Chapter I: Wish I Was in Dixie's Land (3)

Then said Lincoln unto Pope, "You can make the trip, I hope;"
"I will save the universal Yankee nation,
To make sure of no defeat, I'll leave no lines of retreat,
And issue a famous proclamation."
But that same dreaded Jackson, this fellow laid his whacks on,
And made him by compulsion, a seceder.[13]
And Pope took rapid flight from Manassas' second fight,
'Twas his very last appearance as a leader.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
For Stonewall is a hard road to travel,
Pope did his very best, but was evidently sold,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I'm told!

Last of all the _brave_ Burnside, with his pontoon bridge, tried
A road no one had thought of before him,
With two hundred thousand men for the Rebel slaughter pen,
And the blessed Union flag waving o'er him,
But he met a fire like hell, of canister and shell,
That mowed his men down with great slaughter,
'Twas a shocking sight to view, that second Waterloo,
And the river ran with more blood than water.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve,
Rappahannock is a hard road to travel,
Burnside got in a trap, which caused him for to grieve,
For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

We are very much perplexed to know who is the next
To command the new Richmond expedition,
For the Capital _must blaze_, and that in ninety days,
And Jeff and his men be sent to perdition.
We'll take the cursed town, and then we'll burn it down,
And plunder and hang each cursed rebel;
Yet the contraband was right when he told us they would fight,
"Oh! yes, massa, they fight like the devil."

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!

THE SOUTHRON'S WATCHWORD.

In Imitation of an English Song of the Crimean War.

By M. F. BIGNEY, 1861.

Music from S. GLOVER.

What shall the Southron's watchword be,
Fighting for us on land and sea?
Bearing our flag o'er the billow's foam,
Shedding his blood for his Southern home?
To bleed and conquer he's bravely gone;
Freedom and glory still urge him on.
Then shall the Southron's watchword be,
"The grave of the hero or victory!"

What shall the Southron's watchword be,
Bearing the banner that proves him free?
Bravely he dashes amid the strife,
For home and country, for child and wife;
His aims are bright and his hopes are high;
His brave resolve is to do or die;
Then shall the Southron's watchword be,
"The grave of the hero or victory!"

What shall the Southron's watchword be,
Fighting the battles of liberty?
Holy the light on his manly brow,
The victor's wreath or the cypress bough!
Such are the thoughts which the brave inspire,
Filling their souls with the soldier's fire;
Then shall the Southron's watchword be,
"The grave of the hero or victory!"

THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET.

Words by JAMES B. RANDALL.

Music by EDWARD O. EATON.

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

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

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

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind
With the clank of an iron chain;
The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind,
O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;
And we--though we smite not--are not thralls,
We are piling a gory debt;
While down by McHenry's dungeon walls,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

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

There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
'Tis vocal without noise;
It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains,
From the blood of the Maryland boys.
That blood shall cry aloud and rise
With an everlasting threat--
By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,
"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

_New Orleans Delta_, Sept., 1861.

YOU ARE GOING TO THE WARS, WILLIE BOY!

Words and Music by JOHN H. HEWITT.

You are going to the wars, Willie boy, Willie boy,
You are going to the wars far away,
To protect our rights and laws, Willie boy, Willie boy,
And the banner in the sun's golden ray;
With your uniform all new,
And your shining buttons, too,
You'll win the hearts of pretty girls,
But none like me so true.
Oh, won't you think of me, Willie boy, Willie boy;
Oh, won't you think of me when far away?
I'll often think of ye, Willie boy, Willie boy,
And ever for your life and glory pray.

You'll be fighting for the right, Willie boy, Willie boy,
You'll be fighting for the right, and your home;
And you'll strike the blow with might, Willie boy, Willie boy,
'Mid the thundering of cannon and of drum;
With an arm as true as steel,
You'll make the foeman feel,
The vengeance of a Southerner,
Too proud to cringe or kneel;
Oh, should you fall in strife, Willie boy, Willie boy,
Oh, should you fall in strife on the plain,
I'll pine away my life, Willie boy, Willie boy,
And never, never smile again.

MY MARYLAND.

Written at Pointe Coupee, La., April 26, 1861. First published in the _New Orleans Delta_.

By JAMES R. RANDALL.

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

The despot's heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle queen of yore,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to an exiled son's appeal,
Maryland!
My Mother-State, to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
For life or death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!
Come! with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
With Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe, and dashing May,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come! to thine own heroic throng,
That stalks with Liberty along,
And ring thy dauntless slogan-song,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
_She_ meets her sisters on the plain--
"Sic semper," 'tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
Maryland!
Arise, in majesty again,
Maryland! My Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek
From hill to hill, from creek to creek--
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb--
Huzzah! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come!
Maryland! My Maryland!

REBEL TOASTS; OR, DRINK IT DOWN!

Oh, here's to South Carolina! drink it down,
Here's to South Carolina, drink it down,
Here's to South Carolina, the first to open up the fray.

CHORUS.--Drink it down, drink it down,
Drink it down, down, down.

Oh, here's to Mississippi! drink it down,
Here's to Mississippi, drink it down,
Here's to Mississippi, for she gave old Abe the slip.

Oh, here's to Alabama! drink it down,
Here's to Alabama--we'll fight for her banner.

Oh, here's to Florida State, drink it down,
Here's to Florida--to Southern rights she'll ne'er say nay.

Oh, here's to Georgia State--drink it down,
Here's to Georgia State--altho' she _is_ rather late.

Oh, here's to Louisiana! drink it down,
Here's to Louisiana--how glorious is her banner.

Oh, here's to gallant Texas! drink it down,
Here's to gallant Texas--the Yankees say "she vexes us."

Oh, here's to brave Virginia! drink it down,
Here's to brave Virginia--she'll hold up the Confederacy.

Oh, here's to Arkansas! drink it down,
Here's to Arkansas--for she'll break old Abram's jaw.

Oh, here's to North Carolina! drink it down,
Here's to North Carolina--with a whoop and a hurrah.

Oh, here's to Tennessee! drink it down,
Here's to Tennessee--for she's bound to be free.

Oh, here's to brave Missouri! drink it down,
Here's to brave Missouri--whose sons will ne'er say die!

Oh, here's to old Kentuck! drink it down,
Here's to old Kentuck--she yet may have the pluck.

Oh, here's to Maryland! drink it down,
Here's to Maryland--bleeding beneath a tyrant's hand.

Oh, here's to General Lee! drink it down,
Here's to General Lee--for he'll set the Rebels free!

Oh, here's to Magruder! drink it down--
Here's to our Magruder--the Yankees' great deluder.

THE GALLANT GIRL THAT SMOTE THE DASTARD TORY, OH!

Dedicated to MISS SLIDELL.

Words by KLUBS.

Music by DUCIE DIAMONDS.

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

Ho, gallants, brim the beaker bowl,
And click the festal glasses, oh!
The grape shall shed its sapphire soul,
To eulogize the lasses, oh!
And when ye pledge the lip and curl
Of loveliness and glory, oh!
Here's a bumper to the gallant girl
That smote the dastard Tory, oh!

CHORUS.--A bumper, a thumper,
To loveliness and glory, oh!
A bumper to the gallant girl
That smote the dastard Tory, oh!

Our boys are fighting East and West,
Our women do not linger, oh!
They take their diamonds from the breast,
Their rubies from the finger, oh!
They send their darlings to the war
Of honor and of glory, oh!
They've all the spirit of a man,
To smite a dastard Tory, oh!
CHORUS.

THREE CHEERS FOR OUR JACK MORGAN.

By EUGENE RAYMOND.

The snow is in the cloud, and night is gathering o'er us.
The winds are piping loud and fan the blaze before us;
Then join the jovial band, and tune the vocal organ;
And with a will we'll all join in--three cheers for our Jack Morgan!

CHORUS.--Gather round the camp-fire, our duty has been done,
Let's gather round the camp-fire, and have a little fun.
Let's gather round the camp-fire, our duty has been done,
'Twas done upon the battle-field, three cheers for our Jack
Morgan!

Jack Morgan is his name--the fearless and the lucky;
No dastard foe can tame the son of old Kentucky.
His heart is with his State, he fights for Southern freedom,
His men their General's word await--they'll go where he will lead 'em.
CHORUS.

He swore to free his home--to burst her chains asunder,
With sound of trump and drum, and loud Confederate thunder;
And in the darksome night, by light of homesteads burning,
He'll put the skulking foe to flight, their hearts to wailings turning.
CHORUS.

The dungeon dark and cold could not his body prison,
Nor tame a spirit bold that o'er reverse had risen.
Then sing the song of joy--our toast be lovely woman;
And Morgan, he's the gallant boy to plague the hated foeman!

PRAY, MAIDEN, PRAY!

A. W. KERCHEVAL.

A. J. TURNER.

To the patriotic women of the South.

Maiden, pray for thy lover now,
Thro' all this starry night,
Heaven prove auspicious to thy vow,
For with to-morrow's dawning light,
We meet the foe in deadly fight!
Pray, maiden, pray!

Maiden, pray that the banner high
Advanced, our cross may wave;
And foeman's shot and steel defy!
In triumph floating o'er the brave,
Who strike for freedom or the grave;
Pray, maiden, pray!

Maiden, pray for thy Southern land
Of streams and sunlit skies;
See thou her living greatness stand!
While in her hero-dust there lies,
Whatever glory verifies!
Pray, maiden, pray!

Maiden, pray that your trumpet blast
And rocket's signal light,
But summon squadrons, thick and fast!
To win in our glorious fight
For Home, for Freedom, and the Right;
Pray, maiden, pray!

1863.

THE SOLDIER'S SUIT OF GRAY.

By MISS CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR.

I've seen some handsome uniforms deck'd off with buttons bright,
And some that are so very gay they almost blind the sight;
But of these handsome uniforms I will not sing to-day,
My song is to each soldier lad who wears a suit of gray!

CHORUS.--Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! for Southern boys we say,
And God bless every soldier lad who wears a suit of gray!

Brass buttons and gold lace I know are beautiful to view,
And then, to tell the honest truth, I own I like them, too;
Yet should a thousand officers come crowding round to-day,
I'd scorn them for a lad who wears a simple suit of gray.
CHORUS.

God bless our Southern soldiers! for ev'ry one is dear,
And God defend each gallant form, no matter what they wear;
For each has acted well his part, yet still, in truth, I say,
The bravest of the brave are those who wear a suit of gray.
CHORUS.

Tho' torn and faded be each coat, their buttons tarnish'd too,
I know beneath each soldier's dress a Southern heart beats true;
We honor ev'ry gallant son who fights for us to-day,
And heav'n protect the noble boys who wear the suit of gray.
CHORUS.

They bravely strike for freedom, and on the battle-field,
They're the first to strike a blow, they are the last to yield;
At Richmond and Manassas who was it won the day?
It was our noble Southern boys, all clad in suits of gray.
CHORUS.

God bless our Southern soldiers! for each we breathe a prayer,
And over ev'ry fallen son we shed a mourner's tear!
Oh, sacred be the grave of those who died so far away,
And honor'd be each one who sleeps clad in a suit of gray.
(Omit chorus.)

'Round ev'ry patriot soldier's brow the laurel wreath entwines,
And 'round the battle-flag they bear a ray of glory shines,
And when the foe is conquer'd, with pride we then will say,
"All honor to the noble boys who wore the suit of gray."
CHORUS.

(A CHORUS, AFTER THE BATTLE OF FRANKLIN)--

You may talk about your Beauregard, and sing of General Lee,
But General Hood, of Texas, played hell in Tennessee.

SONG OF THE TEXAS RANGERS.

By MRS. J. D. YOUNG.

_Air--"The Yellow Rose of Texas."_

The morning star is paling, the camp-fires flicker low,
Our steeds are madly neighing, for the bugle bids us go:
So put the foot in stirrup, and shake the bridle free,
For to-day the Texas Rangers must cross the Tennessee.
With Wharton for our leader, we'll chase the dastard foe,
'Till our horses bathe their fetlocks in the deep blue Ohio.

Our men come from the prairies rolling broad, proud and free,
From the high and craggy mountains to the murmuring Mexic' sea;
And their hearts are open as their plains; their tho'ts as proudly brave
As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard, or the Gulf's resistless wave.
Then, quick! into the saddle, and shake the bridle free,
To-day with gallant Wharton we cross the Tennessee.

'Tis joy to be a Ranger! to fight for dear Southland!
'Tis joy to follow Wharton, with his gallant, trusty band!
'Tis joy to see our Harrison plunge, like a meteor bright,
Into the thickest of the fray, and deal his deadly might,
Oh! who'd not be a Ranger, and follow Wharton's cry!
And battle for their country, and, if needs be, die?

By the Colorado's waters, on the Gulf's deep murmuring shore,
On our soft, green, peaceful prairies, our home we may see no more,
But in those homes our gentle wives, and mothers with silvery hairs,
Are loving us with tender hearts, and shielding us with prayers.
So trusting in our country's God, we draw our stout good brand,
For those we love at home, our altars and our land.

Up! up! with the crimson battle flag, let the blue pennon fly;
Our steeds are stamping proudly, they hear the battle cry!
The thundering bomb, the bugle's call, proclaim the foe is near:
We strike for God and native land, and all we hold most dear.
Then spring into the saddle, and shake the bridle free,
For Wharton leads, thro' fire and blood, for Home and Victory.

THE OFFICER'S FUNERAL.

Hark! 'tis the shrill trumpet calling,
It pierceth the soft summer air!
Tears from each comrade are falling,
For the widow and orphan are there:
Our bayonets earthward are turning,
And the drum's muffled breath rolls around,
But he hears not the voice of their mourning,
Nor awakes to the bugle's shrill sound.

Sleep, soldier! tho' many regret thee,
Who stand by thy cold bier to-day,
Soon, soon shall the kindest forget thee,
And thy name from the earth pass away;
The man thou did'st love as a brother,
A friend in thy place will have gained;
Thy dog will keep watch for another,
And thy steed by a stranger be reined.

But tho' many now weep for thee sadly,
Soon joyous as ever shall be;
Tho' thy bright orphan boy may laugh gladly
As he sits on some kind comrade's knee,
There is one who will still do her duty
Of tears for the true and the brave,
As when first in the bloom of her beauty,
She weeps o'er her brave soldier's grave!

THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.

By A. B. CUNNINGHAM.

The night-cloud had lowered o'er Shiloh's red plain,
And the blast howled sadly o'er wounded and slain;
The lightning flashed vividly, fiercely and proud,
And glared thro' the mist of the smoke and the cloud;
The thunder pealed loudly from heaven's black sky,
Where litely the cannon had pealed the war-cry;
The last gun had been fired, and its moaning sound
Had died 'way in the distance, and echoed around.

Where the fight had raged fiercest, near a deep ravine,
At the foot of a crag (a wild, thrilling scene),
A soldier lay there all ghastly and gory,
Who'd fall'n in the strife for freedom and glory!
His life-blood was pouring from out a deep gash
He'd received 'mid the battle's loud roar and fierce crash;
"O mother! O mother! I never thought this,
When but a mere child I received thy sweet kiss--

"That I'd die on a field all gory and red
With the blood of the wounded, the dying and dead,
With no friend or relation to cheer my dark way,
But the forms of dear comrades all lifeless as clay,
None to watch o'er me but the ghosts of the dead,
None to smooth down the death-pillow 'neath my poor head;
And sadly I think of my home in the South,
Where I roam'd a mere boy in the pride of my youth.

"When I scaled the steep crag o'er the river's wild roar,
Or chased the fleet stag 'long the bright, sunny shore--
When I bounded in pride o'er valley and hill--
O memories, how sweet! ye haunt me now still.
But away with the thoughts of my joyous boyhood,
I'll face the grim monster death with calm fortitude:
Then, mother, farewell! farewell, dearest mother;
Farewell to my father, sisters and brother!

"And when I am gone never utter a sigh,
But remember your Charlie reigns proudly on high!"
Then death flapp'd wildly his wings on the moor,
As his soul took its flight to a heavenly shore--
The lightning flash'd fiercely, the howling winds surge,
The thunder pealed loudly the hero's wild dirge!