Chapter I: Wish I Was in Dixie's Land (2)

Land of our birth, thee, thee I sing,
Proud heritage is thine,
Wide to the breeze thy banner fling,
Thy freedom ne'er resign.
Land of the South, the foe defies
Thy valor! lo, he comes,
To prove thy strength, awake, arise!
To arms! protect thy homes.

Bright Southern land, the time has come,
Thy bright historic day,
Sons of the South, the time has come,
Drive back the tyrants' sway!
Strike, Southrons, strike! the foe shall flee,
Nor e'er again invade;
The sons of free men shall be free,
They cannot slaves be made.

Land of the South, by right maintained,
The day of trial past,
The prize of victory will be gained;
Thou'lt triumph at the last,
And future bards your deeds shall tell
Of valor and renown;
What tyranny and hate befell,
By Southern might cast down.

MY HEART'S IN MISSISSIPPI.

My heart's in Mississippi,
'Tis de place whar I was born;
'Tis dar I planted sugar cane,
'Tis dar I hoed de corn,
Dey have taken me to Texas,
A thousand miles below;
Yet my heart's in Mississippi
Wherever I go.

CHORUS.--Yet my heart's in Mississippi,
'Tis de place whar I was born;
'Tis dar I planted sugar cane,
'Tis dar I hoed de corn.

Mobile may boast of beauties,
Dat lemonade de street;
But dey neber hab a sixpence,
To ax you to a treat;
De Mississippi yellow gals,
Dey always treat dar beaux,
Den my heart's in Mississippi
Wherever I go.
CHORUS.

Way down in Mississippi,
De fields am always green;
And orange trees in blossom,
De whole year may be seen,
Dar darkies live like princes,
And dar do heel and toe;
Den my heart's in Mississippi,
Wherever I go.
CHORUS.

Den fill to Mississippi,
And let de toast go 'round,
Rosin up de fiddle-sticks,
And let de banjo sound;
O fotch along de whiskey,
And let de fluid flow:
For my heart's in Mississippi, boys,
Wherever I go.
CHORUS.

THE FUNERAL OF ALBERT SYDNEY JOHNSTON.

He fell and they cried, bring us home our dead!
We'll bury him here where the prairies spread,
And the gulf waves beat on our Southern shores;
He will hear them not when he comes once more--
Our Albert Sydney Johnston!

When he went, how the flushed hope beat high
On the brows of The Rangers standing nigh!
And the champing steeds of the Texas plain--
For his voice was that to their bridle rein
That the air's to the Persian monsoon.

But they bore him now to the crash of wheels;
No sound of their sorrow the hero feels,
Tho' many are come that are sad and fair,
With flowers and stars for his bloody bier,
And weeping they lay them down.

And the Crescent shone with a wreathing grace
Around that Star on the covered face;
No sound but of sobs and a parting look,
And the forest sighed and the aspen shook
As the train went rumbling on.

And down to the feet of the moaning sea,
Where the waves made the only melody,
No band or bell was played or tolled--
But the Hero cared not--hate fell cold
On the heart of him who slept.

Where the church was closed by the mandate given,
And he lay on the wharf under night and heaven,
Fair friend and slave with uncovered head,
Gazed alike on the face of the sleeping dead,
And alike in silence wept.

So the vigil held, 'till the chastened cloud,
For the shame of men, hid its face and bowed;
And thousands came when the moon was high,
And they bore their burden sadly by,
To its rest on the prairie plain.

As the prairie flowers that now grow o'er him,
Where the white-maned steeds that walked before him
Proud and stepped and slow--and the mourners said,
Let a stately place for his couch be made--
Houston must have its fane.

There they lay him out in a proud old hall,
With the floor's edge kissing the sacred pall;
And thousands came to the hallowed room,
'Till the day went down to the night of gloom,
For his land did honor him.

And when to the bannered march's swell,
They bore him out with a lingering knell,
Sad tears flowed out from a thousand eyes,
And a thousand voices were choked with sighs,
And the sun in the West was dim.

THE COTTON-BURNER'S SONG.[9]

Lo! when Mississippi rolls
Oceanward its stream,
Upward mounting, folds on folds
Flaming fire-tongues gleam;
'Tis the planter's grand oblation
On the altar of the nation;
'Tis a willing sacrifice--
Let the golden incense rise--
Pile the cotton to the skies!

CHORUS.--Lo! the sacrificial flame
Gilds the starry dome of night!
Nations! read the mute acclaim--
'Tis for liberty we fight!
Homes! Religion! Right!

Never such a golden light
Lit the vaulted sky;
Never sacrifice as bright
Rose to God on high;
Thousands oxen, what were they
To the offering we pay?
And the brilliant holocaust--
When the revolution's past--
In the nation's songs will last!
CHORUS.

Though the night be dark above,
Broken though the shield--
Those who love us, those we love,
Bid us never yield;
Never! though our bravest bleed,
And the vultures on them feed;
Never! though the serpent's race--
Hissing hate and vile disgrace--
By the million should menace!
CHORUS.

Pile the cotton to the skies;
Lo! the Northmen gaze;
England! see our sacrifice--
See the cotton blaze!
God of nations! now to Thee,
Southrons bend th' imploring knee;
'Tis our country's hour of need--
Hear the mothers intercede--
Hear the little children plead!
CHORUS.

THE CONTRABAND.

A song of Mississippi negroes in the Vicksburg Campaign.

Darkies has you seed my massa
Wid de mustache on his face?
He came along dis morning
As dough he'd leave de place.
He saw de smoke way up de river,
Where de Lincum gunboats lay:
He took his hat and he left mighty sudden,
I speck he's runned away.

CHORUS.--Massa run, aha!
Darkey stay, aho!
It must be now dat de kingdom's comin',
In the year of Jubilo.

He's six feet one way, four feet t'other,
And weighs three hundred pounds;
His coat's so big he can't pay de tailor--
Den it don't go half around.

He drills so much dey call him cap'n;
And he am so very tan,
Speck he'll try to fool dem Yankees
And say he's contraban'.
CHORUS.

Dis darkey gets so very lonesome,
In de cabin on de lawn;
He moves his things to massa's parlor,
To keep 'em, while he's gone.

There's wine and cider in de cellar,
And de darkies dey'll have some;
I speck it will be confiscated,
When de Lincum soldiers come.
CHORUS.

De overseer will give us trouble,
And run us round a spell;
We'll lock him up in smoke-house cellar,
Wid de key thrown in de well.
De whip is lost, and de handcuffs broken,
And massa'll lose his pay;
He's big enough and old enough,
Dan to gone and runned away.
CHORUS.

SONG OF HOOKER'S PICKET.

_Southern Illustrated News_, Feb. 21st, 1863.

I'm 'nation tired of being hired
To fight for a shillin' a day;
Richmond to gain I'll hev to strain,
And travel some other way.

Darn Ole Abe and Ole Jeff Dave!
Darn the day I 'listed!
When I came down to this 'ere town,
Jerushy! how I missed it.

All day I've stud in rebel mud
A watchin' North Calinians.
I might a bin safe up to Lynn,
A eatin' clams and inions.

All night I sit in straw that's wet,
Ketchen fleas and other critters;
The boys down East are at a feast
With gals, doughnuts and fritters.

I hain't no pay for many a day;--
Nigh unto a year I guess,
Since a new Greenback hev crosst my track--
That's so with all my mess.

To pull my trigger for a big buck nigger
That lives on hog and hominy,
While on hard tack my jaws I crack,
Ain't war "accordin' to Jomini."

It's monsus fine for the Bobolition line,
With mouths full o' pumpkin pie,
To preach in meetin' agin' retreatin'--
Why don't they come theirselves and try?

They'd find the Confed's hev mighty hard heads,
And are pow'ful smart at shootin';
Their love for the old flag would very soon drag--
Lord! how you'd see them scootin'.

That fool Burnside deserves a cowhide,
Coz he's got neither pluck nor sense;
He shook like souse at the Phillip's house,
While we was murder'd at Marye's fence.

But it is all one to me who our Gen'ral may be,
If I've got to die for the nigger,
While Greeley steps on feathers, and Beecher's patent leathers,
Sets Plymouth Church in a snigger.

War is mighty fine to them that's drinking wine
At the big hotels in York;
But as for _lousy_ me, that's lost his liberty,
_Peace_ is the right sort o' talk.

I calk'late to stay, until next May,
A shiv'rin' in all this slush;
But when I git paid, I'm a leetle kinder 'fraid
I'll back out hum with a rush.

I'll pitch this gun into old Bull Run,
Like I did when I follered McDowell;
Secesh may go his ways, and I'll spend my days
With my gal, my gin and my trowel.

Oh! I'm sick as a dog, or a mangy hog,
Of this 'tarnal nasty fightin',
That's all gone wrong, and lasts too long
For a man that's thinkin' o' kitin'.

I'll tell you, Mississip, you're an ugly looking rip,
And if you'll keep your side o' the water,
You may save your powder, and I'll take to chowder,
And come no more where I hadn't oughter.

NO SURRENDER.

Ever constant, ever true,
Let the word be, no surrender,
Boldly dare and greatly do!
They shall bring us safely through,
No surrender, no surrender!
And though fortune's smiles be few,
Hope is always springing new,
Still inspiring me and you
With a magic, no surrender.

Nail the colors to the mast
Shouting gladly, no surrender;
Troubles near, are all but past,
Serve them as you did the last,
No surrender, no surrender!
Though the skies be overcast,
And upon the sleety blast
Disappointment gathers fast,
Beat them off with no surrender.

Constant and courageous still,
Mind the word is, no surrender!
Battle tho' it be up hill,
Stagger not at seeming ill,
No surrender, no surrender!
Hope, and thus your hope fulfill,
There's a way where there's a will,
And the way all cares to kill,
Is to give them no surrender.

A SOUTHERN WOMAN'S SONG.

Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Little needle, swiftly fly,
Brightly glittering as you go;
Every time that you pass by
Warms my heart with pity's glow.
Dreams of comfort that will cheer,
Through winter's cold, the volunteer,
Dreams of courage you will bring,
Smile on me like flowers in Spring.

Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Swiftly, little needle, fly,
Through this flannel, soft and warm;
Though with cold the soldiers sigh,
This will sure keep out the storm.
Set the buttons close and tight
Out to shut the winter's damp;
There'll be none to fix them right
In the soldier's tented camp.

Stitch, stitch, stitch;
Ah! needle, do not linger;
Close the thread, make firm the knot;
There'll be no dainty finger
To arrange a seam forgot.
Though small and tiny you may be,
Do all that you are able;
A _mouse_ a lion once set free,--
As says the pretty fable.

Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Swiftly, little needle, glide,
Thine's a pleasant labor;
To clothe the soldier be thy pride,
While he wields the sabre.
Ours are tireless hearts and hands;
To Southern wives and mothers,
All who join our warlike bands
Are our friends and brothers.

Stitch, stitch, stitch,
Little needle, swiftly fly,
From the morning until eve,
As the moments pass thee by,
These substantial comforts weave.
Busy thoughts are at our hearts--
Thoughts of hopeful cheer,
As we toil till day departs
For the noble volunteer.

Quick, quick, quick,
Swifter, little needle, go;
From our homes most pleasant fires
Let a loving greeting flow
To our brothers and our sires;
We have tears for those who fall,--
Smiles for those who laugh at fear,--
Hope and sympathy for all,--
Every noble volunteer.

GENERAL LEE AT THE BATTLE OF THE WILDERNESS.

By TENELLA.

There he stood, the grand old hero, great Virginia's god-like son,
Second unto none in glory--equal of her Washington;
Gazing on his line of battle, as it wavered to and fro
'Neath the front and flank advances of the almost conquering foe;
Calm as was that clear May morning, ere the furious death-roar broke

From the iron-throated war lions crouching 'neath the cloudy smoke;
Cool, as tho' the battle raging was but mimicry of fight,
Each brigade an ivory castle, and each regiment a knight;
Chafing in reserve beside him, two brigades of Texans lay,
All impatient for their portion in the fortune of the day.

Shot and shell are 'mong them falling, yet unmov'd they silent stand,
Longing, eager for the battle, but awaiting his command:
Suddenly he rode before them, as the forward line gave way,
Rais'd his hat with courtly gesture, "Follow me and save the day!"

But, as tho' by terror stricken, still and silent stood that troop,
Who were wont to rush to battle with a fierce avenging whoop.
It was but a single moment, then a murmur thro' them ran,
Heard above the cannon's roaring, as it passed from man to man,

"You go back and we'll go forward!" now the waiting leader hears,
Mixed with deep impatient sobbing, as of strong men moved to tears,
Once again he gives the order, "I'll lead you on the foe!"
Then, thro' all the line of battle rang a loud determined "No!"

Quick as thought a gallant Major, with a firm and vice-like grasp,
Seized the General's bridle, shouting, "Forward, boys! I'll hold him
fast!"
Then again the hat was lifted, "Sir, I am the older man:
Loose my bridle, I will lead them!" in a measured tone and calm.

Trembling with suppressed emotion, with intense excitement hot,
In a quivering voice, the Texan, "No, by God, sir, you shall not!"
By them swept the charging squadron, with a loud exultant cheer,
"We'll retake the salient, General, if you'll watch us from the rear!"

And they kept their word right nobly, sweeping every foe away,
With that grand grey head uncovered, watching how they saved the day--
But the god-like calm was shaken, which no battle shock could move,
By this true, spontaneous token of his soldiers' child-like love!

MY NOBLE WARRIOR, COME!

By MRS. COL. C. G. F----Y.

_Air--"The Rock Beside the Sea."_

O, tell me not that earth is fair, that spring is in its bloom,
While young hearts, hourly, everywhere meet such untimely doom;
That sweet on wind, of morn or eve, the violet's breath may be,
Let me but know thy banner waves, and leads to victory!
Let me but know, etc.

The thundering battle's distant roar, the host's victorious cry,
Unto my trembling heart is more than all earth's melody;
Come back, my noble warrior, come! there's but one prayer for me,
'Till I can greet thy banner home, proud banner of the free!
Till I can greet, etc.

SONG OF THE PRIVATEER

By ALEX. A. CUMMINS.

Fearlessly the seas we roam,
Tossed by each briny wave;
Its boundless surface is our home,
Its bosom deep our graves.
No foreign mandate fills with awe
Our gallant hearted band;
We know no home, we know no law,
But that of Dixie's land.

The bright star is our compass true,
Our chart the ocean wide;
Our only hope the noble few
That's standing side by side;
We do not fear the stormy gale
That sweeps old ocean's strand;
We scorn our enemy's clumsy sail,
And all for Dixie's land.

We love to hoist to the topmost peak,
_Our Southern Stars and Stripes_;
And woe to him who dares to seek
To trample on their rights!
It is the aegis of the free,
And by it we will stand,
And watch it waving o'er the sea,
And over Dixie's land.

We love to roam the deep, deep sea,
And hear the cannon's boom,
And give the war-cry, wild and free,
Amid the battle's gloom,
We do not fight alone for gain,
So far from native strand;
But our country's freedom and its fame,
And the fair of Dixie's land.

HOOD'S TEXAS BRIGADE.

Down by the valley, 'mid thunder and lightning,
Down by the valley, 'mid shadows of night,
Down by the deep crimson'd valley of Richmond,
Twenty-five hundred mov'd on to the fight;
Onward, still onward, to the portals of glory,
To the sepulchral chambers, yet never dismayed;
Down by the deep crimson'd valley of Richmond,
March'd the bold warriors of Hood's Texas Brigade!

See ye the fires and flashes still leaping?
See ye the tempest and jettings of storm?
See ye the banners of proud Texan heroes,
In front of her column, move steadily on?
Hear ye the music that gladdens each comrade,
Riding on wings through torrents of sounds?
Hear ye the booming adown the red valley?
Riley unbuckles his swarthy old hounds![10]

Valiant Fifth Texas! I saw your brave column
Rush through the channels of living and dead;
Sturdy Fourth Texas! Why weep, your old warhorse?
He died as he wish'd, in the gear, at your head:
West Point! ye will tell, on the pages of glory,
How the blood of the South ebb'd away near your shade,
And how sons of Texas fought in the red valley,
And fell in the columns of Hood's Texas Brigade.

Fathers and mothers, ye weep for your jewels;
Sisters, ye weep for your brothers in vain;
Maidens, ye weep for your sunny-eyed lovers--
Weep, for you'll never behold them again!
But know ye that vict'ry, the shrine of the noble,
Encircles the house of death newly made!
And know ye that Freedom, the shrine of the mighty,
Shines forth on the banners of Hood's Texas Brigade!

Daughters of Southland, come bring ye bright flowers,
Weave ye a chaplet for the brow of the brave;
Bring ye the emblems of freedom and victory;
Bring ye the emblems of death and the grave;
Bring ye some motto befitting a hero;
Bring ye exotics that never will fade;
Come to the deep crimson'd valley of Richmond,
And crown our young Chief of the Texas Brigade!

SWEETHEARTS AND THE WAR.

Oh, dear! its shameful, I declare,
To make the men all go
And leave so many sweethearts here
Without a single beau.
We like to see them brave, 'tis true,
And would not urge them stay;
But what are we, poor girls, to do
When they are all away?

We told them we could spare them there,
Before they had to go;
But, bless their hearts, we weren't aware
That we should miss them so.
We miss them all in many ways,
But truth will ever out,
The greatest thing we miss them for
Is seeing us about.

On Sunday, when we go to church,
We look in vain for some
To meet us, smiling, on the porch,
And ask to see us home.
And then we can't enjoy a walk
Since all the beaux have gone;
For what's the good (to use plain talk),
If we must trudge alone?

But what's the use of talking thus?
We'll try to be content;
And if they cannot come to us
A message may be sent.
And that's one comfort, anyway;
For though we are apart,
There is no reason why we may
Not open heart to heart.

We trust it may soon come
To a final test;
We want to see our Southern homes
Secured in peaceful rest.
But if the blood of those we love
In freedom's cause must flow,
With fervent trust in God above,
We bid them onward go.

And we will watch them as they go,
And cheer them on their way:
Our arms shall be their resting-place
When wounded sore they lay.
Oh! if the sons of Southern soil
For freedom's cause must die,
Her daughters ask no dearer boon
Than by their side to lie.

JACKSON'S RESIGNATION.

A Yankee Soliloquy before the Battle of Fredericksburg.

By TENELLA.

Well, we can whip them now I guess,
If Jackson has resigned,
General Lee in "fighting Burnside,"
More than his match will find:
We're done with slow McClellan,
Who kept us "digging dirt,"
And now are "on to Richmond,"
Where some one "will be hurt."

Again around the Rebels
The anaconda coils,
For East and West, and North and South,
We have them in our toils;
We'd have beat them at Manassas
If McDowell had not slipped,
When he tried to leap this Stonewall,
Who don't know when he's whipped.

We'd have laid them in the Valley
So low they could not rise,
But Banks must run against it,
And spill all his supplies.
Now if that fool Jeff Davis
Has let Stonewall resign,
We can go "on to Richmond"
By the Rappahannock line.

But they say he's a shrewd fellow
Who knows a soldier well,
And stood by Sidney Johnston
Until in death he fell;
"If Johnston is no general,
Then, gentlemen, I've none,"
He said to those who grumbled,
When Donelson we won.

And I don't believe that Jackson's
Resignation he'll accept--
Hallo!!!--A rebel picket--
How close the rascal crept!
"Say, stranger, is it true
That Jackson has resigned?"
"Well, yes--I reckon so--
Heard somethin' of the kind."

"What for? Did old Jeff Davis
Put a sub. above his head?"
"No--they took away his commissary,
So I've heard it said."
"Well, _we_ are glad to hear it,
And will tender them our thanks,
But who was Jackson's commissary?"
"_Your Major-General Banks._"

"Confound your rebel impudence!
He'd be very smart indeed,
If from supplies for _one_ intended,
_Two_ armies he could feed."

_Southern Illustrated News_, April, 1863.

WE LEFT HIM ON THE FIELD.

By MISS MARIA E. JONES, of Galveston, Tex.

We left him on the crimson'd field,
Where battle storms had swept,
We know the soldier's fate was seal'd--
No wonder that we wept.
Some have, perhaps, as nobly fought,
And some as bravely fell,
Where the red sword its work hath wrought,
But none we lov'd so well.

O deem us not a faithless band,
Who left him to the foe;
His latest accent of command,
Was when he bade us go!
Yet one still linger'd near his side,
To watch his fleeting breath,
To mark the ebbing of life's tide
And pale approach of death.

But ere we left our Captain there,
He gave us each a word,
Some thought of kind, remembering care--
"Here, Warren, take my sword--
You'll be their captain now, you know;
But, friend, remember then,"
Said he, "how well I loved them;
Be faithful to my men!

"Wear the sword well. The gift is small,
But with it goes my love,
Good-bye, boys! Heaven bless you all;
I'm ordered up above,
And there can be no countermand--
I know my fate is seal'd!"
He faintly smiled, and wav'd his hand--
We left him on the field.

MOTHER! IS THE BATTLE OVER?

Mother! is the battle over? thousands have been killed they say--
Is my father coming?--tell me, have the Southrons gain'd the day?
Is he well, or is he wounded? Mother, do you think he's slain?
If you know, I pray you tell me--will my father come again?

Mother, dear, you're always sighing since you last the paper read--
Tell me why you now are crying--why that cap is on your head?
Ah! I see you cannot tell me--father's one among the slain!
Altho' he lov'd us very dearly, he will never come again!

A NORTH CAROLINA CALL TO ARMS.

By LUOLA.

_Air--"The Old North State."_

Ye sons of Carolina! awake from your dreaming!
The minions of Lincoln upon us are streaming!
Oh! wait not for argument, call, or persuasion
To meet at the onset this treach'rous invasion!

CHORUS.--Defend, defend the old North State forever;
Defend, defend the good old North State.

Oh! think of the maidens, the wives, and the mothers;
Fly ye to the rescue, sons, husbands, and brothers,
And sink in oblivion all party and section;
Your hearth-stones are looking to you for protection!
CHORUS.

The babe in its sweetness, the child in its beauty,
Unconsciously urge you to action and duty!
By all that is sacred, by all to you tender,
Your country adjures, arise and defend her!
CHORUS.

The Star-Spangled Banner, dishonored, is streaming
O'er lands of fanatics; their swords are now gleaming;
They thirst for the life-blood of those you most cherish;
With brave hearts and true, then, arouse, or they perish.
CHORUS.

Round the flag of the South, oh! in thousands now rally,
For the hour's departed when freemen may sally;
Your all is at stake; then go forth and God speed you,
And onward to glory and victory lead you!

CHORUS.--Hurrah! hurrah! the old North State forever!
Hurrah! hurrah! the good old North State.

DIXIE.

By ALBERT PIKE.

Southrons, hear your country call you!
Up! lest worse than death befall you!
To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!
Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,
Let all hearts be now united!
To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
Hurrah! hurrah!

CHORUS.--For Dixie's land we'll take our stand,
To live or die for Dixie!
To arms! to arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
To arms! to arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!

Hear the Northern thunders mutter!
Northern flags in South winds flutter!
Send them back your fierce defiance,
Stamp upon the accurs'd alliance!

Fear no danger! shun no labor!
Lift up rifle, pike and sabre!
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder!

How the South's great heart rejoices
At your cannon's ringing voices;
For faith betrayed and pledges broken,
Wrong inflicted, insults spoken.

Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!
Cut the unequal bonds asunder!
Let them hence each other plunder.

Swear upon your country's altar,
Never to submit or falter,
'Till the spoilers are defeated,
'Till the Lord's work is completed.

Halt not till our federation,
Secures among earth's powers its station!
Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
Hear your children tell the story.

If the loved ones weep in sadness,
Victory soon shall bring them gladness;
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow,
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.

BATTLE SONG.

Have you counted up the cost?
What is gained and what is lost--
When the foe your lines have crossed?

Gained--the infamy of fame?
Gained--a dastard's spotted name;
Gained--eternity of shame.

Lost--desert of manly Worth;
Lost--the right you had by birth;
Lost--lost! Freedom from the earth!

Freemen, up! the foe is nearing!
Haughty banners high uprearing--
Lo! their serried ranks appearing!

Freemen, on! the drums are beating!
Will you shrink from such a meeting?
Forward! give them hero greeting!

From your hearts, and homes, and altars,
Backward hurl your proud assaulters--
He is not a man that falters!

OVER THE RIVER.

By VIRGINIA NORFOLK.

"Let us cross the river, and rest under the shade of the trees."--_Last words of Stonewall Jackson._

Bravely ye've fought, my gallant, gallant men!
Bravely ye've fought and well!
Yon blood-stained field, where your banner floats,
Tells how your foemen fell!
Ye are recreant none to your knightly vows,
And none to your high behest;
But the noon sun shines on your burning brows--
So, over the river and rest!

CHORUS.--Over the river the shade trees grow--
Over the river we'll rest!
Ye have fought the fight--won the praise that brings
Peace to the soldier's breast!

Bravely ye've conquered, my gallant Southern men!
Ye have won your rights anew!
Ye have washed out the stain of traitor blood,
With the baptism of the true!
Your clanging armor and flashing steel
Have told of a deadly fray;
But foemen are flying right and left!
Ye have had a glorious day!
CHORUS.

Foemen are flying! aye, madly they've fled,
And Peace waves her snow-white wing!
But we mourn the loss of our gallant dead,
While the hills with victory ring!
One warrior wears his laurel crown,--
One sleeps on his plumed crest!
While the palm tree waves by the river side,
There, soldiers, will we rest!
CHORUS.

THE MAN OF THE TWELFTH OF MAY.[11]

By ROBERT FALLIGANT, Savannah, Ga.

When history tells her story,
Of the noble hero band,
Who have made the green fields gory,
For the life of their native land,
How grand will be the picture,
Of Georgia's proud array,
As they drove the boasting foeman back,
On that glorious twelfth of May, boys,
That glorious twelfth of May.

CHORUS.--Then hurrah! while we rally around
The hero of that day!
And a nation's grateful praises crown,
The man of the twelfth of May, boys,
The man of the twelfth of May.

Whose mien is ever proudest,
When we hold the foe at bay?
Whose war-cry cheers us loudest,
As we rush to the bloody fray?
'Tis Gordon's! Our reliance!
Fearless as on the day,
When he hurled his grand defiance,
In that charge of the twelfth of May, boys,
In that charge of the twelfth of May!
CHORUS.

Who can be a coward!
What freeman fears to die,
When Gordon orders, "Forward!"
And the red cross floats on high?
Follow his tones inspiring!
On! on to the field away!
And we'll see the foe retiring,
As they did on the twelfth of May, boys,
As they did on the twelfth of May!
CHORUS.

This is no time for sighing!
Whate'er our fate may be,
'Tis sweet to think that, dying,
We will leave our country free!
When the storms of battle pelt her,
She'll defy the tyrants' sway,
And our breasts shall be her shelter,
As they were on the twelfth of May, boys,
As they were on the twelfth of May!
CHORUS.

MORGAN'S WAR SONG.

Cheer, boys, cheer! we'll march away to battle!
Cheer, boys, cheer! for our sweethearts and our wives!
Cheer, boys, cheer! we'll nobly do our duty,
And give to the South our hearts, our arms, our lives.

Bring forth the flag--our country's noble standard;
Wave it on high 'till the wind shakes each fold out:
Proudly it floats, nobly waving in the vanguard;
Then cheer, boys, cheer! with a lusty, long, bold shout,
Cheer, boys, cheer! etc.

But as we march, with heads all lowly bending,
Let us implore a blessing from on high;
Our cause is just--the right from wrong defending;
And the God of battle will listen to our cry.
Cheer, boys, cheer! etc.

Tho' to our homes we never may return,
Ne'er press again our lov'd ones in our arms,
O'er our lone graves their faithful hearts will mourn,
Then cheer up, boys, cheer! such death hath no alarms.
Cheer, boys, cheer! etc.

THE SONG OF THE EXILE.

_Air--"Dixie."_

Oh! here I am in the land of cotton,
The flag once honor'd is now forgotten;
Fight away, fight away, fight away for Dixie's land.
But here I stand for Dixie dear,
To fight for freedom, without fear;
Fight away, fight away, fight away for Dixie's land.

CHORUS.--For Dixie's land I'll take my stand,
To live or die for Dixie's land,
Fight away, fight away, fight away for Dixie's land.

Abe Lincoln tore through Baltimore,
In a baggage car with fastened door;
Fight away, etc.
And left his wife, alas! alack!
To perish on the railroad track!
Fight away, etc.
CHORUS.

We have no ships, we have no navies,
But mighty faith in the great Jeff Davis;
Fight away, etc.
Brave old Missouri shall be ours,
Despite Abe Lincoln's Northern powers,
Fight away, etc.
CHORUS.

Abe's proclamation in a twinkle,
Stirred up the blood of Rip Van Winkle;
Fight away, etc.
Jeff Davis's answer was short and curt:
"Fort Sumpter's taken, and nobody's hurt!"
Fight away, etc.
CHORUS.

We hear the words of this same ditty,
To the right and left of the Mississippi;
Fight away, etc.
In the land of flowers, hot and sandy,
From Delaware Bay to Rio Grande!
Fight away, etc.
CHORUS.

The ladies cheer with heart and hand,
The men who fight for Dixie land;
Fight away, etc.
The "Stars and Bars" are waving o'er us,
And Independence is before us;
Fight away, etc.
CHORUS.

MARTINSBURG, VA.

NATIONAL HYMN.

Words by CAPT. E. GRISWOLD.

Music by J. W. GROSCHEL.

Now let the thrilling anthem rise,
O'er all the glorious land,
Where tow'ring hills usurp the skies,
And valleys broad expand.
Where each majestic river rolls,
Where wave the fields of grain,
Let Southern hearts and Southern souls
Repeat the exulting strain.

CHORUS.--The cross and bars, its gleaming stars,
Shall float o'er land and main;
The cross and bars, its gleaming stars,
Shall float o'er land and main;
Confederate Sov'reign State we stand,
God save our land, God save our land;
Confederate Sov'reign State we stand,
God save our land, God save our land,
God save our land, God save our land.

Where golden fruited orange blossoms,
Green lemon grove and bower,
And where the tall magnolia looms,
With proud imperial flower,
Where bursting from their ripened bolls,
The cotton spreads the plain.
Let Southern hearts and Southern souls
Repeat the exulting strain.
CHORUS.

Where happy vassals chant their song,
In fields and homes and boats,
Where mocking birds the chords prolong,
Swelling their mottled throats,
Where law's broad aegis still upholds
Enlightened freedom's claim.
CHORUS.

Where in the Southern zenith glows
The warmth the sun imparts,
Afar from frigid Northern snows,
And bustling Northern Marts,
Where generous impulse still controls,
And scorns polluting stain,
Let Southern hearts and Southern souls,
Repeat th' exulting strain.
CHORUS.

And still from age to age repeat
The tale of battles won,
When bigot Northmen found defeat
Before each Southern son.
Proudly recount the muster rolls
Of living braves and slain,
Let Southern hearts and Southern souls
Repeat th' exulting strain.
CHORUS.

Where Chesapeake's broad waters glow
Round Maryland's green lands,
To where the gulf and ocean bow
By Florida's white sands;
From where the mad Atlantic rolls
To Rio Grande's plain,
Let Southern hearts and Southern souls
Repeat th' exulting strain.
CHORUS.

OVER THE RIVER.

(_MISSISSIPPI_).

By MISS MARIA E. JONES.

Over the river there are fierce, stern meetings,
No kindly clasp of hand, no welcome call;
But hatred swells the chorus of the greetings,
Of foes who meet at Death's high carnival;
No flash of wine-cups, but the red blood streaming
From ragged wounds, upon the thirsty sand,
And fierce, wild music of bright sabre gleaming,
Where eager foemen grapple hand to hand.

Over the river are our lov'd ones lying,
Alone and wounded on the couch of pain;
Consum'd by wasting fevers--even dying--
Sighing for those they ne'er may see again;
There are untended graves where grass is growing
Rankly and tall o'er each lone sleeper's head;
There are long trenches, where bright flowers blowing,
Mark the common grave of thousands dead.

Over the river victory shouts of gladness,
Great waves of joy rise above seas of woe;
Over the river comes a wail of sadness,
A city's fallen, or a chief laid low;
Alas! for us! we must sit still and ponder
Upon the woes of battle all the day,
And dream, and sew, and weep, while our thoughts wander
Over the river! Let us watch and pray.

PRIVATE MAGUIRE.

"Och, it's nate to be captain or colonel,
Divil a bit would I want to be higher;
But to rust as a private, I think's an infernal
Predicament, surely," says Private Maguire.

"They can go sparkin' and playin' at billiards,
With money to spend for their slightest desire,
Loafin' and atin' and drinkin' at Ballard's,
While we're on the pickets," says Private Maguire.

"Livin' in clover, they think it's a trifle
To stand out all night in the rain and the mire,
And a Yankee hard by, with a villainous rifle,
Just riddy to pop ye," says Private Maguire.

"Faith, now, it's not that I'm afther complainin',
I'm spilin' to meet ye, Abe Lincoln, Esquire!
Ye blaggard! it's only I'm weary of thrainin',
And thrainin', and thrainin'," says Private Maguire.

"O Lord, for a row! but Maguire, boy, be aisy,
Kape yourself swate for the inimy's fire;
General Lee is the chap that shortly will plaze ye,
Be the Holy St. Patrick!" says Private Maguire.

"And, lad, if ye're hit (O, bedad, that infernal
Jimmy O'Dowd would make love to Maria!)
Whether ye're captain, or major, or colonel,
Ye'll die with the best then," says Private Maguire.

STONEWALL JACKSON.

By a lady formerly of Richmond.

_Tune_--"_The Coronack._"

Unmoved in the battle,
Whilst friends and foes swerved,
Midst roaring and rattle,
His heroes were nerved.
On Manassas' red plain,
Their unyielding front,
Gave their chieftain that name,
So strong in war's brunt.

He swoops from the mountain,
Like our own regal bird;
O'er Potomac's blue fountain,
His war scream is heard.
Though his foeman be brave,
They shrink from his sword,
Who its mighty power gave,
Is the triumphant Lord!

Again from the mountain,
Through forest and valley,
Once more near that fountain,
His invincibles rally.
Like our own mountain eagle,
He swoops on the foemen,
And the cohorts of Lincoln
Fly and cower before him!

* * * *

SOUTHERN SONG.

_Tune_--"_Wait for the Wagon._"

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

CHORUS.--So wait for the wagon! the dissolution wagon;
The South is the wagon, and we'll all take a ride.

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

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

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

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

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

Brave Beauregard, God bless him!
Led legions in his stead,
While Johnson seized the colors,
And waved them o'er his head.
So rising generations,
With pleasure we will tell,
How bravely our Fisher,
And gallant Johnson fell.
CHORUS.

_Raleigh Register._

THE BAND IN THE PINES.

By JOHN ESTEN COOKE.

O band in the pine wood, cease!
Cease with your splendid call!
The living are brave and noble,
But the dead were bravest of all!

They throng in the martial summons,
The loud, triumphant strain;
And the dear, bright eyes of long-dead friends,
Come to the heart again.

They come with the ringing bugle
And the deep drum's mellow roar--
And the soul is faint with longing
For the hands we clasp no more!

O band in the pine wood, cease!
Or the heart will melt in tears,
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips,
And the voices of old years!

_Southern Illustrated News._

"Though fifteen summers scarce have shed
Their blossoms on thy brow."]

MY WARRIOR BOY.

_Metropolitan Record._

Music by A. E. A. MUSE.

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

Thou hast gone forth, my darling one,
To battle with the brave,
To strike in Freedom's sacred cause,
Or win an early grave;
With vet'rans grim, and stalwart men,
Thy pathway lieth now,
Though fifteen summers scarce have shed
Their blossoms on thy brow.

My babe in years, my warrior boy!
O! if a mother's tears
Could call thee back to be my joy,
And still these anxious fears,
I'd dash the traitor drops away,
That would unnerve thy hand,
Now raised to strike in Freedom's cause,
For thy dear native land.

"Come back to me my darling son,
And light my life again."]

God speed thee on thy course, my boy,
Where'er thy pathway lie,
And guard thee when the leaden hail,
Shall thick around thee fly;
But when our sacred cause is won,
And peace again shall reign,
Come back to me, my darling son,
And light my life again.

THE REBEL BAND.

Old Eve she did the apple eat,
Old Eve she did the apple eat,
Old Eve she did the apple eat,
And smacked her lips and called it sweet.

CHORUS.--Do you belong to the rebel band,
Fighting for your home.

There was a time, the poets say,
There was a time, the poets say,
There was a time, the poets say,
When this world was washed away.
CHORUS.

How old Noah built him an ark,
How old Noah built him an ark,
How old Noah built him an ark,
Of gopher wood and hickory bark.
CHORUS.

The ark rested on Mount Ararat,
The ark rested on Mount Ararat,
The ark rested on Mount Ararat,
A mile and a half from Manassas' Gap.
CHORUS.

The animals came in two by two,
The animals came in two by two,
The animals came in two by two,
The camamile and the kangaroo.
CHORUS.

Now old Noah got very drunk,
Now old Noah got very drunk,
Now old Noah got very drunk,
And old Ham pulled him out of his bunk.
CHORUS.

Old Noah got mad as he could be,
Old Noah got mad as he could be,
Old Noah got mad as he could be,
And sent old Ham to Afrikee.
CHORUS.

THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY.

Words by FATHER RYAN.

Music by W. LUDDEN.

Young as the youngest who donned the gray,
True as the truest who wore it,
Brave as the bravest he marched away,
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay);
Triumphant waved our flag one day,
He fell in the front before it.

CHORUS.--A grave in the wood with the grass o'ergrown,
A grave in the heart of his mother,
His clay in the one, lifeless and lone,
But his memory lives in the other.

Firm as the firmest where duty led,
He hurried without a falter;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won--but the field was red;
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed,
On his country's hallowed altar.
CHORUS.

On the trampled breast of the battle plain,
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled,
The fairest form 'mid all the slain,
Like a child asleep he nestled.

In the solemn of the woods that swept
The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there--and strong men wept,
As in silence they gathered 'round him.
CHORUS.

THE CAVALIER'S GLEE.

By CAPT. BLACKFORD, of General Stuart's Staff.

_Air--"The Pirate's Glee."_

Spur on! spur on! we love the bounding
Of barbs that bear us to the fray;
"The charge" our bugles now are sounding,
And our bold Stuart leads the way.

CHORUS.--The path to honor lies before us
Our hated foeman gather fast;
At home bright eyes are sparkling for us,
And we'll defend them to the last.

Spur on! spur on! we love the rushing
Of steeds that spurn the turf they tread;
We'll through the Northern ranks go crushing,
With our proud battle-flag o'erhead.
CHORUS.

Spur on! spur on! we love the flashing
Of blades that battle to be free;
'Tis for our sunny South they're clashing,
For household gods and liberty.
CHORUS.

SONG.

_Air--"Faintly Flows the Falling River."_

Here we bring a fragrant tribute,
To the bed where valor sleeps,
Though they missed the victor's triumph,
O'er their tomb a nation weeps,
Honor through all time be rendered,
To their proud, heroic names,
Fondly be their mem'ry cherished,
Bright their never-dying fame.

Glowing in young manhood's beauty,
Sprang they at their country's call,
Made before the foeman's legions
'Round our homes a living wall.
By disease's foul breath withered,
Ere had dawned the battle-day,
On the fever couch of anguish,
Thousands passed from earth away.

Thousands, after deeds whose daring,
With their glory filled the land,
Fell before the flying foeman,
On the fields won by their hand.
Mourning o'er the fruitless struggle,
Bowed beneath the hand of God,
Come we weeping and yet proudly,
Now to deck this sacred sod.

WE CONQUER OR DIE.

By JAMES PIERPONT, 1861.

Permission of HENRI WEHRMAN.

The war drum is beating; prepare for the fight,
The stern bigot Northman exults in his might,
Gird on your bright weapons, your foeman is nigh,
And this be your watchword, "We conquer or die."

The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore,
Your swords and your lances must slumber no more.
Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high,
Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die."

March on to the battlefield, there do or dare,
With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share,
And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky,
Till the blue arch re-echoes, "We conquer or die."

Press forward undaunted, no thought of retreat,
The enemy's host on the threshold to meet,
Strike firm, 'til the foemen before you shall fly,
Appalled by the watchword, "We conquer or die."

Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod;
We too fight for freedom, our Captain is God,
Their blood in our veins, with their honor we vie;
Their's too was the watchword, "We conquer or die."

We strike for the South: mountains, valley and plain,
For the South we will conquer, again and again,
Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh,
Our's then be the watchword, "We conquer or die."

GOD WILL DEFEND THE RIGHT.

Words and Music by a Lady of Richmond.

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

Sons of the South arise,
Rise in your matchless might,
Your war-cry echo to the skies,
"God will defend the right."
Let-haughty tyrants know,
Our sunny land shall be
In spite of every foe,
Home of the brave and free.

CHORUS.--Sons of the South arise,
Rise in your matchless might,
Your war-cry echo to the skies,
"God will defend the right."

Our flag shall proudly stream,
Defiant of assault,
Bars of rainbows brightest beam,
And stars from Heaven's blue vault.
Thousands of true and brave,
Their hero lives may end,
O'er thousands that flag shall wave,
Thousands its folds defend.
CHORUS.

No wrongs our breasts alarm,
No fears our hearts appal,
Unswerving justice nerves our arm,
We cannot conquered fall.
Think on our noble sires,
Immortal in renown,
Think on our altar-fires,
And strike the oppressor down!
CHORUS.

With threats of horror dire,
The fierce invader comes;
We scorn his boasts, we scorn his ire,
Striking for hearths and homes.
Strike for our mothers now,
For daughters, sisters, wives,
Truly would each bestow,
Were it ten thousand lives.
CHORUS.

RICHMOND ON THE JAMES;

OR, THE DYING TEXAS SOLDIER BOY.

A Parody by ANNIE MARIE NEEBY.

A soldier boy from Texas lay gasping on the field,
When the battle's shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield;
He fell, a youthful hero, before the foeman's aims,
On a blood-red field near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RICHMOND IS A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL.

Dedicated to GEN'L A. E. BURNSIDE.

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

Would you like to hear my song, I'm afraid it's rather long,
Of the famous "on to Richmond" double trouble;
Of the half a dozen trips, and half a dozen slips,
And the very latest bursting of the bubble?
'Tis pretty hard to sing, and like a round, round ring,
'Tis a dreadful knotty puzzle to unravel,
Though all the papers swore, when we touched Virginia's shore,
That Richmond was a hard road to travel.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel;
Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

First, McDowell, bold and gay, set forth the shortest way,
By Manassas, in the pleasant Summer weather,
But unfortunately ran on a Stonewall, foolish man,
And had a "rocky journey" altogether;
And he found it rather hard to ride o'er Beauregard,
And Johnston proved a deuce of a bother,
And 'twas clear, beyond a doubt, that he didn't like the route,
And a second time would have to try another.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
For Manassas is a hard road to travel,
Manassas gave us fits, and Bull Run made us grieve,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

Next came the Woolly-Horse,[12] with an overwhelming force,
To march down to Richmond by the Valley,
But he couldn't find the road, and his "onward movement" showed
His campaigning was a mere shilly-shally.
Then Commissary Banks, with his motley, foreign ranks,
Kicking up a great noise, fuss and flurry,
Lost the whole of his supplies, and with tears in his eyes,
From the Stonewall ran away in a hurry.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
For the Valley is a hard road to travel,
The Valley wouldn't do, and we had all to leave,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

Then the great Galena came, with her port-holes all aflame,
And the Monitor, that famous naval wonder,
But the guns at Drury's Bluff gave them speedily enough,
The loudest sort of reg'lar Rebel thunder.
The Galena was astonished and the Monitor admonished,
Our patent shot and shell were mocked at,
While the dreadful Naugatuck, by the hardest kind of luck,
Was knocked into an ugly cocked hat.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
For James River is a hard road to travel,
The gun-boats gave it up in terror and despair,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I declare!

Then McClellan followed soon, both with spade and balloon,
To try the Peninsular approaches,
But one and all agreed that his best rate of speed,
Was no faster than the slowest of "slow coaches."
Instead of easy ground, at Williamsburg he found
A Longstreet indeed, and nothing shorter,
And it put him in the dumps, that spades wasn't trumps,
And the Hills he couldn't level "as he orter."

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
For Longstreet is a hard road to travel,
Lay down the shovel and throw away the spade,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I'm afraid.