REBELS.

 

Rebels! ’tis a holy name!
The name our fathers bore,
When battling in the cause of Right,
Against the tyrant in his might,
In the dark days of yore.

Rebels! ’tis our family name!
Our father, Washington,
Was the arch-rebel in the fight,
And gave the name to us—a right
Of father unto son.

Rebels! ’tis our given name!
Our mother, Liberty,
Received the title with her fame,
In days of grief, of fear, and shame,
When at her breast were we.

Rebels! ’tis our sealèd name!
A baptism of blood!
The war—aye, and the din of strife—
The fearful contest, life for life—
The mingled crimson flood.

Rebels! ’tis a patriot’s name!
In struggles it was given;
We bore it then when tyrants raved,
And through their curses ’twas engraved
On the doomsday-book of heaven.

Rebels! ’tis our fighting name!
For peace rules o’er the land,
Until they speak of craven woe—
Until our rights receive a blow,
From foe’s or brother’s hand.

Rebels! ’tis our dying name!
For, although life is dear,
Yet, freemen born and freemen bred,
We’d rather live as freemen dead,
Than live in slavish fear.

Then call us rebels, if you will—
We glory in the name;
For bending under unjust laws,
And swearing faith to an unjust cause,
We count a greater shame.

Atlanta Confederacy.

 

 

THE HEART OF LOUISIANA.

BY HARRIET STANTON.

 

Oh! let me weep, while o’er our land
Vile discord strides, with sullen brow,
And drags to earth, with ruthless hand,
The flag no tyrant’s power could bow!

Trailed in the dust, inglorious laid,
While one by one her stars retire,
And pride and power pursue the raid,
That bids our liberty expire.

Aye, let me weep! for surely Heaven
In anger views the unholy strife;
And angels weep that thus is riven
The tie that gave to Freedom life.

I can not shout—I will not sing
Loud pæans o’er a severed tie;
And, draped in woe, in tears I fling
Our State’s new flag to greet the sky.

I can but choose, while senseless zeal
And lawless hate are clothed with power,
The bitter cup; but still I feel
The sadness of this parting hour!

I know that thousand hearts will bleed
While loud huzzas the welkin rend;
The thoughtless crowd will shout, Secede!
But ah! will this the conflict end?

Oh! let me weep and prostrate lie
Low at the footstool of my God;
I can not breathe one note of joy,
While yet I feel His chastening rod.

Sure, we have as a nation sinned—
Let every heart its folly own,
And sackcloth, as a girdle, bind,
And mourn our glorious Union gone!

Sisters, farewell! You know not half
The pain your pride, injustice, give;
You spurn our cause, and lightly laugh,
And hope no more the wrong shall live.

New Orleans Delta.

 

 

SOUTHERN SONG OF FREEDOM.

Air—“The Minstrel’s Return.”

 

A nation has sprung into life
Beneath the bright Cross of the South;
And now a loud call to the strife
Rings out from the shrill bugle’s mouth.
They gather from morass and mountain,
They gather from prairie and mart,
To drink, at young Liberty’s fountain,
The nectar that kindles the heart.
Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty!

Our flag, with its cluster of stars,
Firm fixed in a field of pure blue,
All shining through red and white bars,
Now gallantly flutters in view.
The stalwart and brave round it rally,
They press to their lips every fold,
While the hymn swells from hill and from valley,
“Be, God, with our Volunteers bold.”
Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.

The invaders rush down from the North,
Our borders are black with their hordes;
Like wolves for their victims they flock,
While whetting their knives and their swords.
Their watchword is “Booty and Beauty,”
Their aim is to steal as they go;
But Southrons act up to your duty,
And lay the foul miscreants low.
Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.

The God of our fathers looks down
And blesses the cause of the just;
His smile will the patriot crown
Who tramples his chains in the dust.
March, march Southrons! shoulder to shoulder,
One heart-throb, one shout for the cause;
Remember—the world’s a beholder,
And your bayonets are fixed at your doors!
Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty.

J. H. H.

 

 

THERE’S NOTHING GOING WRONG.

Dedicated to “Old Abe.”

 

There’s a general alarm,
The South’s begun to arm,
And every hill and glen
Pours forth its warrior men;
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.

Six States already out,
Beckon others on the route;
And the cry is “Still they come!”
From the Southern sunny home;
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.

There’s a wail in the land,
From a want-stricken band;
And “Food! Food!” is the cry:
“Give us work or we die!”
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.

The sturdy farmer doth complain
Of low prices for his grain;
And the miller, with his flour,
Murmurs the dullness of the hour.
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.

The burly butcher in the mart,
He, too, also takes his part;
And the merchant in his store
Hears no creaking of his door.
But, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.

Stagnation is everywhere;
On the water, in the air,
In the shop, in the forge,
On the mount, in the gorge;
With the anvil, with the loom,
In the store and counting-room;
In the city, in the town,
With Mr. Smith, with Mr. Brown!
And “yet there’s nothing wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.

A. M. W.

New Orleans, March 4, 1861.

 

 

MARYLAND.

BY JAMES R. RANDALL.

 

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 thy wand’ring son’s appeal,
Maryland!
My mother State! to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
For life and 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 give a new Key to thy 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!
But 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 blade, the shot, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland! My Maryland!

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

Pointe Coupee, April 26, 1861.

 

 

A CRY TO ARMS.

BY HENRY TIMROD.

 

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the chafing tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
Lay by the bloodless spade;
Let desk, and case, and counter rot,
And burn your books of trade!

The despot roves your fairest lands;
And, till he flies or fears,
Your fields must grow but armèd hands,
Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!
Give up to mildew and to rust
The useless tools of gain,
And feed your country’s sacred dust
With floods of crimson rain!

Come, with the weapons at your call—
With musket, pike, or knife:
He wields the deadliest blade of all
Who lightest holds his life.
The arm that drives its unbought blows,
With all a patriot’s scorn,
Might brain a tyrant with a rose,
Or stab him with a thorn!

Does any falter? Let him turn
To some brave maiden’s eyes,
And catch the holy fires that burn
In those sublunar skies.
Oh! could you like your women feel,
And in their spirit march,
A day might see your lines of steel
Beneath the victor’s arch.

What hope, O God! would not grow warm,
When thoughts like these give cheer?
The Lily calmly braves the storm,
And shall the Palm-tree fear?
No! rather let its branches court
The rack that sweeps the plain,
And from the Lily’s regal port
Learn how to breast the strain!

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the roaring tide
Have roughened in the gales!
Come! flocking gayly to the fight,
From forest, hill, and lake;
We battle for our Country’s right,
And for the Lily’s sake!

New Orleans, March 9, 1862.

 

 

WAR SONG.[4]

Air—“March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale.”

 

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

Young wives and sisters have buckled your armor on;
Maidens ye love bid ye go to the battle-field;
Strong arms and stout hearts have many a vict’ry won,
Courage shall strengthen the weapons ye wield.
Wild passions are storming,
Dark schemes are forming,
Deep snares are laid, but they shall not enthrall ye;
Justice your cause shall greet,
Laurels lay at your feet,
If each brave band be watchful and wary.
March, march, etc.

Let fear and unmanliness vanish before ye;
Trust in the Rock who will shelter the righteous;
Plant firmly each step on the soil of the free—
A heritage left by the sires who bled for us.
May each heart be bounding,
When trumpets are sounding,
And the dark traitors shall strive to surround ye;
The great God of Battle
Can still the war-rattle,
And brighten the land with a sunset of glory.
March, march, etc.

 

 

VIRGINIA—LATE BUT SURE!

BY W. H. HOLCOMBE.

 

The foe has hemmed us round: we stand at bay,
Here we will perish, or be free to-day!
To drum and bugle sternly sounding,
The Southern soldier’s heart is bounding;
But stay—oh stay! Virginia is not here!
Hush your strains of martial cheer;
O bugle, peace!
O war-drum, cease!
Virginia is not here!
Suspend, O chief, your word of fight!
She will be soon in sight!
Her children never called in vain!
She comes not—comes not: the disgrace
Were bitterer than the tyrant’s chain!
Oh, death! we dare thee face to face!

A gun! the foe’s defiant shot—be still!
Hurrah! an answering gun behind the hill;
And o’er its summit wildly streaming
The squadrons of Virginia gleaming![5]
Hurrah! hurrah! the Old Dominion comes!
Blow your bugles! beat your drums!
O doubt accurst!
The last is first—
The Old Dominion comes!
She grasps her thunderbolts of war;
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Now loose, O chief! your battle storm!
We hang impatient on your breath;
Here in the flashing front we form!
Virginia!—victory or death!

 

 

SOUTHERN SENTIMENT.

BY REV. A. M. BOX.

 

The North may think that the South will yield,
And seek for a place in the Union again;
But never will Southrons abandon the field
And place themselves under tyrannical reign.

Sooner by far would we yield to the grave,
Than form an alliance with so hated a foe;
To join the “old Union” would be to enslave
Ourselves, our children, in want and in woe!

What! sons of the South! submit to be ruled
By the minions of Abraham Lincoln, the fool?
Our fair ones insulted—our wealth all controlled
By Yankees, free negroes, and every such tool!

Heaven forbid it! and arm us with might,
To drive back our foes, and grind them to dust!
In every conflict may we put them to flight,
Aided by thee, thou God of the just!

Our bosoms we’ll bare to the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,
To prevail in the cause is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die!

The battle is not to the strong we know,
But to the just, the true, and the brave—
With faith in our God, right onward we’ll go,
Our country, our loved ones, to save.

 

 

THE SOUTHRON’S WAR-SONG.

BY J. A. WAGENER.

 

Arise! arise! with main and might,
Sons of the sunny clime!
Gird on the sword; the sacred fight
The holy hour doth chime.
Arise! the craven host draws nigh,
In thundering array;
Arise, ye brave! let cowards fly—
The hero bides the fray.

Strike hard, strike hard, thou noble band;
Strike hard, with arm of fire!
Strike hard, for God and fatherland,
For mother, wife, and sire!
Let thunders roar, the lightning flash;
Bold Southron, never fear!
The bayonet’s point, the saber’s clash,
True Southrons do and dare!

Bright flow’rs spring from the hero’s grave;
The craven knows no rest!
Thrice curs’d the traitor and the knave!
The hero thrice is bless’d.
Then let each noble Southron stand,
With bold and manly eye:
We’ll do for God and fatherland;
We’ll do, we’ll do, or die!

Charleston Courier.

 

 

JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY.

BY DE G.

 

We’re free from Yankee despots,
We’ve left the foul mud-sills,
Declared for e’er our freedom—
We’ll keep it spite of ills.

Bring forth your scum and rowdies,
Thieves, vagabonds, and all;
March down your Seventh Regiment,
Battalions great and small.

We’ll meet you in Virginia,
A Southern battle-field,
Where Southern men will never
To Yankee foemen yield.

Equip your Lincoln cavalry,
Your NEGRO light-brigade,
Your hodmen, bootblacks, tinkers,
And scum of every grade.

Pretended love for negroes
Incites you to the strife;
Well, come each Yankee white man,
And take a negro wife.

You’d make fit black companions,
Black heart joined to black skin;
Such unions would be glorious—
They’d make the Devil grin.

Our freedom is our panoply—
Come on, you base black-guards,
We’ll snuff you like wax-candles,
Led by our Beauregards.

P. G. T. B. is not alone,
Men like him with him fight;
God’s providence is o’er us,
He will protect the right.

 

 

THE BLUE COCKADE.

BY MARY WALSINGHAM CREAN.

 

God be with the laddie, who wears the blue cockade!
He’s gone to fight the battles of our darling Southern land;
He was true to old Columbia, till more sacred ties forbade—
Till ’twere treason to obey her, when he took his sword in hand;
And God be with the laddie, who was true in heart and hand,
To the voice of old Columbia, till she wronged his native land!

He buckled on his knapsack—his musket on his breast—
And donned the plumèd bonnet—sword and pistol by his side;
Then his weeping mother kissed him, and his aged father bless’d,
And he pinned the floating ribbon to his gallant plume of pride.
And God be with the ribbon, and the floating plume of pride!
They have gone where duty called them, and may glory them betide!

He would not soil his honor, and he would not strike a blow,
For he loved the aged Union, and he breath’d no taunting word;
He would dare Columbia, till she swore herself his foe—
Forged the chains for freemen—when he buckled on his sword.
And God be with the freeman, when he buckled on his sword!
He lives or dies for duty, and he yields no inch of sward.

The foes they come with thunder, and with blood and fire arrayed,
And they swear that we shall own them—they the masters, we the slaves;
But there’s many a gallant laddie, who wears a blue cockade,
Will show them what it is to dare the blood of Southern braves!
And God be with the banner of those gallant Southern braves!
They may nobly die as freemen—they can never live as slaves!

 

 

THE LEGION OF HONOR.

BY H. L. FLASH.

 

Why are we forever speaking
Of the warriors of old?
Men are fighting all around us,
Full as noble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving,
Mind and muscle, heart and soul,
With the reins of judgment keeping
Passions under full control.

Noble hearts are beating boldly
As they ever did on earth;
Swordless heroes are around us,
Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses,
Building up the purer laws,
Scattering the dust of ages,
Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no “right divine”
In kings and princes from the rest;
In their creed he is the noblest
Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them—
Diamond stars they laugh to scorn—
Each will wear a “Cross of Honor”
On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom—
Like the noble Hebrew youth,
Striking down Goliath’s error
With the God-blessed stone of truth.

Marshaled ’neath the Right’s broad banner,
Forward rush these volunteers,
Beating olden wrong away
From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them,
But the coming times will say
(Speaking of the slandered present),
“There were heroes in that day.”

Why are we then idly lying
On the roses of our life,
While the noble-hearted struggle
In the world redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion,
Ever foremost in the fray—
Battling in the name of Progress
For the nobler, purer day.

 

 

“WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID.”

BY JOHN M’LEMORE, OF S. C.

 

Full many a year in the village church,
Above the world have I made my home;
And happier there, than if I had hung
High up in air in a golden dome;
For I have tolled
When the slow hearse rolled
Its burden sad to my door;
And each echo that woke,
With the solemn stroke,
Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.

I know the great bell of the city spire
Is a far prouder one than such as I;
And its deafening stroke, compared with mine,
Is thunder compared with a sigh;
But the shattering note
Of his brazen throat,
As it swells on the Sabbath air,
Far oftener rings
For other things
Than a call to the house of prayer.

Brave boy, I tolled when your father died,
And you wept when my tones pealed loud;
And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame
Your mother dear lay in her shroud:
And I rang in sweet tone
The angels might own,
When your sister you gave to your friend;
Oh! I rang with delight,
On that sweet summer night,
When they vowed they would love to the end!

But a base foe comes from the regions of crime,
With a heart all hot with the flames of hell;
And the tones of the bell you have loved so long
No more on the air shall swell:
For the people’s chief,
With his proud belief
That his country’s cause is God’s own,
Would change the song,
The hills have rung
To the thunder’s harsher tone.

Then take me down from the village church,
Where in peace so long I have hung;
But I charge you, by all the loved and lost,
Remember the songs I have sung.
Remember the mound
Of holy ground
Where your father and mother lie
And swear by the love
For the dead above
To beat your foul foe, or die.

Then take me; but when (I charge you this)
You have come to the bloody field,
That the bell of God, to a cannon grown,
You will ne’er to the foeman yield.
By the love of the past,
Be that hour your last,
When the foe has reached this trust;
And make him a bed
Of patriot dead,
And let him sleep in this holy dust.[6]

 

 

“WE COME! WE COME!”

BY MILLIE MAYFIELD.[7]

 

We come! we come for Death or Life,
For the Grave or Victory!
We come to the broad Red Sea of strife,
Where the black flag waveth free!
We come as Men, to do or die,
Nor feel that the lot is hard,
When our Hero calls—and our battle-cry
Is “On, to Beauregard!”

Up, craven, up! ’tis no time for ease,
When the crimson war-tide rolls
To our very doors—up, up, for these
Are times to try men’s souls!
The purple gore calls from the sod
Of our martyred brothers’ graves,
And raises a red right hand to God
To guard our avenging braves.

And unto the last bright drop that thrills
The depths of the Southern heart,
We must battle for our sunny hills,
For the freedom of our Mart—
For all that Honor claims, or Right—
For Country, Love, and Home!
Shout to the trampling steeds of Might
Our cry—“We come! we come!”

And let our path through their serried ranks
Be the fierce tornado’s track,
That bursts from the torrid’s fervid banks
And scatters destruction black!
For the hot life leaping in the veins
Of our young Confederacy,
Must break for aye the galling chains
Of dark-browed Treachery.

On! on! ’tis our gallant chieftain calls
(He must not call in vain),
For aid to guard his homestead walls—
Our Hero of the Plain!
We come! we come, to do or die,
Nor feel that the lot is hard:
“God and our Rights!” be our battle cry,
And, “On, to Beauregard!”

 

 

MANASSAS.

BY A REBEL.

 

Upon our country’s border lay,
Holding the ruthless foe at bay,
Through chilly night and burning day,
Our army at Manassas.

To them our eager eyes were turned,
While many a restless spirit burned,
And many a fond heart wildly yearned,
O’er loved ones at Manassas.

For fast the Vandals gathered, strong
In wealth and numbers, all along
Our highways pressed a countless throng,
To battle at Manassas.

With martial pomp and proud array,
With burnished arms and banners gay,
Panting for the inhuman fray,
They rolled upon Manassas.

The opening cannons’ thunders rent
The air, and ere their charge was spent,
Muskets and rifles quickly sent
Death to us at Manassas.

But, like a wall of granite, stood
The true, the great, the brave, the good,
Who, firmly holding field and wood,
Guarded us at Manassas.

They promptly answered fire with fire;
Danger could not with fear inspire
Their hearts, whose courage rose the higher,
When death ruled at Manassas.

At dawn the murderous work begun;
The battle fiercely raged at noon;
Evening drew on—’twas not done—
The carnage at Manassas.

Oh, trembling Freedom! didst thou stay
Throughout that agonizing day,
To watch where victory would lay
Her laurels at Manassas?

Yea! and thy potent trumpet tone
Ordered our gallant warriors on,
To the bold charge which for thee won
The triumph at Manassas.

Well might the dastard foemen yield,
When Right and Vengeance joined to wield
The well-aimed ball and glittering steel,
Which hurled them from Manassas.

They broke, and fear lent wings to feet
Flying before our chargers fleet,
Which followed up their wild retreat—
Their mad rout at Manassas.

Strike! Southrons, strike! for ne’er a foe
So worthy of your every blow
Can your good swords and carbines know,
As those who sought Manassas.

For that our homes are still secure,
Our wives and sisters still left pure,
Our altars drip not with our gore;
Thanks, victors of Manassas!

Thy charmèd trumpet sound, O Fame!
Let music catch the loud refrain,
While in a glad, triumphant strain,
We celebrate Manassas.

And every soldier’s breast shall fire
With emulation, and desire
To equal—fame can point no higher—
The heroes of Manassas.

Alas! that many writhe in pain,
Whose precious blood was spilt to gain
Glory and freedom on thy plain—
Thy bloody plain, Manassas.

If sympathy can aught avail,
If fervent prayers with Heaven prevail,
In your behalf they shall not fail,
Poor wounded of Manassas.

Alas! that blended with the tone
Of triumph, breathes the stifled moan
For many brave, whose dear lives won
The victory of Manassas.

A grateful nation long shall keep
Their memory, and flock to weep
Above the turf where softly sleep
The martyrs of Manassas.

Hanover Co., Va., July 30.

 

 

CHIVALROUS C. S. A.

BY “B.”

Air—“Vive la Compagnie!”

 

I’ll sing you a song of the South’s sunny clime,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Which went to house-keeping once on a time;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Like heroes and princes they lived for awhile,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
And routed the Hessians in most gallant style;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Chorus—Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!
Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!
In C. S. A.! In C. S. A.!
Aye, in chivalrous C. S. A.!

They have a bold leader—Jeff. Davis his name—
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Good generals and soldiers, all anxious for fame;
Bully for C. S. A.!
At Manassas they met the North in its pride,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
But they easily put McDowell aside;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Chorus—Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

Ministers to England and France, it appears,
Have gone from the C. S. A.!
Who’ve given the North many fleas in its ears;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Reminders are being to Washington sent,
By the chivalrous C. S. A.!
That’ll force Uncle Abe full soon to repent;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Chorus—Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

Oh, they have the finest of musical ears,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Yankee Doodle’s too vulgar for them, it appears;
Bully for C. S. A.!
The North may sing it and whistle it still,
Miserable U. S. A.!
Three cheers for the South!—now, boys, with a will!
And groans for the U. S. A.!
Chorus—Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

 

 

THE BATTLE-FIELD OF MANASSAS.

BY M. F. BIGNEY.

 

Fill, fill the trump of fame
With the name—
Manassas—the battle-field of pride;
Where Freedom’s heroes fought with their spirits all aflame,
Where the Gospel of Liberty was sounded with acclaim,
Where heroes for Liberty have died!

Come, Fancy, once again
Fill the plain with armèd men;
Let us see the struggling hosts of Wrong and Right;
Let the tide of battle pour,
Fight and conquer o’er and o’er,
Till we glow with inspiration at the sight.

There’s glory in the air:
Everywhere
Glory rises from the ground,
All around.
A hundred thousand men,
Gather in from hill and glen,
And for battle fierce and bloody they are bound.

See, see the cohorts come,
To the sound of fife and drum;
They’re the foemen of the North
Coming forth,
In the pride of conscious might;
They would trample down the Right,
As forth they come, those foemen of the North.

The flag which they bear
Is a snare:
Its Stripes writhe as snakes upon the air;
And its Stars, no longer bright,
Tell of chaos and of night,
And of how they yet
Will set
In despair.

On comes the lengthening line,
As if eager for the wine
Which from the press of battle freely flows;
And from the Southern heart
Such wine will freely start,
As the pledge to each hecatomb of foes.

On comes the lengthened line,
And a “higher law” divine;
The snakes on their banners seem to hiss;
“Destruction to the South,”
Bursts in hate from every mouth,
And the demon-words are held akin to bliss.

A brave, heroic band,
Hand to hand,
To meet the shock of battle are prepared;
For wife and child they stand—
For home and native land;
Oh, pray that every hero may be spared!

The drum and fife may sound,
But their stirring notes are drowned
In the roar and the thunder of the guns;
The death-charged bullets fly,
And the shells ascend the sky—
They are offerings to God’s and Freedom’s sons.

Where Freedom nerves the arm,
There’s a charm;
Where Freedom stirs the heart,
Fears depart.
Oh, sacred is the strife,
And the sacrifice of life,
Where Freedom’s chosen heroes point the dart.

God! how the freemen press!
There’s distress
In each lead and iron shower that they send;
Their countless columns pour,
Like the waves in wild uproar,
Beating on a rocky shore
They would rend.

But firm as rocks our band
Grandly stand—
For home and native land
Hand to hand.
How the proud invaders reel,
As with shot and shell and steel,
Destruction wide we deal,
Sternly grand!

Again, and yet again,
These wild, fanatic men—
Those foemen that invade our Southern homes—
Still rally to the cry:
“We must conquer here, or die!
The laurel, or the fate of hellish gnomes!”

Again, and yet again,
Southern men
Force the fierce insulting foe to retire.
Again the Northmen fall,
And to Heaven vainly call,
While they yell,
“There is hell
In Southern fire!”

Speed, Beauregard the brave, onward speed!
Speed, Davis unto Johnson, in his need!
Hurrah! the foemen fly!
Send the victor shout on high,
For Heaven still rewards the daring deed.

How fearfully they bleed—
Man and steed!
Oh, how their dying prayer
Rends the air!
All this for Northern greed,
All that strange, fanatic creed,
Which so wickedly they heed.
Do not spare!

“The Southron is accurst”—
So they say;
“He’s baser than the worst
Beast of prey;”
And the African is white,
In those Northern foemen’s sight,
As the lily, when it greets the god of day.

Then drive them to their lair;
Do not spare!
Let shot and shell reply
To their cry.
Though their bodies taint the air,
And become the vulture’s fare,
It is just that such invading hordes should die.

McDowell, in the van,
Sees his beaten columns fly!
He calls on God and man
For the aid that both deny;
The army he would rally, as it runs.
Thus, thus, McDowell raves:
“Know ye not, ye unworthy knaves,
That you fight the fight for slaves—
Sable ones;
Come, and purchase redder graves
With your guns.”

But the guns are thrown away,
The invaders will not stay;
To them a fearful lesson has been read:
For miles strewn all around,
Encrimsoning the rich ground,
Lie their fallen friends—the wounded and the dead.

The sun slopes down the west,
But the foe in wild unrest
Rushes on, though destruction follows fast.
The Southern cavalcade
Dyes with red each trusty blade,
And the carnage is terrible and vast!

Oh, where is Scott, the chief?
Why brings he not relief?
And Patterson, the tardy, where is he?
And where is Abe, the Great,
With his cap and cloak of state?
He should see
How his warriors can flee.

Fear lendeth speed to flight,
And the foe invokes the night
To let its starless curtain quickly fall;
But it falleth all too slow,
For the terrors of the foe,
And it seems to them the shadow of a pall.

A Nemesis concealed
In the shades of wold and field,
Breathes of vengeance to the foemen as they run;
They are rushing in despair,
But there’s carnage everywhere,
And they know not what to welcome or to shun.

Ten thousand of their slain
Strew the plain;
The shrieks from ten thousand more arise;
And the ghosts
From their hosts
Wail despairingly and vain,
In their pain,
For a welcome to the skies.

At morning, in their pride,
Side by side,
They went forth in their might
To the fight;
And now they flee in fear,
Trembling like the stricken deer,
At the saber and the spear—
It is night.

They came forth to destroy,
With a fierce, fanatic joy,
And boasted of the Rebels they would slay;
But, ere the set of sun,
There are hundreds chased by one,
And they pray their legs to bear them safe away.

For miles strewn all around
O’er the ground,
The records of their flight
Meet the sight:
Bodies ’neath the horses’ tread;
Bodies living; bodies dead;
And the swords and guns most beautifully bright!

But let us leave the foe
In their woe.
To the God of Peace and Battle let us go.
Let us praise the King of Kings,
’Neath whose wide-expanded wings
There is shelter for his children here below.
His arm, unseen, uprears
Freedom’s spears;
If Freedom’s voice be weak,
His will speak
In the cannon’s thunder tones,
Though the answer be in groans,
And though a thousand tyrant hearts may break.

 

 

THE SOLDIER’S HEART.

BY F. P. BEAUFORT.

 

The trumpet calls, and I must go
To meet the vile, invading foe;
But listen, dearest, ere we part—
Thou hast, thou hast the soldier’s heart!

It could not be so true to thee
Were it not true to liberty;
Far rather fill a soldier’s grave
Than live a dastard and a slave!

Thine eyes shall light dark danger’s path,
The gloomy camp, the foeman’s wrath;
Above the battle’s fiery storm,
I shall behold thy beauteous form!

With thoughts of thee, for thy dear sake,
Redoubled efforts I will make;
And strike with an avenging hand
For lady-love and native land!

Then fare thee well, the trumpet’s sound
Commands me to the battle ground;
But listen, dearest, ere we part—
Thou hast, thou hast the soldier’s heart.

 

 

CONFEDERATE SONG.

Air-“Bruce’s Address.”

Written for and dedicated to the Kirk’s Ferry Rangers, by their Captain, E. Lloyd Wailes. Sung by the Glee Club on the 4th of July, 1861, at the Kirk’s Ferry barbecue (Catahoula, La.), after the presentation of a flag, by the ladies, to the Kirk’s Ferry Rangers.

 

Rally round our country’s flag!
Rally, boys, haste! do not lag;
Come from every vale and crag,
Sons of liberty!

Northern Vandals tread our soil,
Forth they come for blood and spoil,
To the homes we’ve gained with toil,
Shouting, “Slavery!”

Traitorous Lincoln’s bloody band
Now invades the freeman’s land,
Armed with sword and firebrand,
’Gainst the brave and free.

Arm ye then for fray and fight,
March ye forth both day and night,
Stop not till the foe’s in sight,
Sons of chivalry.

In your veins the blood still flows
Of brave men who once arose—
Burst the shackles of their foes;
Honest men and free.

Rise, then, in your power and might,
Seek the spoiler, brave the fight;
Strike for God, for Truth, for Right:
Strike for Liberty!

 

 

SOUTHERN SONG.

BY M. C. FREER.

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—So wait for the wagon, etc.

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—So wait for the wagon, etc.

The invading tribe, called Yankees,
With Lincoln for their guide,
Tried to keep 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—So wait for the wagon, etc.

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—So wait for the wagon, etc.

Manassas was the battle-ground;
The field was fair and wide;
The Yankees thought they’d whip 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—So wait for the wagon, etc.

Brave Beauregard, God bless him!
Led legions in his stead,
While Johnson seized the colors
And waved them o’er his head.
To rising generations,
With pleasure we will tell
How bravely our Fisher
And gallant Johnson fell.
Chorus—So wait for the wagon, etc.[8]

 

 

MY WIFE AND CHILD.

BY GEN. HENRY R. JACKSON, OF GEORGIA.

 

The tattoo beats, the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies;
The night with solemn pace moves on,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.
I think of thee, oh, dearest one!
Whose love my early life has blest;
Of thee and him, our baby son,
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.

God of the tender, hover near
To her whose watchful eye is wet;
The mother, wife—the doubly dear—
And cheer her drooping spirits yet.
Now, while she kneels before thy throne,
Oh, teach her, Ruler of the Skies!
No tear is wept to thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies.

That thou canst stay the ruthless hand
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by thy stern command
The battle’s lost, the soldier’s slain.
By day, by night—in joy or woe—
By fear oppressed, or hopes beguiled,
From every danger, every foe,
Oh, God! protect my wife and child!