SONGS AND BALLADS
OF THE
SOUTHERN PEOPLE.
1861-1865.
COLLECTED AND EDITED
BY
FRANK MOORE.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET.
1886.
Copyright, 1886,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
All rights reserved.
NOTE TO READERS.
This collection has been made with the view of preserving in permanent form the opinions and sentiments of the Southern people, as embodied in their Songs and Ballads of 1861-1865; which, better than any other medium, exhibit the temper of the times and popular feeling. The historical value of the productions is admitted. Age will not impair it.
The editor has endeavored to give the best of the inspirations. A desire to announce the authorship of the pieces has been gratified in most instances. Where requests have been made not to give names and places and circumstances, by whom, and where they have been written, they have been regarded, the spirit, meaning and intent not being affected, nor in the least abated by such a course. To those who have assisted in collecting, the editor returns his thanks. After this volume reaches those who are interested, should any of them desire to correct mistakes that may have crept into it, he will be glad to make the changes required.
Should any one, into whose hands the volume may fall, know of copies of songs or ballads, or of letters and incidents upon which such are founded—songs and ballads, letters or incidents not already collected in book form—the editor will be glad to be advised, that means may be taken for their permanent preservation, which he is using every endeavor to secure. A postal card, giving name and residence, addressed to him, in the care of his publishers, D. Appleton and Company, New York City, will receive immediate attention.
The essence of history exists in its songs. Those that are carried in the memory are earliest forgotten. It is a praiseworthy plan that saves all. Will those who “know them by heart,” and have “sung them in camp and in battle,” help to rescue them from oblivion?
Frank Moore.
New York, January, 1886.
SONGS OF THE SOUTHERN PEOPLE.
A POEM FOR THE TIMES.
BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.
Who talks of Coercion? Who dares to deny
A resolute people their right to be free?
Let him blot out forever one star from the sky,
Or curb with his fetter one wave of the sea.
Who prates of Coercion? Can love be restored
To bosoms where only resentment may dwell;
Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword,
Or good-will among men be established by shell?
Shame! shame that the statesman and trickster, forsooth,
Should have for a crisis no other recourse,
Beneath the fair day-spring of Light and of Truth,
Than the old brutum fulmen of Tyranny,—Force.
From the holes where Fraud, Falsehood, and Hate slink away;
From the crypt in which Error lies buried in chains;
This foul apparition stalks forth to the day,
And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.
Could you conquer us, Men of the North, could you bring
Desolation and death on our homes as a flood;
Can you hope the pure lily, Affection, will spring
From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood?
Could you brand us as villeins and serfs, know ye not
What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar?
How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot;
How dearly the Pole loves his Father, the Czar!
But ’twere well to remember this land of the sun
Is a nutrix leonum, and suckles a race
Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one,
Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace.
And well may the schemers in office beware
The swift retribution that waits upon crime,
When the lion, Resistance, shall leap from his lair,
With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime.
Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still,
Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends;
Nor join in a conflict accurst, that must fill
With ruin the country on which it descends.
But if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage
The gods give to all whom they wished to destroy,
You would act a new Iliad to darken the age,
With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy:
If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries,
When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore,
You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes
Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar:
If there be to your malice no limit imposed,
And your reckless design is to rule with the rod
The men upon whom you have already closed
Our goodly domain and the temples of God:
To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold,
And at once let the tocsin be sounded afar;
We greet you, as greeted the Swiss Charles the Bold,
With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war!
For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright,
Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide;
Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight,
With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride;
And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past,
In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain;
While the sods of King’s Mountain shall heave at the blast,
And give up its heroes to glory again.
Charleston Mercury.
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ETHNOGENESIS.
BY HENRY TIMROD.[1]
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I.
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Hath not the morning dawned with added light?
And will not evening call another star
Out of the infinite regions of the night,
To mark this day in heaven? At last we are
A nation among nations; and the world
Shall soon behold in many a distant part
Another flag unfurled!
Now, come what may, whose favor need we court?
And, under God, whose thunder need we fear?
Thank him who placed us here
Beneath so kind a sky—the very sun
Takes part with us; and on our errands run
All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain
Do noiseless battle for us; and the year
And all the gentle daughters in her train
March in our ranks, and in our service wield
Long spears of golden grain!
A yellow blossom as her fairy shield
June flings our azure banner to the wind,
While in the order of their birth
Her sisters pass, and many an ample field
Grows white beneath their steps, till now behold
Its endless sheets unfold
The snow of Southern summers! Let the earth
Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm
Our happy land shall sleep
In a repose as deep
As if we lay intrenched behind
Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm!
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II.
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And what, if mad with wrongs themselves have wrought,
In their own treachery caught,
By their own fears made bold,
And leagued with him of old,
Who long since in the limits of the North
Set up his evil throne, and warred with God—
What if, both mad and blinded in their rage,
Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage,
And with a hostile step profane our sod!
We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth
To meet them, marshaled by the Lord of Hosts,
And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts
Of Moultrie and of Eutaw—who shall foil
Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone,
But every stock and stone
Shall help us; but the very soil,
And all the generous wealth it gives to toil,
And all for which we love our noble land,
Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand,
The heart of woman, and her hand,
Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence
Gentle or grave or grand.
The winds in our defense
Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend
Their firmness and their calm;
And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend
The strength of pine and palm!
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III.
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Look where we will, we can not find a ground
For any mournful song:
Call up the clashing elements around,
And test the right and wrong!
On one side, pledges broken, creeds that lie,
Religion sunk in vague philosophy,
Empty professions, pharisaic leaven,
Souls that would sell their birthright in the sky,
Philanthropists who pass the beggar by,
And laws which controvert the laws of Heaven.
And, on the other—first, a righteous cause!
Then, honor without flaws,
Truth, Bible reverence, charitable wealth,
And for the poor and humble, laws which give,
Not the mean right to buy the right to live,
But life, and home, and health.
To doubt the issue were distrust in God!
If in his Providence he hath decreed
That to the peace for which we pray,
Through the Red Sea of War must lie our way,
Doubt not, O brothers, we shall find at need
A Moses with his rod!
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IV.
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But let our fears—if fears we have—be still,
And turn us to the future! Could we climb
Some Alp in thought, and view the coming time,
We should indeed behold a sight to fill
Our eyes with happy tears!
Not for the glories which a hundred years
Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea,
And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be;
But for the distant peoples we shall bless,
And the hushed murmurs of a world’s distress:
For, to give food and clothing to the poor,
The whole sad planet o’er,
And save from crime its humblest human door,
Our mission is! The hour is not yet ripe
When all shall see it, but behold the type
Of what we are and shall be to the world,
In our own grand and genial Gulf stream furled,
Which through the vast and colder ocean pours
Its waters, so that far-off Arctic shores
May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze
Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.
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THE SOUTHERN CROSS.
BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER.
Air—The Star Spangled Banner.
Oh, say, can you see, through the gloom and the storm,
More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?
Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,
As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.
How radiant, each star, as the beacon afar,
Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war;
’Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain,
To light us to Freedom and Glory again!
How peaceful and blest was America’s soil,
Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,
Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil
To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.
Then loudly appeal, to each heart that can feel,
And crush the foul viper ’neath Liberty’s heel!
And the Cross of the South shall forever remain,
To light us to Freedom and Glory again!
’Tis the emblem of peace, ’tis the day-star of hope,
Like the sacred Labarum, which guided the Roman;
From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware’s slope,
’Tis the trust of the free, and the terror of foemen.
Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare
The rights we demand, or the deeds that we dare;
And the Cross of the South shall forever remain,
To light us to Freedom and Glory again!
But if peace should be hopeless, and justice denied,
And war’s bloody vulture should flap his black pinions,
Then gladly to arms! while we hurl in our pride,
Defiance to tyrants, and death to their minions,
With our front to the field, swearing never to yield,
Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield;
And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave
As the flag of the Free, or the pall of the brave.
Southern Literary Messenger.
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HARP OF THE SOUTH, AWAKE!
BY J. M. KILGOUR.
Harp of the South, awake!
From every golden wire,
Let the voice of thy power go forth,
Like the rush of a prairie fire;
With the rush and the rhythm of a power
That dares a freeman’s grave,
Rather than live to wear
The chains of a truckling slave.
Harp of the South, awake!
Thy sons are aroused at last,
And their legions are gathering now,
To the sound of the trumpet blast;
To the scream of the piercing fife,
And the beat of the rolling drum,
From mountain, and hill, and plain,
And field, and town, they come.
Harp of the South, awake!
Their banners are on the breeze;
Tell the world how vain the thought
To subdue such men as these,
With hero hearts that beat,
To the throbs of the spirit-flame,
Which will kindle their battle-fires
In freedom’s holy name.
Harp of the South, awake!
But not to sing of love,
In shady forest-bower,
Or fragrant orange grove;
Oh, no, but thy song must be
The wrath of the battle crash,
Inscribed on the cloud of war,
With the pen of its lightning flash.
Harp of the South, awake!
And strike the strains once more,
Which nerved thy heroes’ hearts
In the glorious days of yore;
Which gave a giant’s strength
To the arm of Marion,
Of Sumter, Morgan, Lee,
And your own great Washington.
Harp of the South, awake!
Your freedom’s angel calls,
In the laugh of the rippling rills,
And the roar of the waterfalls.
See how she bends to hear,
As she walks the valleys through,
And along the mountain tops,
In robes of gold and blue.
Harp of the South, awake!
The proud, the full-soul’d South—
With the dusk of her flashing eyes,
And the lure of her rosy mouth—
With love, or pride, or wrath,
Thrilling her noble form,
As she smiles like a summer sky,
Or frowns like a summer storm!
Harp of the South, awake!
Though the soldier’s beaming tear
May fall on thy trembling strings,
As he breathes his farewell prayer;
Yet, tell him how to die
On the bloody battle-field,
Rather than to her foes
The gallant South should yield.[2]
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ARISE.
BY C. G. POYNAS.
Carolinians! who inherit
Blood which flowed in patriot veins!
Rouse ye from lethargic slumber,
Rouse and fling away your chains!
From the mountain to the seaboard,
Let the cry be—Up! Arise!
Throw our pure Palmetto banner
Proudly upward to the skies.
Fling it out! its lone star beaming
Brightly to the nation’s gaze;
Lo! another star arises!
Quickly, proudly it emblaze!
Yet another! Bid it welcome
With a hearty “three times three”;
Send it forth, on boom of cannon,
Southern men will dare be free.
Faster than the cross of battle
Summoned rude Clan Alpine’s host,
Flash the news from sea to mountain—
Back from mountain to the coast!
On the lightning’s wing it fleeth,
Scares the eagle in his flight,
As his keen eye sees arising
Glory, yet shall daze his sight!
Cease the triumph—days of darkness
Loom upon us from afar:
Can a woman’s voice for battle
Ring the fatal note of war?
Yes—when we have borne aggression
Till submission is disgrace—
Southern women call for action;
Ready would the danger face!
Yes, in many a matron’s bosom
Burns the Spartan spirit now;
From the maiden’s eye it flashes,
Glows upon her snowy brow;
E’en our infants in their prattle
Urge us on to risk our all—
“Would we leave them, as a blessing.
The oppressor’s hateful thrall?”
No!—then up, true-hearted Southrons,
Like bold “giants nerved by wine”;
Never fear! The cause is holy—
It is sacred—yea, divine!
For the Lord of Hosts is with us,
It is He has cast our lot;
Blest our homes—from lordly mansion
To the humblest negro cot.
God of battles! hear our cry—
Give us nerve to do or die!
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THE STAR OF THE WEST.
I wish I was in de land o’ cotton,
Old times dair ain’t not forgotten—
Look away, etc.
In Dixie land whar I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin’—
Look away, etc.
Chorus—Den I wish I was in Dixie.
In Dixie land dat frosty mornin’,
Jis ’bout de time de day was dawnin’,
Look away, etc.
De signal fire from de east bin roarin’,
Rouse up, Dixie, no more snorin’—
Look away, etc.—
Den I wish I was in Dixie.
Dat rocket high a blazing in de sky,
’Tis de sign dat de snobbies am comin’ up nigh—
Look away, etc.
Dey bin braggin’ long, if we dare to shoot a shot,
Dey comin’ up strong and dey’ll send us all to pot.
Fire away, fire away, lads in gray.
Den I wish I was in Dixie.
Charleston Mercury.
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FAREWELL TO BROTHER JONATHAN.
BY “CAROLINE.”
Farewell! we must part; we have turned from the land
Of our cold-hearted brother, with tyrannous hand,
Who assumed all our rights as a favor to grant,
And whose smile ever covered the sting of a taunt;
Who breathed on the fame he was bound to defend—
Still the craftiest foe, ’neath the guise of a friend;
Who believed that our bosoms would bleed at a touch,
Yet could never believe he could goad them too much;
Whose conscience affects to be seared with our sin,
Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in;
The mote in our eye so enormous has grown,
That he never perceives there’s a beam in his own.
O Jonathan, Jonathan! vassal of pelf,
Self-righteous, self-glorious, yes, every inch self,
Your loyalty now is all bluster and boast,
But was dumb when the foemen invaded our coast.
In vain did your country appeal to you then,
You coldly refused her your money and men;
Your trade interrupted, you slunk from her wars,
And preferred British gold to the Stripes and the
Stars!
Then our generous blood was as water poured forth,
And the sons of the South were the shields of the North;
Nor our patriot ardor one moment gave o’er,
Till the foe you had fed we had driven from the shore!
Long years we have suffered opprobrium and wrong,
But we clung to your side with affection so strong,
That at last, in mere wanton aggression, you broke
All the ties of our hearts with one murderous stroke.
We are tired of contest for what is our own,
We are sick of a strife that could never be done;
Thus our love has died out, and its altars are dark,
Not Prometheus’s self could rekindle the spark.
O Jonathan, Jonathan! deadly the sin
Of your tigerish thirst for the blood of your kin;
And shameful the spirit that gloats over wives
And maidens despoiled of their honor and lives!
Your palaces rise from the fruits of our toil,
Your millions are fed from the wealth of our soil;
The balm of our air brings the health to your cheek,
And our hearts are aglow with the welcome we speak.
O brother! beware how you seek us again,
Lest you brand on your forehead the signet of Cain;
That blood and that crime on your conscience must sit;
We may fall—we may perish—but never submit!
The pathway that leads to the Pharisee’s door
We remember, indeed, but we tread it no more;
Preferring to turn, with the Publican’s faith,
To the path through the valley and shadow of death!
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THE UNIFORM OF GRAY.
BY EVAN ELBERT.
The Briton boasts his coat of red,
With lace and spangles decked;
In garb of green the French are seen,
With gaudy colors flecked;
The Yankees strut in dingy blue,
And epaulets display;
Our Southern girls more proudly view
The uniform of gray.
That dress is worn by gallant hearts
Who every foe defy,
Who stalwart stand, with battle-brand,
To conquer or to die!
They fight for freedom, hope and home,
And honor’s voice obey,
And proudly wear where’er they roam
The uniform of gray.
What though ’tis stained with crimson hues,
And dim with dust and smoke,
By bullets torn, and rent and shorn
By many a hostile stroke;
The march, the camp, the bivouac,
The onset and the fray
But only serve more dear to make
The uniform of gray.
When wild war’s tiger-strife is past,
And liberty restored;
When independence reigns at last,
By valor’s arm secured;
The South will stand, erect and grand,
And loftiest honors pay
To those who bore her flag, and wore
The uniform of gray.
And woman’s love, man’s best reward,
Shall cluster round their path,
And soothe and cheer the volunteer
Who dared the foeman’s wrath.
Bright wreaths she’ll bring, and roses fling
Around his triumph-way,
And long in song thy fame prolong
Old uniform of gray.
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“WE CONQUER OR DIE.”
BY JAMES PIERPONT.
The war drum is beating, prepare for the fight,
The stern bigot Northman exults in his might,
Gird on your bright weapons, your foemen are nigh;
Let this be our watchword, “We conquer or die!”
The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore,
Your swords and your lances must slumber no more,
Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high,
Inscribed with the watchword, “We conquer or die!”
March to the battlefield, there do or dare,
With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share,
And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky,
Till the blue arch re-echoes “We conquer or die!”
Press forward undaunted, nor think of retreat,
The enemy’s host on the threshold to meet;
Strike firm till the foeman before you shall fly,
Appalled by the watchword, “We conquer or die!”
Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod;
We, too, fight for freedom—our Captain is God;
Their blood in our veins, with their honor we vie,
Theirs, too, was the watchword, “We conquer or die!”
We strike for the South—mountain, valley and plain—
For the South we will conquer again and again;
Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh,
Ours, then, be the watchword, “We conquer or die!”
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SONS OF FREEDOM.
BY NANNY GRAY.
Sons of freedom, on to glory
Go, where brave men do or die,
Let your names in future story
Gladden every patriot’s eye;
’Tis your country calls you, hasten!
Backward hurl the invading foe;
Freemen never think of danger,—
To the glorious battle go!
Oh! remember gallant Jackson,
Single-handed in the fight,
Death-blows dealt the fierce marauder,
For his liberty and right;
Tho’ he fell beneath their thousands,
Who that covets not his fame?
Grand and glorious, brave and noble,
Henceforth shall be Jackson’s name.
Sons of freedom, can you linger
When you hear the battle’s roar,
Fondly dallying with your pleasures
When the foe is at your door?
Never! no! we fear no idlers,
“Death or freedom”’s now the cry,
’Till the stars and bars, triumphant,
Spread their folds to every eye.
Richmond Whig.
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“CALL ALL! CALL ALL!”
BY “GEORGIA.”
Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose,
Roaring round like the very deuce!
Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,—
After ’em, boys, and drive ’em back.
Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice,
Back to the beggarly land of ice;
Worry ’em, bite ’em, scratch and tear
Everybody and everywhere.
Old Kentucky is caved from under,
Tennessee is split asunder,
Alabama awaits attack,
And Georgia bristles up her back.
Old John Brown is dead and gone!
Still his spirit is marching on,—
Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys,
Long as an ape’s from Illinois!
Want a weapon? Gather a brick,
Club or cudgel, or stone or stick;
Anything with a blade or butt,
Anything that can cleave or cut.
Anything heavy, or hard, or keen!
Any sort of slaying machine!
Anything with a willing mind,
And the steady arm of a man behind.
Want a weapon? Why, capture one!
Every Doodle has got a gun,
Belt, and bayonet, bright and new;
Kill a Doodle, and capture two!
Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire!
All, call all! to the feast of fire!
Mother and maiden, and child and slave,
A common triumph or a single grave.
Rockingham, Va., Register.
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THE ORDERED AWAY.
Dedicated to the Oglethorpe and Walker Light Infantries.
BY MRS. J. J. JACOBUS.
At the end of each street, a banner we meet,
The people all march in a mass,
But quickly aside, they step back with pride,
To let the brave companies pass.
The streets are dense filled, but the laughter is still’d—
The crowd is all going one way;
Their cheeks are blanched white, but they smile as they light
Lift their hats to the—Ordered away.
They smile while the dart deeply pierces their heart,
But each eye flashes back the war-glance,
As they watch the brave file march up with a smile,
’Neath their flag—with their muskets and lance;
The cannon’s loud roar vibrates on the shore,
But the people are quiet to-day,
As, startled, they see how fearless and free
March the companies—Ordered away.
Not a quiver or gleam of fear can be seen,
Though they go to meet death in disguise;
For the hot air is filled with poison distilled
’Neath the rays of fair Florida’s skies.
Hark! the drum and fife awake to new life
The soldiers who—“Can’t get away;”
Who wish, as they wave their hats to the brave,
That they were the—Ordered away.
As our parting grows near, let us quell back the tear,
Let our smiles shine as bright as of yore;
Let us stand with the mass, salute as they pass,
And weep when we see them no more.
Let no tear-drop or sigh dim the light of our eye,
Or move from our lips, as they say—
While waving our hand to a brave little band—
Good-by to the—Ordered away.
Let them go, in God’s name, in defense of their fame,
Brave death at the cannon’s wide mouth;
Let them honor and save the land of the brave,
Plant Freedom’s bright flag in the South.
Let them go! While we weep, and lone vigils keep,
We will bless them, and fervently pray
To the God whom we trust, for our cause firm but just,
And our loved ones—the Ordered away.
When fierce battles storm, we will rise up each morn,
Teach our young sons the saber to wield:
Should their brave fathers die, we will arm them to fly
And fill up the gap in the field.
Then, fathers and brothers, fond husbands and lovers,
March! march bravely on! We will stay,
Alone in our sorrow, to pray on each morrow
For our loved ones—the Ordered away.
Augusta, Ga., April 2, 1861.
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THE MARTYR OF ALEXANDRIA.
BY JAMES W. SIMMONS.
Revealed, as in a lightning flash,
A Hero stood!
The invading foe, the trumpet’s crash,
Set up his blood!
High o’er the sacred pile that bends
Those forms above,
Thy Star, O Freedom! brightly blends
Its rays with Love.
The banner of a mighty race
Serenely there
Unfurls—the genius of the place,
And haunted air!
A vow is registered in heaven—
Patriot! ’twas thine
To guard those matchless colors, given
By hand divine.
Jackson! thy spirit may not hear
The wail ascend!
A nation bends above thy bier,
And mourns its friend.
Thy example is thy monument;
In organ tones
Thy name resounds, with glory blent,
Prouder than thrones!
And they whose loss has been our gain—
A People’s care
Shall win their hearts from pain,
And wipe the tear.
When time shall set the captive free,
Now scathed by wrath,
Heirs of his immortality,
Bright be their path.
Indianola, Texas.
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DIXIE.
Southrons, hear your Country call you!
BY ALBERT PIKE.
Southrons, hear your Country call you!
Up! lest worse than death befall you!
To arms! To arms! To arms! in Dixie!
Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,
Let all hearts be now united!
To arms! To arms! To arms! in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
Hurrah! hurrah!
For Dixie’s land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
Hear the Northern thunders mutter!
Northern flags in South wind flutter;
To arms, etc.,
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Fear no danger! Shun no labor!
Lift up rifle, pike, and saber!
To arms, etc.
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder!
To arms, etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
How the South’s great heart rejoices,
At your cannons’ ringing voices;
To arms! etc.
For faith betrayed and pledges broken,
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken;
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
Back to their kennels hunt these beagles;
To arms! etc.
Cut the unequal words asunder!
Let them then each other plunder!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Swear upon your country’s altar,
Never to submit or falter!
To arms! etc.
Till the spoilers are defeated,
Till the Lord’s work is completed.
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Halt not till our Federation
Secures among Earth’s Powers its station!
To arms! etc.
Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
Hear your children tell the story!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
If the loved ones weep in sadness,
Victory soon shall bring them gladness:
To arms! etc.
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow;
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
|
THE RIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG.
BY JOHN W OVERALL.
In other days our fathers’ love was loyal, full, and free,
For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea;
They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song,
For them the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong.
But when the King’s weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea,
The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea;
And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might,
That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right.
The King sent over hireling hosts—Briton, Hessian, Scot—
And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot;
While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng,
And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place give to the Wrong.
But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon’s sword was out,
With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman’s thunder-shout;
And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight,
But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right!
And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea,
To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free,
Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long,
And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong.
And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew,
But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue;
For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight,
And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right!
The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South,
To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon’s mouth;
For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song,
Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong.
But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool,
Shall ever win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule;
We’ll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night,
And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right.
New Orleans True Delta.
|
TO MY SOLDIER BROTHER.
BY SALLIE E. BALLARD.
When softly gathering shades of ev’n
Creep o’er the prairies broad and green,
And countless stars bespangle heav’n,
And fringe the clouds with silv’ry sheen,
My fondest sigh to thee is giv’n,
My lonely wand’ring soldier-boy;
And thoughts of thee
Steal over me
Like ev’ning shades, my soldier boy.
My brother, though thou’rt far away,
And dangers hurtle round thy path,
And battle lightnings o’er thee play,
And thunders peal in awful wrath,
Think, whilst thou’rt in the hot affray,
Thy sister prays for thee, my boy.
If fondest prayer
Can shield thee there,
Sweet angels guard my soldier boy.
Thy proud young heart is beating high
To clash of arms and cannons’ roar;
That firm set lip and flashing eye
Tell how thy heart is brimming o’er.
Be free and live, be free or die!
Be that thy motto now, my boy;
And though thy name’s
Unknown to fame’s
’Tis graven on my heart, my boy.
|
THE SOUTH IN ARMS.
BY REV. J. H. MARTIN.
Oh! see ye not the sight sublime,
Unequaled in all previous time,
Presented in this Southern clime,
The home of chivalry?
A warlike race of freemen stand,
With martial front and sword in hand,
Defenders of their native land,—
The sons of Liberty.
Unawed by numbers, they defy
The tyrant North, nor will they fly,
Resolved to conquer or to die,
And win a glorious name.
Sprung from renowned heroic sires,
Inflamed with patriotic fires,
Their bosoms burn with fierce desires,
They thirst for victory.
’Tis not the love of bloody strife,
The horrid sacrifice of life,
But thoughts of mother, sister, wife,
That stir their manly hearts.
A sense of honor bids them go,
To meet a hireling, ruthless foe,
And deal in wrath the deadly blow
Which vengeance loud demands.
In freedom’s sacred cause they fight,
For Independence, Justice, Right,
And to resist a desperate might.
And by Manassas’ glorious name,
And by Missouri’s fields of fame,
We hear them swear, with one acclaim,
We’ll triumph or we’ll die!
|
MELT THE BELLS.
BY F. Y. ROCKETT.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Still the tinkling on the plain,
And transmute the evening chimes
Into war’s resounding rhymes,
That the invaders may be slain
By the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
That for years have called to prayer,
And, instead, the cannon’s roar
Shall resound the valleys o’er,
That the foe may catch despair
From the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Though it cost a tear to part
With the music they have made,
Where the friends we love are laid,
With pale cheek and silent heart,
’Neath the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Into cannon, vast and grim,
And the foe shall feel the ire
From the heaving lungs of fire,
And we’ll put our trust in Him,
And the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And when foes no more attack,
And the lightning cloud of war
Shall roll thunderless and far,
We will melt the cannon back
Into bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And they’ll peal a sweeter chime,
And remind of all the brave
Who have sunk to glory’s grave,
And will sleep through coming time
’Neath the bells.[3]
|
TO THE TORIES OF VIRGINIA.
“I speak this unto your shame.”
In the ages gone by, when Virginia arose
Her honor and truth to maintain,
Her sons round her banner would rally with pride,
Determined to save it from stain.
No heart in those days was so false or so cold,
That it did not exquisitely thrill
With a love and devotion that none would withhold,
Until death the proud bosom should chill.
Was Virginia in danger? Fast, fast at her call,
From the mountains e’en unto the sea,
Came up her brave children their mother to shield,
And to die that she still might be free.
And a coward was he, who, when danger’s dark cloud
Overshadowed Virginia’s fair sky,
Turned a deaf, careless ear, when her summons was heard,
Or refused for her honor to die.
Oh! proud are the mem’ries of days that are past,
And richly the heart thrills whene’er
We think of the brave who, their mother to save,
Have died, as they lived, without fear.
But now, can it be that Virginia’s name
Fails to waken the homage and love
Of e’en one of her sons? Oh! cold, cold must be
The heart that her name will not move.
When she rallies for freedom, for justice, and right,
Will her sons, with a withering sneer,
Revile her, and taunt her with treason and shame,
Or say she is moved by foul fear?
Will they tell her her glories have fled or grown pale?
That she bends to a tyrant in shame?
Will they trample her glorious flag in the dust,
Or load with reproaches her name?
Will they fly from her shores, or desert her in need?
Will Virginians their backs ever turn
On their mother, and fly when the danger is nigh,
And her claim to their fealty spurn?
False, false is the heart that refuses to yield
The love that Virginia doth claim;
And base is the tongue that could utter the lie,
That charges his mother with shame.
A blot on her ’scutcheon! a stain on her name!
Our heart’s blood should wipe it away;
We should die for her honor, and count it a boon
Her mandates to heed and obey.
But never, oh, never, let human tongue say
She is false to her honor or fame!
She is true to her past—to her future she’s true—
And Virginia has never known shame.
Then shame on the dastard, the recreant fool,
That would strike, in the dark, at her now;
That would coldly refuse her fair fame to uphold,
That would basely prove false to his vow.
But no! it can not—it can never be true,
That Virginia claims one single child,
That would ever prove false to his home or his God,
Or be with foul treason defiled.
And the man that could succor her enemies now,
Even though on her soil he were born,
Is so base, so inhuman, so false and so vile,
That Virginia disowns him with scorn!
Richmond Examiner.
|
WAR SONG.
BY A. B. MEEK, OF MOBILE.
Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest,
With a woman’s proudest heart,
Which shall ever hold thee nearest,
Shrined in its inmost heart?
Listen, then! My country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Leave these groves of rose and myrtle,
Drop the dreamy hand of love!
Like young Körner, scorn the turtle
When the eagle screams above!
Dost thou pause? Let dotards dally—
Do thou for thy country fight!
’Neath her noble emblem rally—
“God! our country, and her right!”
Listen! now her trumpet’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Woman’s heart is soft and tender,
But ’tis proud and faithful, too;
Shall she be her land’s defender?
Lover! soldier? up and do!
Seize thy father’s ancient falchion,
Which once flashed as freedom’s star!
Till sweet peace—the bow and halcyon,
Still’d the stormy strife of war!
Listen! now thy country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Sweet is love in moonlight bowers!
Sweet the altar and the flame!
Sweet is spring-time with her flowers!
Sweeter far the patriot’s name!
Should the God who rules above thee
Doom thee to a soldier’s grave,
Hearts will break, but fame will love thee
Canonized among the brave!
Listen, then, thy country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Rather would I view thee lying
On the last red field of life,
’Mid thy country’s heroes dying,
Than to be a dastard’s wife.
|
SUMTER; A BALLAD OF 1861.
BY E. O. MURDEN.
’Twas on the twelfth of April,
Before the break of day,
We heard the guns of Moultrie
Give signal for the fray.
Anon across the waters
There boomed the answering gun,
From North and South came flash on flash—
The battle had begun.
The mortars belched their deadly food,
And spiteful whizzed the balls,
A fearful storm of iron hailed
On Sumter’s doomèd walls.
We watched the meteor flight of shell,
And saw the lightning flash;
Saw where each fiery missile fell,
And heard the sullen crash.
The morn was dark and cloudy,
Yet, till the sun arose,
No answer to our gallant boys
Came booming from our foes.
Then through the dark and murky clouds
The morning sunlight came,
And forth from Sumter’s frowning walls
Burst sudden sheets of flame.
The shot and shell flew thick and fast,
The war-dogs howling spoke,
And thundering came their angry roar,
Through wreathing clouds of smoke.
Again to fight for liberty,
Our gallant sons had come,
They smiled when came the bugle call,
And laughed when tapped the drum.
From cotton- and from corn-field,
From desk and forum too,
From work-bench and from anvil, came
Our gallant boys and true.
A hireling band had come to awe,
Our chains to rivet fast;
Yon lofty pile scowls on our homes,
Seaward the hostile mast.
But gallant freemen man our guns—
No mercenary host,
Who barter for their honor’s price,
And of their baseness boast.
Now came our stately matrons,
And maidens too by scores;
Oh! Carolina’s beauty shone
Like love-lights on her shores.
See yonder, anxious gazing,
Alone a matron stands,
The tear-drop glistening on each lid,
And tightly clasped her hands.
For there, exposed to deadly fire,
Her husband and her son—
“Father,” she spake, and heavenward looked,
“Father, thy will be done.”
See yonder group of maidens,
No joyous laughter now,
For cares lie heavy on each heart
And cloud each anxious brow:
For brothers dear, and lovers fond,
Are there amid the strife;
Tearful the sister’s anxious gaze—
Pallid the promised wife.
Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear,
Prompt at their country’s call,
They yielded forth their dearest hopes,
And gave to honor all!
Now comes a message from below—
Oh quick the tidings tell—
“At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too,
And Morris, all are well!”
Then mark the joyous brightening;
See how each bosom swells;
That friends and loved ones all are safe,
Each to the other tells.
All day the shot flew thick and fast,
All night the cannon roared,
While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stood,
And vengeful answer poured.
Again the sun rose, bright and clear,
’Twas on the thirteenth day,
While, lo! at prudent distance moored
Five hostile vessels lay.
With choicest abolition crews—
The bravest of their brave—
They’d come to pull our Crescent down
And dig Secession’s grave.
See, see, how Sumter’s banner trails,
They’re signaling for aid,
See you no boats of armed men?
Is yet no movement made?
Now densest smoke and lurid flames
Burst out o’er Sumter’s walls;
“The fort’s on fire,” ’s the cry;
Again for aid he calls.
See you no boats or vessels yet?
Dare they not risk one shot,
To make report grandiloquent
Of aid they rendered not?
Nor boat nor vessel leaves the fleet—
“Let the old Major burn”—
We’ll boast of that we would have done,
If but—on our return.
Go back, go back ye cravens,
Go back the way ye came;
Ye gallant, would be, men-of-war,
Go! to your country’s shame.
’Mid fiery storm of shot and shell,
’Mid smoke and roaring flame,
See how Kentucky’s gallant son
Does honor to her name!
See how he answers gun for gun—
Hurrah! his flag is down!
The white! the white! Oh see it wave!
Is echoed all around.
Now ring the bells a joyous peal,
And rend with shouts the air,
We’ve torn the hated banner down,
And placed the Crescent there.
All honor to our gallant boys,
Bring forth the roll of fame,
And there in glowing lines inscribe
Each patriot hero’s name.
Spread, spread the tidings far and wide,
Ye winds take up the cry:
“Our soil’s redeemed from hateful yoke,
We’ll keep it pure or die.”
|
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!
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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]
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“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.
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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.
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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]
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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!
|
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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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A NEW RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.
WRITTEN FOR A LADY, BY JEFF. THOMPSON.