THE SOUTH IS UP.

BY P. E. C.

 

The South is up in stern array—
Chasseurs and Zouaves and Gallic Guard—
Types of their veteran fathers gray,
Of war-marked visage, saber-scarred—
The children of Marengo’s plains,
Of Austerlitz and Waterloo,
When tyrants dare to speak of chains
We’ll do as their brave sires would do.
The sturdy German, hardy Pole,
Who knows how Kosciusko fell—
The Tyrolean, who feels his soul
Fired with that spark which gave them Tell.

The South is up! Italia’s sons—
A Garibaldi in each form—
Their hands are grasping freemen’s guns,
Their bosoms feel his valor warm;
Their crimson shirts, in bloody fields,
Like walls of flame shall front the foeman;
In that dread hour whoever yields,
’Tis not the offspring of the Roman;
No renegade, to scorn his brother
While guarding their adopted mother—
One feeling, nationale and grand,
Still binds them to their native land.

The South is up! those brawny hands
That bless in peace or crush in war,
Who fought on India’s burning sands,
At Egypt’s Nile, and Trafalgar;
That reckless mirth, that fiery joy,
On field, or fort, or slippery deck,
From Clontarf’s plains to Fontenoy,
At Quatre Bras or old Quebec;
Magenta, Malakoff, Redan,
Has heard their Celtic “Clear the way!”
The slandered, exiled Irishman
Stands for his Southern home to-day;
And when, perchance, in Death’s eclipse
He grasps her flag with ’legiance due,
The last breath lingering on his lips
Might proudly say, I’m Irish, too!

The South is up! her native sons,
Whose spirit prompts them to be free,
Spring forth to man their trophied guns,
So bravely won at Monterey—
Surpassing Buena Vista’s deeds,
Or Palo Alto’s feats again,
Though wives be wreathed in widow’s weeds
And children weep for fathers slain.
What! think to bind the South? ’Tis vain!
Freedom’s inheritors at birth,
Not all the leagued infernal train,
If they were mustered here on earth,
Those flashing eyes, like gleaming steel,
Those hero boys and veterans gray!
Oh, yes! the throbbing heart can feel—
The South is up in stern array.

Yet sad ’twill grieve the Southern heart
To meet their brethren foot to foot,
But cancers on a vital part
Must now be severed branch and root;
They share with us a blood-bought fame
From foreign foe and savage grim;
The memory of our George’s name,
Revered by us, is dear to them;
Our ships in every clime have shown,
Where jealous monarchies might see,
What stars upon our flag have grown
From old thirteen to thirty-three;
Soldier to lead, or sage to teach,
Deep-scienced minds, of knowledge vast,
The great one’s fame, as in a niche,
Lives in the history of the past.
Now, pausing o’er our doubtful fate
We have been, or we shall be, great.

 

 

THE OLD RIFLEMAN.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

 

Now, bring me out my buckskin suit!
My pouch and powder, too!
We’ll see if seventy-six can shoot
As sixteen used to do.

Old Bess! we’ve kept our barrels bright!
Our triggers quick and true!
As far, if not as fine a sight,
As long ago, we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint!
A real white and blue;
Perhaps ’twill win the other tint,
Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your brass percussion-caps!
Old “shut-pan” suits as well!
There’s something in the sparks; perhaps
There’s something in the smell!

We’ve seen the red-coat Briton bleed!
The red-skin Indian, too!
We never thought to draw a bead
On Yankee-doodle-doo!

But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart!
Those days are mostly done;
And now we must revive the art
Of shooting on the run!

If Doodle must be meddling, why,
There’s only this to do:
Select the black spot in his eye
And let the daylight through!

And if he doesn’t like the way
That Bess presents the view,
He’ll, maybe, change his mind and stay
Where the good Doodles do!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know,
Who kissed the Testament;
To keep the Constitution? No!
To keep the Government!

We’ll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool,
And take him half and half;
We’ll aim to hit him, if a fool,
And miss him if a calf!

We’ll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks
By which a war is won;
Especially how seventy-six
Took Tories on the run.

 

 

ONLY ONE KILLED.

BY JULIA L. KEYES.

 

Only one killed in Company B,
’Twas a trifling loss—one man!
A charge of the bold and dashing Lee,
While merry enough it was, to see
The enemy, as he ran.

Only one killed upon our side—
Once more to the field they turn.
Quietly now the horsemen ride,
And pause by the form of the one who died,
So bravely, as now we learn.

Their grief for the comrade loved and true
For a time was unconcealed;
They saw the bullet had pierced him through;
That his pain was brief—ah! very few
Die thus on the battle-field.

The news has gone to his home, afar—
Of the short and gallant fight;
Of the noble deeds of the young La Var,
Whose life went out as a falling star
In the skirmish of the night.

“Only one killed! It was my son,”
The widowed mother cried;
She turned but to clasp the sinking one,
Who heard not the words of the victory won,
But of him who had bravely died.

Ah! death to her were a sweet relief,
The bride of a single year.
Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief,
Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf,
Now trodden and brown and sere!

But no, she must bear through coming life
Her burden of silent woe,
The aged mother and youthful wife
Must live through a nation’s bloody strife,
Sighing and waiting to go.

Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars,
Are meeting no more to part,
They can smile once more through the crystal bars—
Where never more will the woe of wars
O’ershadow the loving heart.

 

 

THE WAR CHRISTIAN’S THANKSGIVING.

Respectfully dedicated to the War Clergy of the United States.

BY GEORGE H. MILES, OF BALTIMORE.

 

Oh, God of battles! once again,
With banner, trump and drum,
And garments in thy wine-press dyed,
To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded,
Unto Thine altars go;
With brother’s blood, by brothers shed,
Our glad libations flow.

From pest-house and from dungeon foul,
Where, maimed and torn, they die,
From gory trench and charnel-house,
Where, heap on heap, they lie.

In every groan that yields a soul,
Each shriek a heart that rends,
With every breath of tainted air,
Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank Thee for the saber’s gash,
The cannon’s havoc wild;
We bless Thee for the widow’s tears,
The want that starves her child!

We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit
The torch and fanned the flame;
That lust and rapine hunt their prey,
Kind Father, in Thy name!

That for the songs of idle joy
False angels sang of yore,
Thou sendest war on earth—ill-will
To men for evermore!

We know that wisdom, truth and right
To us and ours are given;
That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath,
To do the work of heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste
Are pleasant in Thine eyes—
Thou lov’st a hearthstone desolate,
Thou lov’st a mourner’s cries.

Let not our weakness fall below
The measure of Thy will,
And while the press hath wine to bleed,
Oh, tread it with us still!

Teach us to hate—as Jesus taught
Fond fools, of yore, to love;
Give us Thy vengeance as our own—
Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,
The pages of Thy word,
And learn the blessed curses there,
On them that sheathe the sword.

Where’er we tread may deserts spring,
Till none are left to slay;
And when the last red-drop is shed,
We’ll kneel again—and pray!

 

 

UP! UP! LET THE STARS OF OUR BANNER.

BY M. F. BIGNEY.

Respectfully dedicated to the Soldiers of the South.

 

Up! up! Let the stars of our banner
Flash out like the brilliants above!
Beneath them we’ll shield from dishonor
The homes and the dear ones we love.
With “God and our Right!”
Our cry in the fight,
We’ll drive the invader afar,
And we’ll carve out a name
In the temple of Fame
With the weapons of glorious war.

Arise with an earnest endeavor—
A nation shall hallow the deed;
The foe must be silenced forever,
Though millions in battle may bleed.
With “God and our Right!” etc.

Strong arms and a conquerless spirit
We bring as our glory and guard:
If courage a triumph can merit,
Then Freedom shall be our reward.
With “God and our Right!” etc.

Beneath the high sanction of Heaven,
We’ll fight as our forefathers fought;
Then pray that to us may be given
Such guerdon as fell to their lot.
With “God and our Right!” etc.

 

 

THE SOLDIER BOY.

BY H. M. L.

 

I give my soldier boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not: but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling, base or low,
I give my soldier boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood,
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as clear, as clear of mood
Be thou whene’er it sees the sun;
For country’s claim, at honor’s call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy’s voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains.
So when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by these heartfelt strains,
I give my soldier boy a blade.

Lynchburg, Va., May 18, 1861.

 

 

A SOUTHERN GATHERING SONG.

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH.

Air—“Hail Columbia.”[9]

 

Sons of the South, beware the foe!
Hark to the murmur deep and low,
Rolling up like the coming storm,
Swelling up like sounding storm,
Hoarse as the hurricanes that brood
In space’s far infinitude!
Minute guns of omen boom
Through the future’s folded gloom;
Sounds prophetic fill the air,
Heed the warning—and prepare!
Watch! be wary—every hour
Mark the foeman’s gathering power—
Keep watch and ward upon his track
And crush the rash invader back!

Sons of the brave!—a barrier stanch
Breasting the alien avalanche—
Manning the battlements of Right;
Up, for your Country, “God, and right!”
Form your battalions steadily,
And strike for death or victory!
Surging onward sweeps the wave,
Serried columns of the brave,
Banded ’neath the benison
Of Freedom’s godlike Washington!
Stand! but should the invading foe
Aspire to lay your altars low,
Charge on the tyrant ere he gain
Your iron arteried domain!

Sons of the brave! when tumult trod
The tide of revolution—God
Looked from His throne on “the things of time,”
And two new stars in the reign of time
He bade to burn in the azure dome—
The freeman’s Love and the freeman’s Home!
Holy of Holies! guard them well,
Baffle the despot’s secret spell,
And let the chords of life be riven
Ere you yield those gifts of Heaven!
Io pæan! trumpet notes
Shake the air where our banner floats;
Io triumphe! still we see
The land of the South is the home of the free!

 

 

BATTLE-CALL.

Nec temere, nec timide.

Dedicated to her Countrymen, the Cavaliers of the South.

BY ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM.

 

Gentlemen of the South!
Gird on your flashing swords!
Darkly along your borders fair
Gather the ruffian hordes!
Ruthless and fierce they come;
Even at the cannon’s mouth
To blast the glory of your land,
Gentlemen of the South!

Ride forth in your stately pride,
Each bearing on his shield
Ensigns your fathers won of yore
On many a well-fought field.
Let this be your battle-cry,
Even to the cannon’s mouth,
Cor unum via una! Onward!
Gentlemen of the South!

Brave knights of a knightly race,
Gordon and Chambers and Gray,
Show to the minions of the North
How valor dares the fray!
Let them read on each spotless crest,
Even at the cannon’s mouth,
Decori decus addit avito,
Gentlemen of the South!

Morrison, Douglas, Stuart,
Erskine and Bradford and West,
Your gauntlets on many a hill and plain
Have stood the battle’s test.
Animo non astutia!
March to the cannon’s mouth,
Heirs of the brave dead centuries,
Gentlemen of the South!

Call out your stalwart men,
Workers in brass and steel,
Bid the swart artisans come forth
At sound of the trumpet’s peal;
Give them your war-cry, Erskine,
Fight to the cannon’s mouth—
Bid the men forward, Douglas, forward!
Yeomanry of the South!

Brave hunters, ye have met
The fierce black bear in the fray,
Ye have trailed the panther night by night,
Ye have chased the fox by day;
Your prancing chargers pant
To dash at the gray wolf’s mouth,
Your arms are sure of their quarry—forward!
Gentlemen of the South!

Fight! that the lowly serf
And the high-born lady, still
May bide in their proud dependency,
Free subjects of your will;
Teach the base North how ill—
At the belching cannon’s mouth—
He fares who touches your household gods,
Gentlemen of the South!

From mother, and wife, and child,
From faithful and happy slave,
Prayers for your sake ascend to Him
Whose arm is strong to save.
We check the gathering tears,
Though ye go to the cannon’s mouth;
Dominus providebit! Onward!
Gentlemen of the South!

Dunrobin Cottage.

 

 

THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG.

BY HARRY MACARTHY.

 

We are a band of brothers, and natives to the soil,
Fighting for the property we gained by honest toil,
And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far:
Hurrah for the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!
Chorus—Hurrah! hurrah! for the bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star.

As long as the Union was faithful to her trust,
Like friends and like brothers, kind were we and just;
But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar,
We hoist on high the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

First, gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand;
Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand;
Next, quickly, Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida—
All raised the flag, the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Ye men of valor, gather round the banner of the right;
Texas and fair Louisiana join us in the fight.
Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesmen are;
Now rally round the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

And here’s to brave Virginia! the Old Dominion State
With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate.
Impelled by her example, now other States prepare
To hoist on high the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Then here’s to our Confederacy; strong we are and brave,
Like patriots of old we’ll fight, our heritage to save;
And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer;
So cheer for the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Then cheer, boys, cheer, raise the joyous shout,
For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out;
And let another rousing cheer for Tennessee be given,
The single star of the bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be eleven!

 

 

THE BATTLE AT BULL RUN.

BY RUTH.

 

Forward, my brave columns, forward!
No other word was spoken;
But in the quick and mighty rustling of their feet,
And in the flashing of their eyes, ’twas proved
This was enough.
Men, whose every bosom had a noble heart,
And who had left their homes, their sacred rights
To gain: To these this was no trying hour,
No time to waver, and to doubt. But one,
For which they’d hoped and prayed—
One (as they felt) they’d brought not on
Themselves, but which they knew must come—
And nobly, O most nobly, did their
Bravery, their sense of right, sustain them.

And Lincoln’s hordes—
They knew not with what natures they contended,
Seemed not to feel their motives differed, as
Does heaven from earth.
They, the poor, miserable, hired outcasts, whose
Principles were bought,
And men, whose courage, bravery, and noble aims,
Had come to be, throughout the land,
A proverb.

And what the end?
What could, what should it be, than what it was?
A brilliant, glorious Victory.

The South weeps o’er her slain:
And well she may; for they were jewels
From her diadem.
She weeps; sheds tears of grief, of sorrow,
And of Pride.

Louisville, Ky., July 24, 1861.

 

 

THE SOUTHRON MOTHER’S CHARGE.

BY THOMAS B. HOOD.

 

You go, my son, to the battle-field,
To repel the invading foe;
Mid its fiercest conflicts never yield
Till death shall lay you low.

Our God, who smiles upon the Right
And frowns upon the Wrong,
Will nerve you for our holy fight,
And make your courage strong.

Our cause is just, for it we pray
At morning, noon, and night,
Upon our banners we inscribe,
God, Liberty, and Right.

I love you as I love my life,
You are my only son;
Your country calls, go forth and fight
Till Freedom’s cause is won.

It may be that you fall in death,
Contending for your home,
Yet your aged mother will not be
Forsaken though alone.

A thousand generous hearts there are
Throughout this sunny land,
Whose ample fortunes will be spent
With an unsparing hand.

Now go, my son, a mother’s prayers
Will ever follow thee;
And in the thickest of the fight
Strike home for liberty!

On every hill, in every glen,
We’ll fight till we are free;
We’ll fight till every limpid brook
Runs crimson to the sea.

No truce we know, till every foe
Shall leave our hallowed sod,
And we regain that heaven-born boon,
“Freedom to worship God.”

New Orleans, La.

 

 

OUR BOYS ARE GONE.

BY COL. HAMILTON WASHINGTON.

 

Our boys are gone ’till the war is o’er,
In the ranks of death you’ll find them;
With duty’s path of blood before,
And with all they love behind them:
They bear our hearts to the tented field—
Each danger makes them dearer—
Their faithful hearts our only shield
From the foe still drawing nearer.

With pride we hear of the perils braved
And the wreaths they win of glory;
With joy we hear of lov’d ones saved
From each field of battle gory;
And joy is mix’d with fleeting pain
As we look to Heaven o’er us,
And think that there we’ll meet again,
With the brave who’ve gone before us.

 

 

THE SOUTHERN PLEIADES.

BY LAURA LORRIMER.

 

When first our Southern flag arose,
Beside the heaving sea,
It bore upon its silken folds
A green Palmetto tree.
All honor to that banner brave,
It roused the blood of yore,
And nerved the arm of Southern men
For valiant deeds once more.

When storm clouds darkened o’er our sky,
That star, the first of seven,
Shone out amid the mist and gloom,
To light our country’s heaven.
The glorious seven! long may their flag
Wave proudly on the breeze;
Long may they burn on fame’s broad sky—
The Southern Pleiades!

Nashville Patriot.

 

 

THE STARS AND BARS.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

 

Fling wide the dauntless banner
To every Southern breeze,
Baptized in flame, with Sumter’s name—
A patriot and a hero’s fame—
From Moultrie to the seas!
That it may cleave the morning sun
And, streaming, sweep the night,
The emblem of a battle won
With Yankee ships in sight.

Come, hucksters, from your markets,
Come, bigots, from your caves,
Come, venal spies, with brazen lies
Bewildering your deluded eyes,
That we may dig your graves;
Come, creatures of a sordid clown
And driveling traitor’s breath,
A single blast shall blow you down
Upon the fields of Death.

The very flag you carry
Caught its reflected grace,
In fierce alarms, from Southern arms,
When foemen threatened all your farms,
And never saw your face;
Ho! braggarts of New England’s shore,
Back to your hills and delve
The soil whose craven sons foreswore
The flag in eighteen-twelve!

We wreathed around the roses
It wears before the world,
And made it bright with storied light,
In every scene of bloody fight
Where it has been unfurled;
And think ye, now, the dastard hands
That never yet could hold
Its staff, shall wave it o’er our lands,
To glut the greed of gold?

No! by the truth of Heaven
And its eternal Sun,
By every sire whose altar fire
Burns on to beckon and inspire,
It never shall be done;
Before that day the kites shall wheel
Hail-thick on Northern heights,
And there our bared, aggressive steel
Shall countersign our rights!

Then spread the flaming banner
O’er mountain, lake, and plain,
Before its bars, degraded Mars
Has kissed the dust with all his stars,
And will be struck again;
For could its triumph now be stayed
By Hell’s prevailing gates,
A sceptred Union would be made
The grave of sovereign States.

 

 

THE MARCH.

BY JOHN W. OVERALL.

 

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp!
Go the Southern braves to battle,
How they shine, each gleaming line!
Flashing sabers! how they rattle!
Every lip is now compressed,
Every heart now yearns for glory,
Every eye with patriot fire
Burns for battle fierce and gory!

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp!
Death is in each hidden saber,
Reaper of the fields of Time,
Look ye for a giant’s labor!
How sublime! when patriots feel
All the strength of self-reliance,
Marching on to meet the foe,
With a stern and grim defiance!

See how proudly floats our flag!
White! our cause is pure and grand, man!
Red! a living flood shall flow
From every foe now in the land, man!
Blue! aye, heaven’s stars are there!
Sparkling in their azure beauty!
Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp!
Go the messengers of duty!

 

 

SOUTHERN WAR SONG.

BY N. P. W.

 

To horse! to horse! our standard flies,
The bugles sound the call;
An alien navy stems our seas—
The voice of battle’s on the breeze,
Arouse ye, one and all!

From beauteous Southern homes we come,
A band of brothers true—
Resolved to fight for liberty,
And live or perish with our flag—
The noble Red and Blue.

Though tamely crouch to Northern frown
Kentucky’s tardy train;
Though invaded soil Maryland mourns,
Though brave Missouri vainly spurns,
And foaming gnaws the chain;

Oh! had they marked the avenging call
Their brethren’s insults gave,
Disunion ne’er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valor, desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave;

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom’s temple born—
Dress our pale cheek in timid smiles,
To hail a master in our house,
Or brook a victor’s scorn?

No! though destruction o’er the land
Come pouring as a flood,
The sun that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our saber’s deadly sway,
And set that night in blood!

For gold let Northern legions fight,
Or plunder’s bloody gain;
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our homes, to fence our law,
Nor shall their edge be vain.

And now that breath of Northern gale
Has fanned the Stars and Bars,
And footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,
Us rights and liberty debars.

Then farewell home, and farewell friends,
Adieu each tender tie,
Resolved we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer or to die.

To horse, to horse! the sabers gleam,
High sounds our bugle-call,
Combined by honor’s sacred tie,
Our word is, Rights and Liberty!
March forward, one and all!

Louisville Courier.

 

 

WE’LL BE FREE IN MARYLAND.

BY ROBERT E. HOLTZ.

Air—“Gideon’s Band.”

 

The boys down South in Dixie’s land,
The boys down South in Dixie’s land,
The boys down South in Dixie’s land,
Will come and rescue Maryland.
Chorus—If you will join the Dixie band,
Here’s my heart and here’s my hand,
If you will join the Dixie band;
We’re fighting for a home.

The Northern foes have trod us down,
The Northern foes have trod us down,
The Northern foes have trod us down,
But we will rise with true renown.
If you will join the Dixie band, etc.

The tyrants they must leave our door,
The tyrants they must leave our door,
The tyrants they must leave our door,
Then we’ll be free in Baltimore.
If you will join the Dixie band, etc.

These hirelings they’ll never stand,
These hirelings they’ll never stand,
These hirelings they’ll never stand,
Whenever they see the Southern band.
If you will join the Dixie band, etc.

Old Abe has got into a trap,
Old Abe has got into a trap,
Old Abe has got into a trap,
And he can’t get out with his Scotch cap.
If you will join the Dixie band, etc.

Nobody’s hurt is easy spun,
Nobody’s hurt is easy spun,
Nobody’s hurt is easy spun,
But the Yankees caught it at Bull Run.
If you will join the Dixie band, etc.

We rally to Jeff. Davis true,
Beauregard and Johnston, too,
Magruder, Price, and General Bragg,
And give three cheers for the Southern flag.
If you will join the Dixie band, etc.

We’ll drink this toast to one and all,
Keep cocked and primed for the Southern call;
The day will come, we’ll make the stand,
Then we’ll be free in Maryland.
If you will join the Dixie band, etc.

January 30, 1862.

 

 

WAR SONG.

BY J. H. WOODCOCK.

Tune—“Bonnie Blue Flag.”

 

Huzza! huzza! let’s raise the battle-cry,
And whip the Yankees from our land,
Or with them fall and die.
Rush on our Southron columns,
And make the brigands feel
That all the booty they will get,
Will be our Southron steel.
Huzza! huzza! let’s raise (the) our banner high,
And nobly drive the Yankees out,
Or with them fall and die.

Rush on the columns—let every Southron brave
Nobly charge the accursèd foe,
Or find a soldier’s grave.
With bowie and with pike,
We’ll rally to the field,
And bravely to the last we’ll strike,
Resolved we’ll never yield.
Huzza! huzza! etc.

We are fighting for our mothers, our sisters, and our wives;
For these, and our country’s rights,
We’ll sacrifice our lives.
Then, trusting still to Heaven,
We’ll charge the invading host,
Till liberty and independence
Shall be the nation’s boast.
Huzza! huzza! etc.

Then on with our columns—slay the vandal foe—
Beat them from our sunny soil,
And lay their colors low.
To the great God of nations
Our sacred cause confide,
For we are fighting for our liberty,
And He is on our side.
Huzza! huzza! etc.

 

 

A NEW RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.

WRITTEN FOR A LADY, BY JEFF. THOMPSON.

 

Missouri is the pride of the nation,
The hope of the brave and the free;
The Confederacy will furnish the rations,
But the fighting is trusted to thee;
For, brave boys, your soil has been noted,
And your flag has been trusted to you;
For freedom you have not yet voted,
But you fight for the Red, White, and Blue.
Chorus—Three cheers, etc.

The Stars shall shine bright in the heaven,
But the Stripes should be trailed in the dust,
For they are no longer the sign of the haven
Of the brave, of the free, or the just;
The Bars now in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the faithful and true;
O’er the home of the Southern brave
Shall float the new Red, White, and Blue.
Chorus—Three cheers, etc.

 

 

O JOHNNY BULL, MY JO JOHN.

Air—“John Anderson, my Jo.”

It was stated in the Richmond “Dispatch” during the last days of December, 1861, that a gentleman, just from the West Indies, had said that there were eighty-seven British ships-of-war lying in those waters. This statement gave rise to the following imitation of an old song:

 

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! I wonder what you mean,
By sending all these frigates out, commissioned by the Queen;
You’ll frighten off the Yankees, John, and why should you do so?
Best catch and sink, or burn them all, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Yankee hands profane,
Were laid in wanton insult upon the lion’s mane,
He roared so loud and long, John, they quickly let him go,
And sank upon their trembling knees, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Lincoln first began
To try his hand at war, John, you were a peaceful man;
But now your blood is up, John, and well the Yankees know,
You play the —— when you start, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John, let’s take the field together,
And hunt the Yankee Doodles home, in spite of wind and weather,
And ere a twelvemonth roll around, to Boston we will go,
And eat our Christmas dinner there, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

 

 

“SOUTHRONS.”

BY CATHERINE M. WARFIELD.

 

You can never win them back—
Never! never!
Though they perish on the track
Of your endeavor;
Though their corses strew the earth,
That SMILED upon their birth,
And blood pollutes each hearth-
Stone forever!

They have risen to a man,
Stern and fearless;
Of your curses and your ban
They are careless.
Every hand is on its knife,
Every gun is primed for strife,
Every PALM contains a life,
High and peerless!

You have no such blood as theirs
For the shedding:
In the veins of cavaliers
Was its heading:
You have no such stately men
In your “abolition den,”
To march through foe and fen,
Nothing dreading!

They may fall before the fire
Of your legions,
Paid with gold for murderous hire—
Bought allegiance;
But for every drop you shed,
You shall have a mound of dead,
So that vultures may be fed
In our regions!

But the battle to the strong
Is not given,
When the Judge of Right and Wrong
Sits in heaven;
And the God of David still
Guides the pebble with His will;
There are giants yet to kill—
Wrongs unshriven!

 

 

“NIL DESPERANDUM.”

Inscribed to our Soldier-boys,

BY ADA ROSE.

 

The Yankee hosts are coming,
With their glittering rows of steel,
And sharp, from many a skirmish,
Comes the rifle’s ringing peal,
Warning you how very near
The Northern “Hessians” are,
With their overwhelming forces;
But ne’er must you despair.

For though they come on, surging
Like a mighty rolling sea,
They’re hired by their master, “Abe”—
You fight for Liberty.
So bravely you must meet them,
And face the cannon’s blare;
Your watchword, “Victory or Death,”
And never you despair.

True, the cloud is dark and lowering,
But behind a cheerful ray,
And the night is always darkest
Just before the break of day.
Have faith; the cloud will soon disperse,
For the light is surely there;
The day will soon be dawning,
So never you despair.

Go, emulate brave Washington,
Who led a little band,
To drive the proud oppressors
From off their happy land.
The enemy outnumbered,
By far, the “rebels” there;
But bravely they encountered them,
Nor yielded to despair.

’Tis said that “rebel” chieftain,
Ere they sought the battle’s fray,
Would ask our Heavenly Father
To be their shield and stay;
And then they’d march with confidence,
Well knowing He’d be there;
And that must be the reason why
They never did despair.

Likewise, if you will ask Him,
He’ll meet you on the field,
To be a guard about you,
And your support and shield;
The foe shall fly before you,
As you shout your victory there;
Then don’t forget to plead with Him,
And never to despair.

Pine Bluff, Ark.

 

 

ADDRESS OF THE WOMEN TO THE SOUTHERN TROOPS.

BY MRS. J. T. H. CROSS.

Air—“Bruce’s Address.”

 

Southern men, unsheathe the sword,
Inland and along the board;
Backward drive the Northern horde—
Rush to Victory!

Let your banners kiss the sky,
Be “The Right” your battle cry!
Be the God of Battles nigh—
Crown you in the fight!

Pressing back the tears that start,
We behold your hosts depart,
Saying, with heroic heart,
Clothe your arms with might!

Lower the proud oppressor’s crest!
Or, if he should prove the best,
Dead, not dishonored, rest
On the field of blood!

We—may God so give us grace!—
Sons will rear, to take your place;
Strong the foemen’s steel to face—
Strong in heart and hand!

Death your serried ranks may sweep,
Proud shall be the tears we weep—
Sacredly our hearts shall keep
Memory of your deeds!

Though our land be left forlorn,
Spirit of the Southron-born
Northern rage shall laugh to scorn—
Northern hosts defy.

He that last is doomed to die
Shall, with his expiring sigh,
Send aloft the battle-cry,
“God defend the Right!”

 

 

THE CAVALIERS OF DIXIE.

BY BENJAMIN F. PORTER.

 

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!
Who guard the Southern shores,
Whose standards brave the battle storm
Which o’er our border roars;
Your glorious sabers draw once more,
And charge the Northern foe;
And reap their columns deep,
Where the raging tempests blow,
And the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!
Though dark the tempest lower,
What arms will wear the tyrants chains,
What dastard heart will cower?
Bright o’er the night a sign shall rise
To lead to victory!
And your swords reap their hordes,
Where the battle tempests blow;
Where the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.

The South! she needs no ramparts,
No lofty towers to shield;
Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong,
Breastworks that never yield!
The thunders of your battle blades
Shall sweep the servile foe;
While their gore stains the shore,
Where the battle tempests blow;
Where the iron hail in floods descends
And the bloody torrents flow.

The battle-flag of Dixie!
With crimson field shall flame,
Her azure cross and silver stars
Shall light her sons to fame!
When peace with olive-branch returns,
That flag’s white folds shall glow
Still bright on every height,
When storm has ceased to blow,
And the battle tempests roar no more;
Nor the bloody torrents flow.

Oh! battle-flag of Dixie!
Long, long, triumphant wave!
Where’er the storms of battle roar,
Or victory crowns the brave!
The Cavaliers of Dixie!
In woman’s song shall glow
The fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow,
When the battle tempests rage no more
Nor the bloody torrents flow.[10]

 

 

LAND OF KING COTTON.

BY JO. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO.

Air—“Red, White, and Blue.”

 

Oh! Dixie, the land of King Cotton,
The home of the brave and the free;
A nation by Freedom begotten,
The terror of despots to be;
Wherever thy banner is streaming,
Base tyranny quails at thy feet,
And Liberty’s sunlight is beaming,
In splendor of majesty sweet.
Chorus—Three cheers for our army so true,
Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee,
Beauregard, and our Davis, forever;
The pride of the brave and the free!

When Liberty sounds her war-rattle,
Demanding her right and her due,
The first land who rallies to battle
Is Dixie, the shrine of the true;
Thick as leaves of the forest in summer,
Her brave sons will rise on each plain;
And strike, until each vandal comer
Lies dead on the soil he would stain.
Three cheers for our army, etc.

May the names of the dead, that we cherish,
Fill memory’s cup to the brim;
May the laurels they’ve won never perish,
Nor “star of their glory grow dim;”
May the States of the South never sever,
But champions of freedom e’er be;
May they flourish, Confed’rate forever,
The boast of the brave and the free.
Three cheers for our army, etc.[11]

 

 

THE GUERILLAS.

BY S. TEACKLE WALLIS.

 

Awake and to horse, my brothers!
For the dawn is glimmering gray,
And hark! in the crackling brushwood
There are feet that tread this way.

“Who cometh?” “A friend.” “What tidings?”
“O God! I sicken to tell;
For the earth seems earth no longer,
And its sights are sights of hell!

“From the far-off conquered cities
Comes a voice of stifled wail,
And the shrieks and moans of the houseless
Ring out, like a dirge on the gale.

“I’ve seen from the smoking village
Our mothers and daughters fly;
I’ve seen where the little children
Sank down in the furrows to die.

“On the banks of the battle-stained river
I stood as the moonlight shone,
And it glared on the face of my brother,
As the sad wave swept him on.

“Where my home was glad, are ashes,
And horrors and shame had been there,
For I found on the fallen lintel
This tress of my wife’s torn hair!

“They are turning the slaves upon us,
And with more than the fiend’s worst art,
Have uncovered the fire of the savage,
That slept in his untaught heart!

“The ties to our hearths that bound him,
They have rent with curses away,
And maddened him, with their madness,
To be almost as brutal as they.

“With halter, and torch, and Bible,
And hymns to the sound of the drum,
They preach the gospel of murder,
And pray for lust’s kingdom to come.

“To saddle! to saddle! my brothers!
Look up to the rising sun,
And ask of the God who shines there,
Whether deeds like these shall be done!

“Wherever the vandal cometh,
Press home to his heart with your steel,
And when at his bosom you can not,
Like the serpent, go strike at his heel.

“Through thicket and wood, go hunt him,
Creep up to his camp-fire side,
And let ten of his corpses blacken
Where one of our brothers hath died.

“In his fainting, foot-sore marches,
In his flight from the stricken fray,
In the snare of the lonely ambush,
The debts we owe him, pay.

“In God’s hand alone is vengeance,
But he strikes with the hands of men,
And his blight would wither our manhood,
If we smite not the smiter again.

“By the graves where our fathers slumber,
By the shrines where our mothers prayed,
By our homes, and hopes, and freedom,
Let every man swear on his blade,

“That he will not sheathe nor stay it,
Till from point to hilt it glow
With the flush of Almighty vengeance,
In the blood of the felon foe.”

They swore—and the answering sunlight
Leaped red from their lifted swords,
And the hate in their hearts made echo
To the wrath in their burning words.

There’s weeping in all New England,
And by Schuylkill’s banks a knell,
And the widows there and the orphans,
How the oath was kept, can tell.[12]

 

 

SOUTHERN MARSEILLAISE.

 

Ye men of Southern hearts and feeling,
Arm, Arm! your struggling country calls—
Hear ye the guns now loudly pealing,
From Sumter’s high embattled walls!
Shall a fanatic horde in power
Send forth a base and hireling band,
To desolate our happy land,
And make our Southern freemen cower.
To arms, to arms! each one,
The sword unsheathe, raise the gun,
Then on, rush on, ye brave and free,
To death or victory.

Now clouds of war begin to gather,
And black and murky is our sky—
Shall we submit—no, never, never!
Let death or freedom be our cry—
In Heaven’s justice firm relying,
We’ll nobly struggle to be free,
And bravely gain our liberty,
Or die, our Northern foes defying.
To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

The peaceful homes of Texas burning,
And Harper’s Ferry’s blood-stained soil,
Proclaim how strong their hearts are yearning
For murder, pillage, crime, and spoil.
Shall we our feelings longer smother,
And bear with patience yet our wrongs,
Their jeers, their crimes, their taunts and thongs,
And greet them still as friend and brother?
To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

Their tyranny we’ll bear no longer,
But burst asunder every tie,
Although in numbers they are stronger,
We will be free, or we will die!
Too long the South has wept, bewailing
That falsehood’s dagger Yankees wield,
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
To arms, to arms, each one, etc.

Beauregard Songster.