Southern War Songs: Camp-Fire, Patriotic and Sentimental
THE SOUTHERN CROSS BATTLE FLAG DESIGNED BY GEN. JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON.
THE STARS AND BARS.
FLAG ADOPTED BY THE CONFEDERATE CONGRESS IN 1863.
BATTLE FLAG ADOPTED BY THE CONFEDERATE CONGRESS IN 1863.
COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY W. L. FAGAN
ILLUSTRATED.
New York M. T. RICHARDSON & CO. 1890.
Copyrighted BY M. T. RICHARDSON. 1889.
PREFACE.
The war songs of the South are a part of the history of the Lost Cause. They are necessary to the impartial historian in forming a correct estimate of the animus of the Southern people.
Emotional literature is always a correct exponent of public sentiment, and these songs index the passionate sincerity of the South at the time they were written.
Poetic merit is not claimed for all of them; still each one embodies either a fact or a principle. Written in an era of war, when the public mind was thoroughly aroused, some may now appear harsh and vindictive. Eight millions of people read and sang them. This fact alone warrants their collection and preservation.
A greater number of the songs have been gathered from Southern newspapers. The task has been laborious, but still a labor of love, as no work of this kind has before been offered to the public.
Thanks are due Mr. Henri Wehrman, of New Orleans, for permission to use valuable copyrights, also to the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston; A. E. Blackmar, New Orleans; and J. C. Schreiner, Savannah, Ga. Mr. G. N. Galloway, Philadelphia, has given material assistance.
The work is not complete, still the compiler claims for it the largest and only collection of Confederate songs published.
Words by George H. Miles; Music by C. W. A. Ellerbrock; Permission of A. E. Blackmar.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass, owner of the copyright.]
God save the South, God save the South, Her altars and firesides, God save the South, Now that the war is nigh, Chanting our battle-cry Freedom or death. Chorus—Now that the war is nigh, Now that we arm to die, Chanting the battle cry, Freedom or death. God be our shield, At home or afield, Stretch thine arm over us, Strengthen and save. What tho’ they’re three to one, Forward each sire and son, Strike till the war is won, Strike to the grave. Chorus. God made the right, Stronger than might, Millions would trample us Down in their pride. Lay Thou their legions low, Roll back the ruthless foe, Let the proud spoiler know God’s on our side. Chorus. Hark honor’s call, Summoning all, Summoning all of us Unto the strife. Sons of the South awake! Strike till the brand shall break, Strike for dear Honor’s sake, Freedom and Life. Chorus. Rebels before, Our fathers of yore, Rebels the righteous name Washington bore. Why, then be our’s the same, The name that he snatch’d from shame, Making it first in fame, Foremost in war. Chorus. War to the hilt, Their’s be the guilt, Who fetter the freeman, To ransom the slave. Up, then, and undismayed, Sheathe not the battle blade Till the last foe is laid Low in the grave! Chorus. God save the South, God save the South, Dry the dim eyes that now Follow our path. Still let the light feet rove Safe through the orange grove; Still keep the land we love Safe from Thy wrath. Chorus. God save the South, God save the South, Her altars and firesides, God save the South! For the great war is nigh, And we will win or die, Chanting our battle cry, Freedom or death. Chorus.
“ALLONS ENFANS.”
The Southern Marseillaise.
By A. E. Blackmar, New Orleans, 1861.
[The music of this song can be obtained of Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]
Sons of the South awake to glory, A thousand voices bid you rise, Your children, wives and grandsires hoary, Gaze on you now with trusting eyes, Gaze on you now with trusting eyes; Your country ev’ry strong arm calling, To meet the hireling Northern band That comes to desolate the land With fire and blood and scenes appalling, To arms, to arms, ye brave; Th’ avenging sword unsheath! March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death. March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death. Now, now, the dang’rous storm is rolling, Which treacherous brothers madly raise, The dogs of war let loose, are howling And soon our peaceful towns may blaze, And soon our peaceful towns may blaze. Shall fiends who basely plot our ruin, Unchecked, advance with guilty stride To spread destruction far and wide, With Southrons’ blood their hands embruing? To arms, to arms, ye brave! Th’ avenging sword unsheath! March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death, March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death. With needy, starving mobs surrounded, The jealous, blind fanatics dare To offer, in their zeal unbounded, Our happy slaves their tender care, Our happy slaves their tender care. The South, though deepest wrongs bewailing, Long yielded all to Union name; But Independence now we claim, And all their threats are unavailing. To arms, to arms, ye brave! Th’ avenging sword unsheath! March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death, March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death.
This may be called the rallying song of the Confederacy. Composed early in 1861, it was sung throughout the South while the soldiers were hurried to Virginia with this, the grandest of martial airs, as a benediction.
“THE SOUTHERN CROSS.”
By St. Geo. Tucker, of Virginia.
Published in 1860, a few months before the author’s death.
Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storms, 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! Chorus—’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, ’Til 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 boldly appeal to each heart that can feel, And crush the foul viper ’neath Liberty’s heel! Chorus. ’Tis the emblem of peace, ’tis the day-star of hope, Like the sacred Labarum that guided the Roman; From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware’s slope, ’Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foeman. Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare! Chorus. And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied, And war’s bloody vulture should flap its 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! Chorus—And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave.
THE STAR OF THE WEST.
Charleston Mercury.
“Dixie.”
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. Chorus. 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. Chorus.
THE SOUTHRON’S CHANT OF DEFIANCE.
By C. A. Warfield, Kentucky. Music by A. E. Blackmar.
You can never win us back Never! never! Though we perish on the track Of your endeavor; Though our corses strew the earth, That smiled upon their birth, And blood pollutes each hearth Stone forever! We have risen to a man, Stern and fearless; Of your curses and your ban We are careless. Every hand is on its knife, Every gun is pruned for strife, Every palm contains a life, High and peerless! You have no such blood as ours For the shedding: In the veins of cavaliers Was its heading! You have no such stately men In your “abolition den,” To march through foe and fen, Nothing dreading! We may fall before the fire Of your legions, Paid with gold for murderous hire— Bought allegiance; But for every drop you shed, You shall have a mound of dead, And the vultures shall be fed In your regions. But the battle to the strong Is not given, While the judge of right and wrong Sits in Heaven! And the God of David still Guides the pebble with his will. There are giants yet to kill— Wrongs unshriven.
THE DUTCH VOLUNTEER.
As sung by Harry Macarthy in his Personation Concerts, 1862.
It vas in Ni Orleans city, I first heard der drums und fife, Und I vas so full mit lager, Dot I care nix for my life. Mit a schicken tail stuck in mine hat, I marched up midout fear, Und joined der Southern Army, Like a Dutche—a volunteer. Ven ve vent apoard der steampote, Ve told um all good-by, Ter vimins wafed der handkerchief, Und I pegun to gry. Vhen we got to vere de var vas, Dey stood us in a row, Und learned us ven dey hollered out, Vich vay ve have to go. Dey loads our guns mit noding, Und learn to shoot um right, Und charge upon der Yankee, Ven no Yankee vas in sight. My name is Yacob Schneider, Und I yust come here to-night From Hood’s Army up in Georgia, Ver all de times dey fight.
“I marched up midout fear.”
But, ven I see der Yankee coming, So mad it makes me feel, Dot I jumped apoard der steamer cars, Und come down to Mopeel. Now, all young folks vot goes out dere, To fight your country’s foes, Take my adfice, brepare yourself Pefore out dere you goes. Take a couble parrels of sauer-kraut, Und lots of schweitzer kase, Also, some perloona sausage, Und everyting else you please. Und ven der pattle commence, Kill all der Yankees you can, Und schump perhind some pig oak-tree, For dot ish der officer’s blan. Ven der pattle gits vide open, Und dem palls dey comes so tick, Oh! you tink you must go somewhere, Pecause you vas so sick. Yust lower your knapsack down yer back, Und cover up your rear, Den you von’t get vounded, Like dis Dutcher Volunteer.
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. Chorus—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.” Chorus. Th’ 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. Chorus. 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! Chorus. J. J. H.
“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 a 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.
ANOTHER YANKEE DOODLE.
Yankee Doodle had a mind To whip the Southern traitors, Because they didn’t choose to live On codfish and potatoes, Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, And to keep his courage up He took a drink of brandy. Yankee Doodle said he found By all the census figures, That he could starve the rebels out, If he could steal their niggers. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, And then he took another drink Of gunpowder and brandy. Yankee Doodle made a speech; ’Twas very full of feeling; “I fear,” says he, “I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing.” Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, Hurrah for Lincoln, he’s the boy To take a drop of brandy. Yankee Doodle drew his sword, And practised all the passes; Come, boys, we’ll take another drink When we get to Manassas. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, They never reached Manassas plain, And never got the brandy. Yankee Doodle soon found out That Bull Run was no trifle; For if the North knew how to steal, The South knew how to rifle. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, ’Tis very clear I took too much Of that infernal brandy. Yankee Doodle wheeled about, And scampered off at full run, And such a race was never seen As that he made at Bull Run. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, I haven’t time to stop just now, To take a drop of brandy. Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame, You’re always intermeddling; Let guns alone, they’re dangerous things; You’d better stick to peddling. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy. When next I go to Bully Run I’ll throw away the brandy.
“YE MEN OF ALABAMA!”
By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.
Air—“Ye Mariners of England.”
Ye men of Alabama, Awake, arise, awake And rend the coils asunder Of this abolition snake. If another fold he fastens— If this final coil he plies— In the cold clasp of hate and power, Fair Alabama dies. Though round your lower limbs and waist His deadly coils I see, Yet, yet, thank heaven! your head and arms, And good right hand, are free; And in that hand there glistens— O, God! what joy to feel! A polished blade, full sharp and keen, Of tempered State rights’ steel. Now, by the free-born sires From whose brave loins ye sprung, And by the noble mothers At whose fond breasts ye hung! And by your wives and daughters, And by the ills they dread Drive deep that good secession steel Right through the monster’s head. This serpent abolition Has been coiling on for years. We have reasoned, we have threatened, We have begged almost with tears; Now, away, away with union, Since on our Southern soil The only union left us Is an anaconda’s coil. Brave little South Carolina Will strike the self-same blow, And Florida, and Georgia, And Mississippi, too, And Arkansas, and Texas; And at the death, I ween, The head will fall beneath the blows Of all the brave fifteen. In this, our day of trial, Let feuds and factions cease, Until above this howling storm We see the sign of peace. Let Southern men, like brothers, In solid phalanx stand, And poise their spears, and lock their shields To guard their native land. The love that for the Union Once in our bosoms beat, From insult and from injury Has turned to scorn and hate; And the banner of secession, To-day we lift on high, Resolved, beneath that sacred flag, To conquer, or to die! Montgomery Advertiser, October, 1860.
1776-1861.
Air—“Bruce’s Address.”
Sons of the South! from hill and dale, From mountain-top, and lowly vale, Arouse ye now! ’tis Freedom’s wail— “To arms! to arms!” she cries. Strike! for freedom in the dust; Strike! to crush proud Mammon’s lust; Strike! remembering God is just! Thus a freeman dies. Southrons! who with Beauregard, Day and night, keep watch and ward— Southrons! whom the angels guard, Strike for Liberty! Smite the motley hireling throng; Smite! as Heaven smites the wrong; Smite! they fly before the strong, In God and Liberty! By your hearth-stones, by your dead, By all the fields where patriots bled, A freeman’s home or gory bed Let the alternate be. Weeping wives and mothers here, Sisters, daughters, dear ones near— Seas of blood for every tear, God and Liberty! Louder swells the battle-cry, Flaming sword and flashing eye Light the field when freemen die! Death or Liberty! Backward roll your poisonous waves, Infidel and ruffian slaves! ’Tis Heaven’s own wrath your blindness braves— God and Liberty!
C.
Washington, D. C.
WOULD’ST THOU HAVE ME LOVE THEE?
By Alex. B. Meek, Mobile, Ala.
Would’st 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 thy dreamy harp of love! Like young Korner—scorn the turtle, When the eagle screams above! Dost thou pause? Let dastards dally, Do thou for thy country fight! ’Neath her noble emblem rally— “God, our country, and our right!” Listen! now her trumpets 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! ’Til sweet peace—the bow and halcyon— Stilled 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 the Spring-time with her flowers! Sweeter far the patriot’s name! Should the God who smiles 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 strife, ’Mid thy country’s heroes dying, Than become a dastard’s wife!
THAT BUGLER;
OR, THE UPIDEE SONG.
Words by A. G. Knight. Music by Armand.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]
The shades of night were falling fast, Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, The bugler blows that well-known blast Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, No matter should it rain or snow, That bugler he is bound to blow. Chorus—Up—i—de—i—de—i—di, U—pi—de, u—pi—de, U—pi—de—i—de—i—di, Up—i—de—i—di, U—pi—de—i—de—i—di, U—pi—de—u—pi—di, U—pi—de—i—de—i—di. He saw, as in their bunks they lay, Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, How soldiers spent the dawning day, Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, “There’s too much comfort there,” said he, “And so I’ll blow the ‘Reveille.’” Chorus. In nice log huts he saw the light, Of cabin fires, warm and bright, The sight afforded him no heat, And so he sounded the “Retreat.” Upon the fire he saw a pot, Of sav’ry viands smoking hot, Said he, “they shan’t enjoy that stew,” Then “Boots and saddles” loudly blew.
“No matter should it rain or snow, That bugler he is bound to blow.”
They scarce their half cooked meal begin, Ere orderly cries out “Fall in,” Then off they march thro’ mud and rain, P’raps only to march back again. But soldiers, you were made to fight, To starve all day, and watch all night, And should you chance get bread and meat, That bugler will not let you eat. Oh hasten then, that glorious day, When buglers shall no longer play, When we through peace shall be set free, From “Tattoo,” “Taps,” and “Reveille.”
ADDRESS OF THE WOMEN TO THE SOUTHERN TROOPS.
By Mrs. J. T. H. Cross.
Air—“Bruce’s Address.”
Southern men, unsheathe the sword, Inland and along the board; Backward drive the Northern horde— Rush to victory! Let your banners kiss the sky, Be “The right” your battle cry! Be the God of battles nigh— Crown you in the fight! Pressing back the tears that start, We behold your hosts depart: Saying, with heroic heart, Clothe your arms with might! Lower the proud oppressor’s crest! Or, if he should prove the best, Dead, not dishonored, rest On the field of blood! We—may God so give us grace!— Sons will rear, to take your place; Strong the foeman’s steel to face— Strong in heart and hand! Death your serried ranks may sweep, Proud shall be the tears we weep, Sacredly our hearts shall keep Memory of your deeds! Though our land be left forlorn, Spirit of the Southern-born, Northern rage shall laugh to scorn— Northern hosts defy. He that last is doomed to die Shall, with his expiring sigh, Send aloft the battle-cry, “God defend the right!”
RALLYING SONG OF THE VIRGINIANS.
By Susan A. Tally.
Air—“Scots, Wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.”
Now rouse ye, gallant comrades all, And ready stand, in war’s array,— Virginia sounds her battle call, And gladly we obey. Our hands upon our trusty swords, Our hearts with courage beating high— We’ll fight as once our fathers fought, To conquer or to die! Adieu, awhile, to loving eyes, And lips that breathe our names in prayer; To them our holiest thoughts be given, For them our swords we bare! Yet linger not when honor calls, Nor breathe one sad, regretful sigh,— Defying fate, for love we’ll live, Or for our country die! No tyrant hand shall ever dare Our sacred Southern homes despoil, No tyrant foot shall e’er invade Our free Virginia soil. Lo! from her lofty mountain peaks, To plains that skirt the Southern seas, We fling her banner to the winds, Her motto on the breeze! We hear the roll of stormy drums, We hear the trumpet’s call afar! Now forward, gallant comrades all, To swell the ranks of war; Uplift on high our battle cry, When fiercest rolls the bloody fight, “Virginia! for the Southern cause, And God defend the right!”
POP GOES THE WEASEL.
From “Jack Morgan Songster.”
King Abraham is very sick, Old Scott has got the measles, Manassas we have now at last— Pop goes the weasel! All around the cobbler’s house The monkey chased the people, And after them in double haste, Pop goes the weasel! When the night walks in, as black as a sheep, And the hen on her eggs was fast asleep, When into her nest with a serpent’s creep, Pop goes the weasel! Of all the dance that ever was planned, To galvanize the heel and the hand, There’s none that moves so gay and grand, As—pop goes the weasel.
THE MOTHER’S FAREWELL.
Air—“Jeannette and Jeannot.”
From “Jack Morgan Songster.”
You are going to leave me, darling, Your country’s foes to fight, And though I grieve, I murmur not, I know we’re in the right. Here’s your father’s sword and rifle, Emulate him in the fight; Let no coward stain be on your name, That always has shone bright. Then farewell, my loved one, May a widow’d mother’s prayer, Still shield thy head in battle, And God keep thee in His care; Then use your sword and rifle well, Ne’er falter in the strife— You fight for home and freedom, For honor and for life. And when the “Stars and Bars” Float in triumph o’er each band That has driven the invaders back, Who dared pollute our land, Then come back to me with honor, And a mother’s hand shall place The laurel wreath your country gives Each victor’s brow to grace.
WE SWEAR.
Louisville Courier.
Kneel, ye Southrons, kneel and swear, On your bleeding country’s altar, All the tyrants’ rage to dare, E’en the cursed tyrants’ halter, We swear, we swear, we swear! Swear by all the shining stars, Swear in blunt old Anglo-Saxon, To defend the stars and bars Hallowed by the blood of Jackson, We swear, etc. Swear by all the noble deeds, By heroic valor prompted; Swear that while our country bleeds, Gleaming blades shall not be wanted, We swear, etc. Swear our country shall be free; Submit to subjugation? Never! Swear the stars and bars shall be Our insignia forever, We swear, etc.
FREEDOM’S NEW BANNER.
By Dan. E. Townsend, Richmond Dispatch, June 30, 1862.
When clouds of oppression o’ershaded The banner that liberty bore, Bright stars from the galaxy faded, The day of its splendor was o’er; Those stars, in a fresh constellation, A sky in the South now adorn; And blazon throughout all creation That freedom’s new banner is born. For the land that’s richest in beauty, The homestead of justice and right, Whose sons are the foremost in duty, Whose daughters are peerless and bright: For brave hearts in battle defending The honor and truth of our cause; For our trust in victorious ending, The welkin rings out its huzzas. Our lives and our fortunes enlisted, Our honor, our hopes, and our prayers, Upholding the act that resisted The wrong of a series of years. May the Father in Heaven approve us, In this the most sacred of wars; May his hand, to protect, be above us While cheering the Stars and the Bars.
THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG.
By Harry Macarthy.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]
We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil, Fighting for our liberty, with treasure, blood and 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 Southern Rights, 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 brethren 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. Chorus. 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 on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star. Chorus. 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, statesman rare, Now rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star. Chorus.
“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 link’d her fate; Impelled by her example, now other States prepare, To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star. Chorus. Then cheer, boys, 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. Chorus. 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. Chorus.—Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern Rights, Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue Flag has gained the Eleventh Star!
“OH, HE’S NOTHING BUT A SOLDIER.”
Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier; he’s coming here to-night, For I saw him pass this morning, with his uniform so bright; He was coming in from picket, whilst he sang a sweet refrain, And he kissed his hand at some one, peeping through the window pane. Ah! he rode no dashing charger, with black and flowing mane, But his bayonet glistened brightly, as the sun lit up the plain; No waving plume or feather flashed its crimson in the light, He belongs to the light infantry, and came to the war to fight. Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier, his trust is in his sword, To carve his way to glory through the servile Yankee horde; No pompous pageant heralds him, no sycophants attend; In his belt you see his body guard, his tried and trusty friend. Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier, yet his eyes are very fine, And I sometimes think, when passing, they’re peeping into mine; Though he’s nothing but a soldier—come, let me be discreet— Yet really for a soldier, his toilet’s very neat. He has been again to see us, the gentleman in gray, He’s called to see us often, our house is on his way; Ofttimes he sadly seeks the shade of yonder grove of trees, I watched him once—this soldier—I saw him on his knees. Oh, he’s nothing but a soldier, but this I know full well. He has a heart of softness, where tender virtues dwell; For once when we were talking, and no one else was near, I saw him very plainly try to hide a starting tear. Ah! he’s nothing but a soldier; but then its very queer. Whenever he is absent I’d much rather have him near; He’s gone to meet the foeman, to stay his bloody track, O Heaven! shield the soldier; O God! let him come back.
SOUTHERN WAR-CRY.
Air—“Scots, wha hae.”
Countrymen of Washington! Countrymen of Jefferson! By old Hick’ry oft led on To death or victory! Sons of men who fought and bled, Whose blood for you was freely shed, Where Marion charged and Sumpter led, For freeman’s rights! From the Cowpens’ glorious way, Southron valor led the fray To Yorktown’s eventful day, First we were free! At New Orleans we met the foe; Oppressors fell at every blow; There we laid the usurper low, For maids and wives! Who on Palo Alto’s day, ’Mid fire and hail at Monterey, At Buena Vista, led the way? “Rough-and-Ready.” Southrons all; at Freedom’s call, For our homes united all, Freemen live, or freemen fall! Death or liberty!
DIXIE’S LAND.
As sung by the Confederate Soldier.
Away down South in de fields of cotton, Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom; Look away, look away, Look away, look away. Den ’way down South in de fields of cotton, Vinegar shoes and paper stockings; Look away, look away, Look away, look away. Den I wish I was in Dixie’s Land, Oh—oh! Oh—oh! In Dixie’s land I’ll take my stand, And live and die in Dixie’s Land, Away, away, away, Away down South in Dixie. Pork and cabbage in de pot, It goes in cold and comes out hot; Look away, look away, Look away, look away. Vinegar put right on red beet, It makes them always fit to eat; Look away, look away, Look away, look away. Den I wish I was in Dixie’s Land, Oh—oh! Oh—oh! In Dixie’s land I’ll take my stand, And live and die in Dixie’s Land, Away, away, away, Away down South in Dixie.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT.-COL. CH. B. DREUX.
By James R. Randall.
Permission of Henri Wehrman, New Orleans, La.
Weep, Louisiana, weep! thy gallant dead Weave the green laurel o’er the undaunted head! Fling thy bright banner o’er the breast which bled Defending thee! Weep, weep, Imperial City, deep and wild! Weep for thy martyred and heroic child, The young, the brave, the free, the undefiled, Ah, weep for him. Lo! lo! the wail surgeth from embatteled bands, By Yorktown’s plains and Pensacola’s sands, Re-echoing to the golden sugar lands, Adieu! Adieu! The death of honor was the death he craved, To die where weapons clashed and pennons waved, To welcome Freedom o’er the opening impetuous grave, And live for aye! His blood had too much lightning to be still, His spirit was the torrent, not the rill, The gods have loved him, and the Eternal Hill Is his at last! He died while yet his chainless eye could roll, Flashing the conflagrations of his soul, The rose and mirror of the bold Creole, He sleepeth well. Lament, lone mother, for his early fate, But, bear thy burden with a hope elate, For thou hast shrined thy jewels in the state, A priceless boon! And thou, sad wife, thy sacred tears belong To the untarnished and immortal throng, For he shall fire the poet’s heart and song, In thrilling strains. And the fair virgins of our sunny clime, Shall wed their music to the minstrel’s rhyme, Making his fame melodious for all time; It cannot die.
BULL RUN.
A PARODY.
At Bull Run, when the sun was low, Each Southern face grew pale as snow, While loud as jackdaws rose the crow Of Yankees boasting terribly! But Bull Run saw another sight, When, at the deepening shades of night, Toward Fairfax Court House rose the flight Of Yankees running rapidly. Then broke each corps with terror riven, Then rushed the steeds from battle driven, For men of battery Number Seven Forsook their Red Artillery! Still on McDowell’s farthest left, The roar of cannon strikes one deaf, Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff Contend for death or victory. The panic thickens—off, ye brave! Throw down your arms! your bacon save! Waive Washington, all scruples waive, And fly, with all your chivalry!
HURRAH!
By a Mississippian.—Mobile Register.
Hurrah! for the Southern Confederate State, With her banner of white, red, and blue; Hurrah! for her daughters, the fairest on earth, And her sons, ever loyal and true! Hurrah! and hurrah! for her brave volunteers, Enlisted for freedom or death; Hurrah! for Jeff. Davis, commander-in-chief, And three cheers for the Palmetto wreath! Hurrah! for each heart that is right in the cause; That cause we’ll protect with our lives; Hurrah! for the first one who dies on the field, And hurrah! for each one who survives! Hurrah! for the South—shout hurrah! and hurrah! O’er her soil shall no tyrant have sway, In peace or in war we will ever be found “Invincible,” now and for aye.
GATHERING SONG.
Air—“Bonnie Blue Flag.”
By Annie C. Ketchum.
Come, brothers! rally for the right! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle-cry Beside the Atlantic wave! She leads the way in honor’s path! Come, brothers, near and far, Come rally ’round the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! We’ve borne the Yankee trickery, The Yankee gibe and sneer, Till Yankee insolence and pride Know neither shame nor fear; But ready now, with shot and steel, Their brazen front to mar, We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! Now Georgia marches to the front, And close beside her come Her sisters by the Mexique Sea, With pealing trump and drum! Till, answering back from hill and glen, The rallying cry afar, A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star! By every stone in Charleston Bay, By each beleaguered town, We swear to rest not, night nor day, But hunt the tyrants down! Till, bathed in valor’s holy blood, The gazing world afar, Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue Flag, That bears the cross and star!
A SOUTHERN SONG.
By Miss Maria Grason.
While crimson drops our hearthstones stain, And Northern despots forge our chain, O God! shall freemen strike in vain? Shall tyrants desecrate the sod Our fathers hallowed with their blood, Or cowards tread where heroes trod? The lowering tempest darkens round; And at the bugle’s silvery sound The fiery war-horse spurns the ground. The thunder of his iron tread Sweeps o’er the dying and the dead; The trembling earth is blushing red. ’Mid wreathing smoke, and flashing steel, And blazing cannons’ deafening peal Our brave battalions charge and wheel. The maiden sees her lover there! Far in the battle’s lurid glare He stands, his only shield her prayer. Oh, may that warrior in his pride Return with honor to her side, Or die as old Dentatus died! Queen Anne Co., Md.
A CONFEDERATE OFFICER TO HIS LADY LOVE.
Maj. McKnight (“Asa Hartz”), A. A. G., General Loring’s staff, while a prisoner of war, at Johnston’s Island, wrote the following:
My love reposes on a rosewood frame— A bunk have I; A couch of feathery down fills up the same— Mine’s straw, but dry; She sinks to sleep at night with scarce a sigh— With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by. My love her daily dinner takes in state— And so do I(?); The richest viands flank her silver plate— Coarse grub have I? Pure wines she sips at ease, her thirst to slake— I pump my drink from Erie’s limpid lake!
“Three Acres I.”
My love has all the world at will to roam— Three acres I; She goes abroad or quiet sits at home— So cannot I; Bright angels watch around her couch at night— A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight. A thousand weary miles do stretch between My love and I; To her, this wintry night, cold, calm, serene, I waft a sigh; And hope, with all my earnestness of soul, To-morrow’s mail may bring me my parole!
“We’ll one day meet again.”
There’s hope ahead! We’ll one day meet again, My love and I; We’ll wipe away all tears of sorrow then— Her love-lit eye, Will all my many troubles then beguile, And keep this wayward reb. from Johnston’s Isle.
THE SOUTHERN MARSEILLAISE.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]
Ye men of Southern hearts and feeling, Arm! arm! your struggling country calls! Hear ye the guns now loudly pealing, From Sumpter’s high embattled walls! Shall a fanatic horde in power Send forth a base and hireling band To desolate our happy land And make our Southern freemen cower? Chorus—To arms, to arms! each one, Th’ sword unsheathe, and raise the gun, Then on, rush on, ye brave and free, To death and victory. Now clouds of war begin to gather, And black and murky is our sky— Shall we submit—no, never, never! Let death or freedom be our cry— In Heaven’s justice firm relying, We’ll nobly struggle to be free, And bravely gain our liberty, Or die our Northern foes defying. Chorus. The peaceful homes of Texas burning, And Harper’s Ferry’s blood-stained soil, Proclaim how strong their hearts are yearning, For murder, pillage, crime and spoil. Shall we our feelings longer smother, And bear with patience yet our wrongs, Their jeers, their crimes, their taunts and thongs And greet them still as friend and brother? Chorus. Their tyranny we’ll bear no longer, But burst asunder every tie, Although in number they are stronger, We will be free, or we will die! Too long the South has wept, bewailing, That falsehood’s dagger Yankees wield, But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing. Chorus.
A SOUTHERN GATHERING SONG.
By L. Virginia French.
Air—“Hail Columbia.”
Sons of the South, beware the foe! Hark to the murmur, deep and low, Rolling up like the coming storm, Swelling up like the 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 invaders back! Sons of the brave!—a barrier staunch 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 paean! 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!
CONFEDERATE LAND.
By H. H. Strawbridge.
States of the South! Confederate Land! Our foe has come—the hour is nigh; His bale-fires rise on every hand— Rise as one man, to do or die! From mountain, vale, and prairie wide, From forest vast, and field, and glen, And crowded city, pour thy tide, Oh fervid South! Oh patriot men! Chorus—Up! old and young; the weak, be strong! Rise for the right,—hurl back the wrong, And foot to foot, and hand to hand, Strike for our own Confederate Land! Make every house, and rock, and tree, And hill, your forts; and fen and flood Yield not! our soil shall rather be One waste of flame, one sea of blood! On! though perennial be the strife, For honor dear, for hearthstone fires; Give blow for blow! take life for life! “Strike! ’till the last armed foe expires!” Chorus.
WE’LL BE FREE IN MARYLAND.
By R. 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. Chorus. 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. Chorus. These hirelings they’ll never stand, These hirelings they’ll never stand, These hirelings they’ll never stand, Whenever they see the Southern band. Chorus. 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. Chorus. 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. Chorus. We’ll rally to Jeff Davis true, Beauregard and Johnston, too, Magruder, Price, and General Bragg, And give three cheers for the Southern Flag. Chorus. We’ll drink this toast to one and all, Keep cocked and primed for the Southern call; The day will come, we’ll make a stand, Then we’ll be free in Maryland. Chorus. January 30, 1862.
Artillery Button.
THE SOUTHRON’S WAR-SONG.
By J. A. Waginer. Charleston Courier.
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 braves! 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 Southrons never fear The bay’net’s point, the sabre’s crash— 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!
KNITTING FOR THE SOLDIERS.
By Mary J. Upshur.
Knitting for the soldiers. How the needles fly! Now with sounds of merriment— Now with many a sigh! Knitting for the soldiers! Panoply for feet— Onward, bound to victory! Rushing in retreat! Knitting for the soldiers! Wrinkled—aged crone, Plying flying needles By the ember stone. Crooning ancient ballads, Rocking to and fro, In your sage divining, Say where these shall go? Jaunty set of stockings, Neat from top to toe, March they with the victor? Lie with vanquished low? Knitting for the soldiers! Matron—merry maid, Many and many a blessing, Many a prayer is said, While the glittering needles Fly “around! around!” Like to Macbeth’s witches On enchanted ground.
“Knitting for the soldiers Wrinkled—aged crone.”
Knitting for the soldiers Still another pair! And the feet that wear them Speed thee onward—where? To the silent city, On their trackless way? Homeward—bearing garlands? Who of us shall say?
“Knitting for the soldiers! Matron—merry maid.”
Knitting for the soldiers! Heaven bless them all! Those who win the battle, Those who fighting fall. Might our benedictions Speedily win reply, Early would they crown ye All with victory. Norfolk, Va., October 8, 1861.
PATRIOTIC SONG.
By Dr. John W. Paine, Lexington, Va., June 30, 1862.
Air—“Gathering of the Clans.”
Rise, rise, mountain and valley men, Bald sire and beardless son, each come in order, True loyal patriots, muster and rally, men; Drive the invader clear over the border; Down from the mountain steep, up from the valley deep, Come from the city, the town, and the village, Let every loyal heart in the strife take a part, Rescue our country from rapine and pillage. Rise, rise, etc. Men of the valley, descendants of heroes— Heroes whom Washington honored and trusted— Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers, Men who have never been daunted or worsted; Long, like all true men, we cherished the Union, Long did we strive for our country’s salvation; Now when our very existence is threatened, Rush to the rescue without hesitation. Rise, rise, etc. Say, shall we suffer the ruthless invader O’er our fair valley to marshal his legions? Loud calls Virginia, let every man aid her— Aid her, and thus show his truth and allegiance. Hark to the battle-cry, rush on to victory! Banished forever be party and faction; Let every loyal man rush to be in the van, Led by the dauntless, the conqueror, Jackson. Rise, rise, etc. —Richmond Dispatch.
OUR BRAVES IN VIRGINIA.
Air—“Dixie Land.”
We have ridden from the brave Southwest, On fiery steeds, with throbbing breast; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! With sabre flash and rifle true,— Hurrah! hurrah!— The Northern ranks we will cut through, And charge for old Virginia, boys; Hurrah! hurrah! We have come from the cloud-capp’d mountains, From the land of purest fountains; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our sweethearts and wives conjure us,— Hurrah! hurrah! Not to leave a foe before us, And strike for old Virginia, boys; Hurrah! hurrah! Then we’ll rally to the bugle call; For Southern rights we’ll fight and fall; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our grey-haired sires sternly say,— Hurrah! hurrah! That we must die or win the day, Three cheers for old Virginia, boys, Hurrah! hurrah! Then our silken banner wave on high; For Southern homes we’ll fight and die; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our cause is right, our quarrel just,— Hurrah! hurrah! We’ll in the God of battles trust, And conquer for Virginia, boys, Hurrah! hurrah!
BATTLE SONG OF THE INVADED.
The foe! the foe! They come! they come! Light up the beacon pyre; Light every hill and mountain home, Give back the signal fire; And wave the red cross on the night, The blood-red cross of war— What though we perish in the fight! Our fathers died before! Hark! lo their shouts upon the breeze, Their banners in the sun, And like the thunder of the seas Their deep tread thunders on. We’ll meet them here on each bold height, In every glen make head— And give the battle to the right; We will be free or dead. We stand on sacred, holy ground, Where thousand memories meet; Our fathers’ homes are all around, Their graves beneath our feet; Our roofs are mouldering far and wide, That late smiled in the sun; Our brides are weeping at our sides; Gods! let them then come on! Hurrah! hurrah! he gleams in sight; It fires the brain to see How the proud spoiler flashes bright In war’s gay panoply; We’ll show him that our fathers’ brands Nor rust nor time can stay; With tramp and shouts, bold hearts and hands, Up, freemen, and away! The work is done, the strife is o’er, The whirlwinds thundered by,— There’s not from hill to ocean shore A foeman left to die. Our brides are thronging every height, They wave us weeping home; God gives the battle to the right— Back to our hearth-stones, come!
THE SONG OF THE SNOW.
By Mrs. M. J. Preston, Lexington, Va.
Halt! the march is over; Day is almost done; Loose the cumbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun. Chilled, and worn, and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amidst the snow. Round the camp-blaze gather, Heed not sleep nor cold; Ye are Spartan soldiers, Strong, and brave, and bold. Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe, Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow! Shivering ’midst the darkness, Christian men are found There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground; Pleading for their country In its hour of woe, For its soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow! Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife, Dreaming of their dear ones— Home, and child, and wife; Tentless they are lying, While the fires burn low— Lying in their blankets, ’Midst December’s snow.
A NEW RED, WHITE AND BLUE.
Written for a Lady, by Jeff. Thompson.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,Mass., owners of the copyright.]
Missouri is the pride of the Nation, The hope of the brave and the free; The Confederacy will furnish the rations, But the fighting is trusted to thee; For, brave boys, your soil has been noted, And your flag has been trusted to you; For freedom you have not yet voted, But you fight for the Red, White and Blue. Chorus.—Three cheers, etc. The Stars shall shine bright in the heaven, But the Stripes should be trailed in the dust, For they are no longer the sign of the haven Of the brave, of the free, or the just; The Bars now in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the faithful and true; O’er the home of the Southern brave, Shall float the new Red, White and Blue. Chorus.
WAR SONG.
Come! come! come! Come, brothers you are called; Come, each one unappalled; Come and defend your home! Come! come! come! The cannon’s belching roar, The musket’s deadly pour— Cry, men, defend your home! Come! come! come! Let the invitation sound, Through town and country round, Come, men, defend your home! Come! come! come! With a prayer to Him on high; God grant us victory, While fighting for our home. Come! come! come! Wait not, lest you live to see Your loved ones crushed by tyranny, And desolate your home!
ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC TO-NIGHT.
By Lamar Fontaine. Music by J. H. Hewett.
[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]
“All quiet along the Potomac to-night!” Except here and there a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. ’Tis nothing! a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of a battle; Not an officer lost! only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. “All quiet along the Potomac to-night!” Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; And their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon, And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night wind Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping; While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard o’er the army while sleeping. There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread, As he tramps from rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, Far away, in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender. As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, And their mother—“may heaven defend her!”
“There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread.”
The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then— That night, when the love, yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling; And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, As if to keep down the heart’s swelling.
“And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.”
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree, And his footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: “Ha, Mary, good-by!” And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing. “All quiet along the Potomac to-night!” No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, And the picket’s off duty forever!
“INDEPENDENCE DAY.”
Oh, Freedom is a blessed thing! And men have marched in stricken fields, And fought, and bled, to nobly grasp The glorious fruit that freedom yields. Then let the banner float the air, The fairest ones of freedom’s types— The stars are fading one by one— What matter? We have still the stripes! Oh! happy men of Maryland, Remember! we have still the stripes! Why heed the cannon in your streets, The bayonets that block your way? Rejoice, for you were free men once, And this is, “Independence Day.” Then let the banner float the air, The fairest one of freedom’s types— The stars are fading one by one— What matter? we have still the stripes! Oh! happy men of Maryland, Remember! we have still the stripes!
FLIGHT OF DOODLES.
I come from old Manassas, with a pocket full of fun— I killed forty Yankees with a single-barrelled gun; It don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Big Yankee, little Yankee, all run or die. I saw all the Yankees at Bull Run, They fought like the devil when the battle first begun, But it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you or I They took to their heels, boys, and you ought to see ’em fly. I saw old Fuss-and-Feathers Scott, twenty miles away, His horses stuck up their ears, and you ought to hear ’em neigh; But it don’t make niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Old Scott fled like the devil, boys; root, hog, or die. I then saw a “Tiger,” from the old Crescent City, He cut down the Yankees without any pity: Oh! it don’t make a diff-a-bitterence to neither you nor I, We whipped the Yankee boys, and made the boobies cry. I saw South Carolina, the first in the cause, Shake the dirty Yankees till she broke all their jaws; Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, South Carolina give ’em—boys; root, hog, or die. I saw old Virginia, standing firm and true, She fought mighty hard to whip the dirty crew; Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Old Virginia’s blood and thunder, boys; root, hog, or die. I saw old Georgia, the next in the van, She cut down the Yankees almost to a man; Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Georgia’s some in a fight, boys; root, hog, or die. I saw Alabama in the midst of the storm, She stood like a giant in the contest so warm; Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Alabama fought the Yankees, boys, till the last one did fly. I saw Texas go in with a smile, But I tell you what it is, she made the Yankees bile; Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Texas is the devil, boys; root, hog, or die. I saw North Carolina in the deepest of the battle, She knocked down the Yankees and made their bones rattle; Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, North Carolina’s got the grit, boys; root, hog, or die. Old Florida came in with a terrible shout, She frightened all the Yankees till their eyes stuck out; Oh! it don’t make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Florida’s death on Yankees; root, hog, or die.
LAND OF KING COTTON.
By Jo. Augustine Signaigo.
Air—“Red, White and Blue.”
(This was a favorite song of the Tennessee troops, but especially of the 13th and 154th Regiments. Memphis Appeal, Dec. 9, 1861.)
Oh! Dixie, the land of King Cotton, “The home of the brave and the free,” A nation by freedom begotten, The terror of despots to be; Wherever thy banner is streaming, Base tyranny quails at thy feet, And liberty’s sunlight is beaming, In splendor of majesty sweet. Chorus—Three cheers for our army so true, Three cheers for Price, Johnson, and Lee: Beauregard, and our Davis forever, The pride of the brave and the free! When Liberty sounds her war-rattle, Demanding her right and her due, The first land that rallies to battle Is Dixie, the shrine of the true: Thick as leaves of the forest in Summer, Her brave sons will rise on each plain, And then strike, until each vandal comer Lies dead on the soil he would stain. Chorus. May the names of the dead that we cherish, Fill memory’s cup to the brim; May the laurels they’ve won never perish, “Nor star of their glory grow dim;” May the States of the South never sever, But the champions of freedom e’er be; May they flourish Confed’rate forever, The boast of the brave and the free. Chorus.
THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY.
As sung by Miss Sallie Partington, in the “Virginia Cavalier,” Richmond, Va., 1863. Composed by Captain G. W. Alexander.
Air—“The Boy with the Auburn Hair.”
The sentiments of this song pleased the Confederate Soldiers, and for more than a year, the New Richmond Theatre was nightly filled by “Blockade Rebels,” who greeted with wild hurrahs, “Miss Sallie,” the prima donna of the Confederacy.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]
Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart’s name, He’s off to the wars and gone, He’s fighting for his Nannie dear, His sword is buckled on; He’s fighting for his own true love, His foes he does defy; He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy. Chorus.—Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! He is my only joy, He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy. When Bob comes home from war’s alarms, We start anew in life, I’ll give myself right up to him, A dutiful, loving wife. I’ll try my best to please my dear For he is my only joy; He is the darling of my heart My Southern soldier boy. Chorus.—Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! He is my only joy, He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy. Oh! if in battle he was slain, I am sure that I should die, But I am sure he’ll come again And cheer my weeping eye; But should he fall in this our glorious cause, He still would be my joy For many a sweetheart mourns the loss, Of a Southern soldier boy. Chorus.—Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! I’d grieve to lose my joy, But many a sweetheart mourns the loss Of a Southern soldier boy. I hope for the best, and so do all Whose hopes are in the field; I know that we shall win the day, For Southrons never yield, And when we think of those that are away, We’ll look above for joy, And I’m mighty glad that my Bobby is A Southern soldier boy. Chorus.
REBEL IS A SACRED NAME.
Written by an inmate of the old Capitol Prison, Washington City.
Rebel is a sacred name; Traitor, too, is glorious; By such names our father’s fought— By them were victorious. Chorus—Gaily floats our rebel flag Over hill and valley— Broad its bars, and bright its stars, Calling us to rally. Washington a rebel was, Jefferson a traitor,— But their treason won success, And made their glory greater. Chorus. O’er our southern sunny strand Vandal feet are treading; And the Hessians on our land Devastation spreading. Chorus. Can you then inactive be? Maidens fair are saying; And their bright eyes shame us out With this long delaying. Chorus. Rouse ye, children of the free, Rally to our streamer; The vandal flag floats o’er our land,— Awaken, Southern dreamer! Chorus. Rebel arms shall win the fight, Rebel prayers defend us; Rebel maidens greet us home, When tyrants no more rend us. Chorus.
THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER.
Words and Music by John M. Hewett.
Our flag is unfurl’d and our arms flash bright, As the sun rides up the sky; But ere I join the doubting fight, Lovely maid, I would say, “Good by.” I’m a young volunteer, and my heart is true To the flag that woos the wind; Then, three cheers for that flag and our country, too, And the girls we leave behind. Chorus.—Then adieu! then adieu! ’tis the last bugle’s strain That is falling on the ear; Should it so be decreed that we ne’er meet again, Oh! remember the young volunteer. When over the desert, thro’ burning rays, With a heavy heart I tread; Or when I breast the cannon’s blaze, And bemoan my comrades dead, Then, then, I will think of my home and you, And our flag shall kiss the wind; With huzza for our cause and our country, too, And the girls we leave behind. Chorus.
