beam caught;
Fresh laurels encircle his brow.

At Bisland he stood, like a rock in the ocean
That stems the strong waves on the shore,
Calm and unmoved, in the midst of commotion,
Our army he saved by his dauntless devotion--
What chieftain has ever done more?
Brashear, and Fordoche, Pleasant Hill and Mansfield,
All breathe of his glory and fame--
There his genius burst forth like the lightning conceal'd,
And destiny seem'd to his glance reveal'd--
Fate crowning in triumph his name.

O we weep for the veteran hearts that are gone--
Scurry, Randall, Riley, Buchel,
Shepherd, Chalmers, Ragsdale, Raines, McNeal and Mouton,
Their glorious names and deeds shall live on--
Peace to the heroes that fell.
And O, for the soldiers that bled with them there,
Their country's strong bulwark and trust,
United to do, and the courage to dare.
In life they had borne all privation and care,
In dust, undivided's their dust.

And Liberty's tree, from the blood of the brave,
In strength and in grandeur shall rise;
Its branches extend to each ocean's blue wave,
And sacred its fruit o'er each patriot's grave:
How dearly that fruit shall we prize!
Is the hero, O say, in that mystical world,
Surrounded on Time's silent shore
By the veteran dead, with their banners now furl'd--
War's trumpet unblown, and his lances unhurl'd--
Are they still with the chief they adore?

Tom Green is no more! lov'd and honor'd he lies,
Near his home by the murmuring river--
In the soil he sav'd, 'neath his own Southern skies,
Where praises from lips yet unborn shall arise,
And bless him forever and ever.
There let him sleep on, undisturb'd in repose,
And cease for the hero to sigh--
Life's morning was honor--in greatness it rose,
'Twas a sunset of splendor, that life at its close,
He died as a soldier should die.

O'er his hallow'd remains let no monument shine,
To tell of the chieftain beneath it,
His requiem hymn'd by the sorrow-toned pine,
And wildly around it the jessamine twine,
And flowers, bright flowers enwreathe it;
Then silently night-skies their soft dews will shed
On the spring-flowers that garland his grave--
One generous sigh for the bosom that bled,
One generous tear for the fate of the dead,
The noble, the true and the brave.

His laurels were pure, and his honor unstained,
He lov'd not war's crimson-dyed pall,
His nature was peace while the olive remained--
Refus'd then the long-baited lion unchain'd--
Tom Green was then greater than all.
Affection and love was the pulse of his breast,
Ever quick at humanity's call--
The widow and orphan his charities bless'd,
The friend of the homeless, the poor and distress'd,
Tom Green was the idol of all.

GALVESTON, TEXAS, May 28, 1864.

HOOD'S OLD BRIGADE.

"_On the March._"

By MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE.

'Twas midnight when we built our fires--
We march'd at half-past three!
We know not when our march shall end,
Nor care--we follow Lee!
The starlight gleams on many a crest,
And many a well-tried blade--
This handful marching on the left--
_This_ line is _our_ Brigade!

Our line is short because its veins
So lavishly have bled;
The missing! Search the countless plains
Whose battles it has led;
There are those Georgians on our right,
Their ranks are thinning, too--
How in one company, they say,
They now can count but two!

There's not much talking down the lines,
Nor shouting down the gloam;
For when the night is 'round us, then
We're thinking most of home!

I saw yon soldier startle, when
We passed an open glade,
Where the low starlight, leaf and bough
A fairy picture made;
Nor has he uttered word since then--
_My_ heart can whisper why--
'Twas like the spot in Texas where
He bade his love good-by!

And when, beyond us, carelessly,
Some soldier sang adieu!
My comrade here across his eyes
His coarse sleeve roughly drew;
So, scarcely sound, save trampling feet,
Is echoed through the gloom--
Because when stars are brightest, then
We're thinking most of home!

Hush! what an echo startles up
Around this rocky hill!
Was't shell, half-buried, struck my foot?
Or, stay--'tis a human skull!
This ridge I surely seem to know
By light of yon rising moon;
Ha! we battled here three mortal hours
One Sunday afternoon.

Last spring! See where our Captain stands,
His head drooped on his breast--
At his feet that heap of bones and earth--
You know _now_ why his rest
Is broke off, and why his sword was
So bitter in the fray!
'Tis the grave of his only brother, who
Was killed that awful day!

Hush! for in front I heard a shot,
And then a well-known cry--
"It is the foe!" See where the flames
Mount upward to the sky!
It is the foe! Halt! Rest we here!
We wait the coming sun,
And ere these stars may shine again
A field is _lost or won_!

Is _won_! It is the "Old Brigade,"
This line of stalwart men!
The "long roll!" how it thrills my heart
To hear that sound again!
God shield us, boys! here breaks the day,
The stars begin to fade!
"Now steady here! fall in! fall in!
Forward! the 'Old Brigade!'"

THE BATTLE SONG OF THE SOUTH.

Words by P. E. COLLINS.

Music by WM. HERZ.