WAR POETRY OF THE SOUTH
William Gilmore Simms, LL. D.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, By RICHARDSON & CO.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery, 540 Broadway.
The Women of the South
I Inscribe This Volume
They have lost a cause, but they have made a triumph! They have shown themselves worthy of any manhood; and will leave a record which shall survive all the caprices of time. They have proved themselves worthy of the best womanhood, and, in their posterity, will leave no race which shall be unworthy of the cause which is lost, or of the mothers, sisters and wives, who have taught such noble lessons of virtuous effort, and womanly endurance.
Several considerations have prompted the editor of this volume in the compilation of its pages. It constitutes a contribution to the national literature which is assumed to be not unworthy of it, and which is otherwise valuable as illustrating the degree of mental and art development which has been made, in a large section of the country, under circumstances greatly calculated to stimulate talent and provoke expression, through the higher utterances of passion and imagination. Though sectional in its character, and indicative of a temper and a feeling which were in conflict with nationality, yet, now that the States of the Union have been resolved into one nation, this collection is essentially as much the property of the whole as are the captured cannon which were employed against it during the progress of the late war. It belongs to the national literature, and will hereafter be regarded as constituting a proper part of it, just as legitimately to be recognized by the nation as are the rival ballads of the cavaliers and roundheads, by the English, in the great civil conflict of their country.
The emotional literature of a people is as necessary to the philosophical historian as the mere details of events in the progress of a nation. This is essential to the reputation of the Southern people, as illustrating their feelings, sentiments, ideas, and opinions—the motives which influenced their actions, and the objects which they had in contemplation, and which seemed to them to justify the struggle in which they were engaged. It shows with what spirit the popular mind regarded the course of events, whether favorable or adverse; and, in this aspect, it is even of more importance to the writer of history than any mere chronicle of facts. The mere facts in a history do not always, or often, indicate the true animus, of the action. But, in poetry and song, the emotional nature is apt to declare itself without reserve—speaking out with a passion which disdains subterfuge, and through media of imagination and fancy, which are not only without reserve, but which are too coercive in their own nature, too arbitrary in their influence, to acknowledge any restraints upon that expression, which glows or weeps with emotions that gush freely and freshly from the heart. With this persuasion, we can also forgive the muse who, in her fervor, is sometimes forgetful of her art.
And yet, it is believed that the numerous pieces of this volume will be found creditable to the genius and culture of the Southern people, and honorable, as in accordance with their convictions. They are derived from all the States of the late Southern Confederacy, and will be found truthfully to exhibit the sentiment and opinion prevailing more or less generally throughout the whole. The editor has had special advantages in making the compilation. Having a large correspondence in most of the Southern States, he has found no difficulty in procuring his material. Contributions have poured in upon him from all portions of the South; the original publications having been, in a large number of cases, subjected to the careful revision of the several authors. It is a matter of great regret with him that the limits of the present volume have not suffered him to do justice to, and find a place for, many of the pieces which fully deserve to be put on record. Some of the poems were quite too long for his purpose; a large number, delayed by the mails and other causes, were received too late for publication. Several collections, from Louisiana, North Carolina, and Texas, especially, are omitted for this reason. Many of these pieces are distinguished by fire, force, passion, and a free play of fancy. Briefly, his material would enable him to prepare another volume, similar to the present, which would not be unworthy of its companionship. He is authorized by his publisher to say that, in the event of the popular success of the present volume, he will cheerfully follow up its publication by a second, of like style, character, and dimensions.
The editor has seen with pleasure the volume of "Rebel Rhymes" edited by Mr. Moore, and of "South Songs," by Mr. De Leon. He has seen, besides, a single number of a periodical pamphlet called "The Southern Monthly," published at Memphis, Tenn. This has been supplied him by a contributor. He has seen no other publications of this nature, though he has heard of others, and has sought for them in vain. There may be others still forthcoming; for, in so large a field, with a population so greatly scattered as that of the South, it is a physical impossibility adequately to do justice to the whole by any one editor; and each of the sections must make its own contributions, in its own time, and according to its several opportunities. There will be room enough for all; and each, I doubt not, will possess its special claims to recognition and reward.
His own collections, made during the progress of the war, from the newspapers, chiefly, of South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia, were copious. Of these, many have been omitted from this collection, which, he trusts, will some day find another medium of publication. He has been able to ascertain the authorship, in many cases, of these writings; but must regret still that so many others, under a too fastidious delicacy, deny that their names should be made known. It is to be hoped that they will hereafter be supplied. To the numerous ladies who have so frankly and generously contributed to this collection, by sending originals and making copies, he begs to offer his most grateful acknowledgments.
A large proportion of the pieces omitted are of elegiac character. Of this class, he could find a place for such pieces only as were dedicated to the most distinguished of the persons falling in battle, or such as are marked by the higher characteristics of poetry—freshness, thought, and imagination. But many of the omitted pieces are quite worthy of preservation. Much space has not been given to that class of songs, camp catches, or marching ballads, which are so numerous in the "Rebel Rhymes" of Mr. Moore. The songs which are most popular are rarely such as may claim poetical rank. They depend upon lively music and certain spirit-stirring catchwords, and are rarely worked up with much regard to art or even, propriety. Still, many of these should have found a place in this volume, had adequate space been allowed the editor. It is his desire, as well as that of the publisher, to collect and bind together these fugitives in yet another publication. He will preserve the manuscripts and copies of all unpublished pieces, with the view to this object—keeping them always subject to the wishes of their several writers.
At the close, he must express the hope that these poems will be recognized, not only as highly creditable to the Southern mind, but as truly illustrative, if not justificatory of, that sentiment and opinion with which they have been written; which sentiment and opinion have sustained their people through a war unexampled in its horrors in modern times, and which has fully tested their powers of endurance, as well as their ability in creating their own resources, under all reverses, and amidst every form of privation.
Brooklyn, September 8, 1866.
Ethnogenesis, Henry Timrod God Save the South, George H. Miles "You can never win them back", Catherine M. Warfield The Southern Cross, E. K. Blunt South Carolina, S. Henry Dickson The New Star, B. M. Anderson The Irrepressible Conflict, Tyrtus The Southern Republic, Olivia T. Thomas "Is there then no Hope?", Charleston Courier The Fate of the Republic, Charleston Mercury The Voice of the South, Charleston Mercury The Oath of Freedom, James Barron Hope The Battle Cry of the South, James R. Randall Sonnet, Charleston Mercury Seventy-six and Sixty-one, J. W. Overall "Reddato Gladium", Richmond Whig "Nay, keep the Sword", Richmond Whig Coercion, John R. Thompson A Cry to Arms, Henry Timrod Jackson, the Alexandria Martyr, W. H. Holcombe The Martyr of Alexandria, James W. Simmons The Blessed Union, Charleston Mercury The Fire of Freedom, Richmond paper Hymn to the National Flag, Mrs. M. J. Preston Sonnet—moral of party, Charleston Mercury Our Faith in '61, A. J. Requier "Wouldst thou have me love thee?", Alex. B. Meek Enlisted to-day, Anonymous "My Maryland", James R. Randall The Boy Soldier, Lady of Savannah The good old cause, John D. Phelan Manassas, Catherine M. Warfield Virginia, Ibid. The War-Christian's Thanksgiving, S. Teackle Wallis Sonnet, Charleston Mercury Marching to Death, J. Herbert Sass Charleston, Henry Timrod Charleston, Paul H. Hayne "Ye Men of Alabama", Jno. D. Phelan Nec temere, nec timida, Annie C. Ketchum Dixie, Albert Pike The Old Rifleman, Frank Ticknor Battle Hymn, Charleston Mercury Kentucky, she is sold, J. R. Barrick The Ship of State, Charleston Mercury "In his blanket on the ground," Caroline H. Gervais The Mountain Partisan, Charleston Mercury The Cameo Bracelet, James R. Randall Zollicoffer, Henry L. Flash Beauregard, Catherine M. Warfield South Carolina, Gossypium Carolina, Henry Timrod My Mother Land, Paul H. Hayne Joe Johnston, Jno. R. Thompson Over the River, Jane T. H. Cross The Confederacy, Jane T. H. Cross President Davis, Jane T. H. Cross The Rifleman's Fancy Shot, Anonymous "All quiet along the Potomac" Prize Address, Henry Timrod The Battle of Richmond, Geo. Herbert Sass The Guerrillas, S. Teackle Wallis A Farewell to Pope, Jno. R. Thompson Sonnet—Public Prayer, South Carolinian Battle of Belmont, J.A. Signaigo Vicksburg, Paul H. Hayne Ballad of the War, G.H. Sass The two Armies, Henry Timrod The Legion of Honor, H.L. Flash Clouds in the West, A.J. Requier Georgia! My Georgia!, Carrie B. Sinclair Song of the Texan Rangers, Anonymous Kentucky required to yield her arms, Anonymous There's life in the old land yet, J.B. Randall "Tell the boys the War is ended," Emily J. Moore The Southern Cross, St. George Tucker England's Neutrality, John R. Thompson Close the Ranks, J.L. O'Sullivan The Sea-kings of the South, Ed. G. Bruce The Return, Anonymous Our Christmas Hymn, J. Dickson Bruns Charleston, Miss E.B. Cheesborough Gathering Song, Annie Chambers Ketchum Christmas, Henry Timrod A Prayer for Peace, S. Teackle Wallis The Band in the Pines, Jno. Esten Cooke At Fort Pillow, James R. Randall From the Rapidan, Anonymous Song of our Southland, Mrs. Mary Ware Sonnets, Paul H. Hayne Hospital Duties, Charleston Courier They cry Peace, Peace! Mrs. Alethea S. Burroughs Ballad—"What! have ye thought?" Charleston Mercury Missing, Anonymous Ode—"Souls of Heroes," Charleston Mercury Jackson, Henry L. Flash Captain Maffit's Ballad, Charleston Mercury Melt the Bells, F. T. Rockett John Pelham, James R. Randall "Ye batteries of Beauregard," J. R. Barrick "When Peace returns," Olivia T. Thomas The Right above the Wrong, J. W. Overall Carmen Triumphale, Henry Timrod The Fiend Unbound, Charleston Mercury The Unknown Dead, Henry Timrod Ode—"Do ye quail?" W. Gilmore Simms Ode—"Our City by the Sea," Ibid. The Lone Sentry, J. R. Randall My Soldier Brother, Sallie E. Bollard Seaweeds, Annie Chambers Ketchum The Salkehatchie, Emily J. Moore The Broken Mug, Jno. Esten Cooke Carolina, Anna Peyre Dinnies Our Martyrs, Paul H. Hayne Cleburne, Mrs. M. A. Jennings The Texan Marseillaise, James Harris "O, tempora! O, mores," J. Dickson Bruns Our Departed Comrades, J. M. Shirer No Land like Ours, J. R. Barrick The Angel of the Church, W. Gilmore Simms Ode—"Shell the old City," Ibid. The Enemy shall never reach your City, Charleston Mercury War Waves, Catherine G. Poyas Old Moultrie, Ibid. Only one killed, Julia L. Keyes Land of King Cotton, J. A. Signaigo If you love me, Ibid. The Cotton Boll, Henry Timrod Battle of Charleston Harbor, Paul H. Hayne Fort Wagner, W. Gilmore Simms Sumter in Ruins, Ibid. Morris Island, Ibid. Promise of Spring, South Carolinian Spring, Henry Timrod Chickamauga, Richmond Sentinel In Memoriam—Bishop Polk, Viola Stonewall Jackson, H. L. Flash Stonewall Jackson—a Dirge, Anonymous Beaufort, W. J. Grayson The Empty Sleeve, J. R. Bagby Cotton Burners' Hymn, Memphis Appeal Reading the List, Anonymous His Last Words, Anonymous Charge of Hagood's Brigade, J. Blythe Allston Carolina, Jno. A, Wagener Savannah, Alethea S. Burroughs "Old Betsy," John Killian Awake! Arise! G. W. Archer Albert Sydney Johnston, Mary Jervey Eulogy of the Dead, B. F. Porter The Beaufort Exile, Anonymous Somebody's Darling, Miss Maria LaCoste John Pegram, W. Gordon McGabe Captives Going Home, Anonymous Heights of Mission Ridge, J. A. Signaigo Our Left at Manassas, Anonymous On to Richmond, J. R. Thompson Turner Ashby, Ibid. Captain Latan, Ibid. The Men, Maurice Bell The Rebel Soldier, Kentucky Girl Battle of Hampton Roads, Ossian D. Gorman "Is this a time to dance?" Anonymous The Maryland Line, J. D, McCabe, Jr. I give my Soldier Boy a blade, H. M. L. Sonnet—Avatar of Hell, Anonymous Stonewall Jackson's Way, Anonymous The Silent March, Anonymous Pro Memoria, Ina M. Porter Southern Homes in Ruins, R. B. Vance Rappahannock Army Song, J. C. McLemore Soldier in the Rain, Julia L. Keyes My Country, W. D. Porter After the Battle, Miss Agnes Leonard Our Confederate Dead, Lady of Augusta Ye Cavaliers of Dixie, B. F. Porter Song of Spring, Jno. A. Wagener What the Village Bell said, Jno. C. McLemore The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star, A. P. Gray Southern War Hymn, Jno. A. Wagener The Battle Rainbow, J. R. Thompson Stonewall Jackson, Richmond Broadside Dirge for Ashby, Mrs. M. J. Preston Sacrifice, Charleston Mercury Sonnet, Ibid. Grave of A. Sydney Johnston, J. B. Synott "Not doubtful of your Fatherland," Charleston Mercury Only a Soldier's grave, S. A. Jonas The Guerrilla Martyrs, Charleston Mercury "Libera Nos, O Domine!" James Barron Hope The Knell shall sound once more, Charleston Mercury Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion, Ina M. Porter Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans, Ibid. The Foe at the Gates—Charleston, J. Dickson Bruns Savannah Fallen, Alethea S. Burroughs Bull Run—A Parody, Anonymous "Stack Arms," Jos. Blythe Allston Doffing the Gray, Lieutenant Falligant In the Land where we were dreaming, D. B. Lucas Ballad—"Yes, build your Walls," Charleston Mercury The Lines around Petersburg, Samuel Davis All is gone, Fadette—Memphis Appeal Bowing her Head, Savannah Broadside The Confederate Flag, Anna Peyre Dinnies Ashes of Glory, A. J. Requier
War Poetry of the South
By Henry Timrod, of S.C.
Written during the meeting of the First Southern Congress, at Montgomery, February, 1861.
Hath not the morning dawned with added light? And shall 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 port 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 fling's her 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!
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, marshalled 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 defence 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!
Nor would we shun the battle-ground, Though weak as we are strong; Call up the clashing elements around, And test the right and wrong! On one side, creeds that dare to teach What Christ and Paul refrained to preach; Codes built upon a broken pledge, And charity that whets a poniard's edge; Fair schemes that leave the neighboring poor To starve and shiver at the schemer's door, While in the world's most liberal ranks enrolled, He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; Religion taking every mortal form But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, Where not to vile fanatic passion urged, Or not in vague philosophies submerged, Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven! And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, Faith, justice, 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 end were want of trust in God, Who, if he has decreed That we must pass a redder sea Than that which rang to Miriam's holy glee, Will surely raise at need A Moses with his rod!
But let our fears-if fears we have—be still, And turn us to the future! Could we climb Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, The rapturous sight would fill Our eyes with happy tears! Not only for the glories which the 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 labor to the poor, The whole sad planet o'er, And save from want and crime the humblest door, Is one among—the many ends for which God makes us great and rich! The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe When all shall own it, but the type Whereby we shall be known in every land Is that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand, And through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.
God Save the South.
George H. Miles, of Baltimore.
God save the South! God save the South! Her altars and firesides— God save the South! Now that the war is nigh— Now that we arm to die— Chanting—our battle-cry, Freedom or Death!
God be our shield! At home or a-field, Stretch Thine arm over us, Strengthen and save! What though they're five to one, Forward each sire and son, Strike till the war is done, Strike to the grave.
God make 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!
Hark! honor's call, Summoning all— Summoning all of us Up to the strife. Sons of the South, awake! Strike till the brand shall break! Strike for dear honor's sake, Freedom and Life!
Rebels before Were our fathers of yore; Rebel, the glorious name Washington bore, Why, then, be ours the same Title he snatched from shame; Making it first in fame, Odious no more.
War to the hilt! Theirs 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.
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 all wrath.
God save the South! God save the South! Her altars and firesides— God save the South! For the rude war is nigh, And we must win or die; Chanting our battle-cry Freedom or Death!
You Can Never Win Them Back.
By Catherine M. Warfield.
You can never win them back, never! never! Though they perish on the track of your endeavor; Though their corses strew the earth That smiled upon their birth, And blood pollutes each hearthstone forever!
They have risen, to a man stern and fearless; Of your curses and your ban they are careless. Every hand is on its knife; Every gun is primed for strife; Every palm contains a life high and peerless!
You have no such blood as theirs for the shedding, In the veins of Cavaliers was its heading. You have no such stately men In your abolition den, To march through foe and fen, nothing dreading.
They may fall before the fire of your legions, Paid in gold for murd'rous hire— bought allegiance! But for every drop you shed You shall leave a mound of dead; And the vultures shall be fed in our 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 each pebble by His will; There are giants yet to kill— wrong's unshriven.
The Southern Cross.
By E. K. Blunt.
In the name of God! Amen! Stand for our Southern rights; On our side, Southern men, The God of battles fights! Fling the invaders far— Hurl back their work of woe— The voice is the voice of a brother, But the hands are the hands of a foe. They come with a trampling army, Invading our native sod— Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer, In the name of the mighty God!
They are singing our song of triumph, Which proclaimed us proud and free— While breaking away the heartstrings Of our nation's harmony. Sadly it floateth from us, Sighing o'er land and wave; Till, mute on the lips of the poet, It sleeps in his Southern grave. Spirit and song departed! Minstrel and minstrelsy! We mourn ye, heavy hearted,— But we will—we will be free!
They are waving our flag above us, With the despot's tyrant will; With our blood they have stained its colors, And they call it holy still. With tearful eyes, but steady hand, We'll tear its stripes apart, And fling them, like broken fetters, That may not bind the heart. But we'll save our stars of glory, In the might of the sacred sign Of Him who has fixed forever One "Southern Cross" to shine.
Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer! Solemn, and strong, and sure! The fight shall not be longer Than God shall bid endure. By the life that but yesterday Waked with the infant's breath! By the feet which, ere morning, may Tread to the soldier's death! By the blood which cries to heaven— Crimson upon our sod! Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer, In the name of the mighty God!
 The Star Spangled Banner. Written by F. S. Key, of Baltimore; all whose descendants are Confederates.
December 20, 1860.
S. Henry Dickson.
The deed is done! the die is cast; The glorious Rubicon is passed: Hail, Carolina! free at last!
Strong in the right, I see her stand Where ocean laves the shelving sand; Her own Palmetto decks the strand.
She turns aloft her flashing eye; Radiant, her lonely star on high Shines clear amidst the darkening sky.
Silent, along those azure deeps Its course her silver crescent keeps, And in soft light the landscape steeps.
Fling forth her banner to the gale! Let all the hosts of earth assail,— Their fury and their force shall fail.
Echoes the wide resounding shore, With voice above th' Atlantic roar, Her sons proclaim her free once more!
Oh, land of heroes! Spartan State! In numbers few, in daring great, Thus to affront the frowns of fate!
And while mad triumph rules the hour, And thickening clouds of menace lower, Bear back the tide of tyrant power.
With steadfast courage, faltering never, Sternly resolved, her bonds we sever: Hail, Carolina! free forever!
 The flag showed a star within a crescent or new moon.
The New Star.
By B.M. Anderson.
Another star arisen; another flag unfurled; Another name inscribed among the nations of the world; Another mighty struggle 'gainst a tyrant's fell decree, And again a burdened people have uprisen, and are free.
The spirit of the fathers in the children liveth yet; Liveth still the olden blood which dimmed the foreign bayonet; And the fathers fought for freedom, and the sons for freedom fight; Their God was with the fathers—and is still the God of right!
Behold! the skies are darkened! A gloomy cloud hath lowered! Shall it break before the sun of peace, or spread in rage impowered? Shall we have the smile of friendship, or shall it be the blow? Shall it be the right hand to the friend, or the red hand to the foe?
In peacefulness we wish to live, but not in slavish fear; In peacefulness we dare not die, dishonored on our bier. To our allies of the Northern land we offer heart and hand, But if they scorn our friendship—then the banner and the brand!
Honor to the new-born nation! and honor to the brave! A country freed from thraldom, or a soldier's honored grave. Every step shall be contested; every rivulet run red, And the invader, should he conquer, find the conquered in the dead.
But victory shall follow where the sons of freedom go, And the signal for the onset be the death-knell of the foe; And hallowed shall the spot be where he was so bravely met, And the star which yonder rises, rises never more to set.
The Irrepressible Conflict.
Then welcome be it, if indeed it be The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come; There will be mitigation of the doom, If, battling to the last, our sires shall see Their sons contending for the homes made free In ancient conflict with the foreign foe! If those who call us brethren strike the blow, No common conflict shall the invader know! War to the knife, and to the last, until The sacred land we keep shall overflow With blood as sacred—valley, wave, and hill, Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave! Aye, welcome to your graves—or ours! The brave May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave.
The Southern Republic.
By Olivia Tully Thomas, of Mississippi.
In the galaxy of nations, A nation's flag's unfurled, Transcending in its martial pride The nations of the world. Though born of war, baptized in blood, Yet mighty from the time, Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood— Dismembered, yet sublime.
And braver heart, and bolder hand, Ne'er formed a fabric fair As Southern wisdom can command, And Southern valor rear. Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway, Or recognize her birth, The land blood-bought for Liberty Will reign supreme on earth.
Clime of the Sun! Home of the Brave! Thy sons are bold and free, And pour life's crimson tide to save Their birthright, Liberty! Their fertile fields and sunny plains That yield the wealth alone, That's coveted for greedy gains By despots-and a throne!
Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn, Thy altars desolate; Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn At war's relentless fate; And widow's prayers, and orphan's tears, Her homes will consecrate, While more than brass or marble rears The trophy of her great.
Oh! land that boasts each gallant name Of JACKSON, JOHNSON, LEE, And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame Extends beyond the sea; Far rather let thy plains become, From gulf to mountain cave, One honored sepulchre and tomb, Than we the tyrant's slave!
Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free, Redeemed by blood and war; Through agony and gloom we see Thy hope—a glimmering star; Thy banner, too, may proudly float, A herald on the seas— Thy deeds of daring worlds remote Will emulate and praise!
But who can paint the impulse pure, That thrills and nerves thy brave To deeds of valor, that secure The rights their fathers gave? Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless stain, Crowned with the warrior's wreath, From beds of fame their proud refrain Was "Liberty or Death!"
"Is There, Then, No Hope for the Nations?"
Is there, then, no hope for the nations? Must the record of Time be the same? And shall History, in all her narrations, Still close each last chapter in shame? Shall the valor which grew to be glorious, Prove the shame, as the pride of a race: And a people, for ages victorious, Through the arts of the chapman, grow base?
Greek, Hebrew, Assyrian, and Roman, Each strides o'er the scene and departs! How valiant their deeds 'gainst the foeman, How wondrous their virtues and arts! Rude valor, at first, when beginning, The nation through blood took its name; Then the wisdom, which hourly winning New heights in its march, rose to Fame!
How noble the tale for long ages, Blending Beauty with courage and might! What Heroes, what Poets, and Sages, Made eminent stars for each height! While their people, with reverence ample. Brought tribute of praise to the Great, Whose wisdom and virtuous example, Made virtue the pride of the State!
Ours, too, was as noble a dawning, With hopes of the Future as high: Great men, each a star of the morning, Taught us bravely to live and to die! We fought the long fight with our foeman, And through trial—well-borne—won a name, Not less glorious than Grecian or Roman, And worthy as lasting a fame!
Shut the Book! We must open another! O Southron! if taught by the Past, Beware, when thou choosest a brother, With what ally thy fortunes are cast! Beware of all foreign alliance, Of their pleadings and pleasings beware, Better meet the old snake with defiance, Than find in his charming a snare!
The Fate of the Republics.
Thus, the grand fabric of a thousand years— Rear'd with such art and wisdom—by a race Of giant sires, in virtue all compact, Self-sacrificing; having grand ideals Of public strength, and peoples capable Of great conceptions for the common good, And of enduring liberties, kept strong Through purity;—tumbles and falls apart, Lacking cement in virtue; and assail'd Within, without, by greed of avarice, And vain ambition for supremacy.
So fell the old Republics—Gentile and Jew, Roman and Greek—such evermore the record; Mix'd glory and shame, still lapsing into greed, From conquest and from triumph, into fall! The glory that we see exchanged for guilt Might yet be glory. There were pride enough, And emulous ambition to achieve,— Both generous powers, when coupled with endowment, To do the work of States—and there were courage And sense of public need, and public welfare,— And duty—in a brave but scattered few, Throughout the States—had these been credited To combat 'gainst the popular appetites. But these were scorn'd and set aside for naught, As lacking favor with the popular lusts! They found reward in exile or in death! And he alone who could debase his spirit, And file his mind down to the basest nature Grew capp'd with rule!—
So, with the lapse From virtue, the great nation forfeits all The pride with the security—the liberty, With that prime modesty which keeps the heart Upright, in meek subjection, to the doubts That wait upon Humanity, and teach Humility, as best check and guaranty, Against the wolfish greed of appetite! Worst of all signs, assuring coming doom, When peoples loathe to listen to the praise Of their great men; and, jealous of just claims, Eagerly set upon them to revile, And banish from their councils! Worse than all When the great man, succumbing to the mass, Yields up his mind as a low instrument To vulgar fingers, to be played upon:— Yields to the vulgar lure, the cunning bribe Of place or profit, and makes sale of States To Party!
Thus and then are States subdued— 'Till one vast central tyranny upstarts, With front of glittering brass, but legs of clay; Insolent, reckless of account as right,— While lust grows license, and tears off the robes From justice; and makes right a thing of mock; And puts a foolscap on the head of law, And plucks the baton of authority From his right hand, and breaks it o'er his head.
So rages still the irresponsible power, Using the madden'd populace as hounds, To hunt down freedom where she seeks retreat. The ancient history becomes the new— The ages move in circles, and the snake Ends ever with his tail in his own mouth. Thus still in all the past!—and man the same In all the ages—a poor thing of passion, Hot greed, and miserable vanity, And all infirmities of lust and error, Makes of himself the wretched instrument To murder his own hope.
So empires fall,— Past, present, and to come!— There is no hope For nations or peoples, once they lapse from virtue And fail in modest sense of what they are— Creatures of weakness, whose security Lies in meek resting on the law of God, And in that wise humility which pleads Ever for his guardian watch and Government, Though men may bear the open signs of rule. Humility is safety! could men learn The law, "ne sutor ultra crepidam," And the sagacious cobbler, at his last, Content himself with paring leather down To heel and instep, nicely fitting parts, In proper adaptation, to the foot, We might have safety.
Rightly to conceive What's right, and limit the o'erreaching will To this one measure only, is the whole Of that grand rule, and wise necessity, Which only gives us safety.
Where a State, Or blended States, or peoples, pass the bounds Set for their progress, they must topple and fall Into that gulf of ruin which has swallowed All ancient Empires, States, Republics; all Perishing, in like manner, from the selfsame cause! The terrible conjunction of the event, Close with the provocation, stands apart, A social beacon in all histories; And yet we take no heed, but still rush on, Under mixed sway of greed and vanity, And like the silly boy with his card-castle, Precipitate to ruin as we build.
The Voice of the South.
'Twas a goodly boon that our fathers gave, And fits but ill to be held by the slave; And sad were the thought, if one of our band Should give up the hope of so fair a land.
But the hour has come, and the times that tried The souls of men in our days of pride, Return once more, and now for the brave, To merit the boon which our fathers gave.
And if there be one base spirit who stands Now, in our peril, with folded hands, Let his grave at once in the soil be wrought, With the sword with which his old father fought.
An oath sublime should the freeman take, Still braving the fight and the felon stake,— The oath that his sires brought over the sea, When they pledged their swords to Liberty!
'Twas a goodly oath, and In Heaven's own sight, They battled and bled in behalf of the right; 'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign, And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine.
We cannot forget, and we dare not forego, The holy duty to them that we owe, The duty that pledges the soul of the son To keep the freedom his sire hath won.
To suffer no proud transgressor to spoil One right of our homes, or one foot of our soil, One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dare Usurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share!
Art ready for this, dear brother, who still Keep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill? Art ready for this, dear brother, whose ear, Should ever the voices of Mecklenberg hear?
Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart, Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part; The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands, And waits but the word for the flashing of brands!
And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys,—and thou Where the Black Warrior murmurs in echoes the vow; And thou, youngest son of our sires, who roves Where Apala-chicola glides through her groves.
Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep, The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep; Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpet shall call, To tear down the rifle that hangs on her wall!
Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves, The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves, That, by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth, Would rob us of right without reason or ruth.
Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong, Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong? Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls, Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls.
At last ye are wakened, all rising at length, In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength; And now let the struggle begin which shall see, If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free.
We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came, To welcome the ruin, but never the shame; To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right, While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight.
Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we draw The bright sword of right, on the charter of law;— Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here, To keep, with the sword, that old record, we swear.
Let those who defile and deface it, be sure, No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure; We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain, With which they would fetter our free souls in vain.
How goodly and bright were its links at the first! How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst! We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave, But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave.
 The reader will place the accent on the ante-penultimate, which affords not only the most musical, but the correct pronunciation.
The Oath of Freedom.
By James Barron Hope.
"Liberty is always won where there exists the unconquerable will to be free."
Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! By all the stars which burn on high— By the green earth—the mighty sea— By God's unshaken majesty, We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! Let all the trumpets blow! Mind, heart, and soul, We spurn control Attempted by a foe!
Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! And, vainly now the Northmen try To beat us down—in arms we stand To strike for this our native land! We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, we thus resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! Our wives and children look on high, Pray God to smile upon the right! And bid us in the deadly fight As freemen live or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! And ere we cease this battle-cry, Be all our blood, our kindred's spilt, On bayonet or sabre hilt! We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! Defiant let the banners fly, Shake out their glories to the air, And, kneeling, brothers, let us swear We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
Born free, thus we resolve to live: By Heaven we will be free! And to this oath the dead reply— Our valiant fathers' sacred ghosts— These with us, and the God of hosts, We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! etc., etc.
The Battle-Cry of the South.
By James R. Randall.
Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our sanctuary.—Maccabees I.
Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth; Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, And the vampires of the North? Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, Strike! with a ruthless hand— Strike! with the vengeance of the soul, For your bright, beleaguered land! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!
Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare, And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown— Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there In the cliffs of the Father's frown: Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light Which the Sun of Justice gives— In the caves and sepulchres of night Jehovah the Lord King lives! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!
Think of the dead by the Tennessee, In their frozen shrouds of gore— Think of the mothers who shall see Those darling eyes no more! But better are they in a hero grave Than the serfs of time and breath, For they are the children of the brave, And the cherubim of death! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!
Better the charnels of the West, And a hecatomb of lives, Than the foul invader as a guest 'Mid your sisters and your wives— But a spirit lurketh in every maid, Though, brothers, ye should quail, To sharpen a Judith's lurid blade, And the livid spike of Jael! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!
Brothers! I see you tramping by, With the gladiator gaze, And your shout is the Macedonian cry Of the old, heroic days! March on! with trumpet and with drum, With rifle, pike, and dart, And die—if even death must come— Upon your country's heart! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!
Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth; Will ye cringe to the hot tornado's rack, And the vampires of the North? Strike! ye can win a martyr's goal, Strike! with a ruthless hand— Strike! with the vengeance of the soul For your bright, beleaguered land! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion's Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!
 The surname of the great Maccabeus.
Democracy hath done its work of ill, And, seeming freemen, never to be free, While the poor people shout in vanity, The Demagogue triumphs o'er the popular will. How swift the abasement follows! But few years, And we stood eminent. Great men were ours, Of virtue stern, and armed with mightiest powers! How have we sunk below our proper spheres! No Heroes, Virtues, Men! But in their place, The nimble marmozet and magpie men; Creatures that only mock and mimic, when They run astride the shoulders of the race; Democracy, in vanity elate, Clothing but sycophants in robes of state.
Seventy-Six and Sixty-One.
By John W. Overall, of Louisiana.
Ye spirits of the glorious dead! Ye watchers in the sky! Who sought the patriot's crimson bed, With holy trust and high— Come, lend your inspiration now, Come, fire each Southern son, Who nobly fights for freemen's rights, And shouts for sixty-one.
Come, teach them how, on hill on glade, Quick leaping from your side, The lightning flash of sabres made A red and flowing tide— How well ye fought, how bravely fell, Beneath our burning sun; And let the lyre, in strains of fire, So speak of sixty-one.
There's many a grave in all the land, And many a crucifix, Which tells how that heroic band Stood firm in seventy-six— Ye heroes of the deathless past, Your glorious race is run, But from your dust springs freemen's trust, And blows for sixty-one.
We build our altars where you lie, On many a verdant sod, With sabres pointing to the sky, And sanctified of God; The smoke shall rise from every pile, Till freedom's cause is won, And every mouth throughout the South, Shall shout for sixty-one!
Virginia to Winfield Scott.
A voice is heard in Ramah! High sounds are on the gale! Notes to wake buried patriots! Notes to strike traitors pale! Wild notes of outraged feeling Cry aloud and spare him not! 'Tis Virginia's strong appealing, And she calls to Winfield Scott!
Oh! chief among ten thousand! Thou whom I loved so well, Star that has set, as never yet Since son of morning fell! I call not in reviling, Nor to speak thee what thou art; I leave thee to thy death-bed, And I leave thee to thy heart!
But by every mortal hope, And by every mortal fear; By all that man deems sacred, And that woman holds most dear; Yea! by thy mother's honor, And by thy father's grave, By hell beneath, and heaven above, Give back the sword I gave!
Not since God's sword was planted To guard life's heavenly tree, Has ever blade been granted, Like that bestowed on thee! To pierce me with the steel I gave To guard mine honor's shrine, Not since Iscariot lived and died, Was treason like to thine!
Give back the sword! and sever Our strong and mighty tie! We part, and part forever, To conquer or to die! In sorrow, not in anger, I speak the word, "We part!" For I leave thee to thy death-bed, And I leave thee to thy heart!
Nay, Keep the Sword.
By Carrie Clifford.
Nay, keep the sword which once we gave, A token of our trust in thee; The steel is true, the blade is keen— False as thou art it cannot be.
We hailed thee as our glorious chief, With laurel-wreaths we bound thy brow; Thy name then thrilled from tongue to tongue: In whispers hushed we breathe it now.
Yes, keep it till thy dying day; Momentous ever let it be, Of a great treasure once possessed— A people's love now lost to thee.
Thy mother will not bow her head; She bares her bosom to thee now; But may the bright steel fail to wound— It is more merciful than thou.
And ere thou strik'st the fatal blow, Thousands of sons of this fair land Will rise, and, in their anger just, Will stay the rash act of thy hand.
And when in terror thou shalt hear Thy murderous deeds of vengeance cry And feel the weight of thy great crime, Then fall upon thy sword and die.
Those aged locks I'll not reproach, Although upon a traitor's brow; We've looked with reverence on them once, We'll try and not revile them now.
But her true sons and daughters pray, That ere thy day of reckoning be, Thy ingrate heart may feel the pain To know thy mother once more free.
Coercion: A Poem for Then and Now.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
Who talks of coercion? who dares to deny A resolute people the right to be free? Let him blot out forever one star from the sky, Or curb with his fetter the 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 villains 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 accursed, that must fill With ruin, the country on which it descends.
But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage The gods gave 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 you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod The men upon whom you already have 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 sod of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast, And give up its heroes to glory again.
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 armed bands, 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!
Jackson, The Alexandria Martyr.
By Wm. H. Holcombe, M.D., of Virginia.
'Twas not the private insult galled him most, But public outrage of his country's flag, To which his patriotic heart had pledged Its faith as to a bride. The bold, proud chief, Th' avenging host, and the swift-coming death Appalled him not. Nor life with all its charms, Nor home, nor wife, nor children could weigh down The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy The insolent invader. Ellsworth fell, And Jackson perished 'mid the pack of wolves, Befriended only by his own great heart And God approving. More than Roman soul! O type of our impetuous chivalry! May this young nation ever boast her sons A vast, and inconceivable multitude, Standing like thee in her extremest van, Self-poised and ready, in defence of rights Or in revenge of wrongs, to dare and die!
The Martyr of Alexandria.
By James W. Simmons, of Texas.
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, In haunted air.
A vow is registered in Heaven! Patriot! 'tis thine! To guard those matchless colors, given By hands divine.
Jackson! thy spirit may not hear Our wail ascend; A nation gathers round thy bier, And mourns its friend.
The example is thy monument, And organ tones Thy name resound, with glory blent, Prouder than thrones!
And they whose loss hath been our gain, A people's cares Shall win their wounded hearts from pain, And wipe their tears.
When time shall set the captives free, Now scathed by wrath, Heirs of his immortality, Bright be their path.
The Blessed Union—Epigram.
Doubtless to some, with length of ears, To gratify an ape's desire, The blessed Union still endears;— The stripes, if not the stars, be theirs! "Greek faith" they gave us eighty years, And then—"Greek fire!" But, better all their fires of scath Than one hour's trust in Yankee faith!
The Fire of Freedom.
The holy fire that nerved the Greek To make his stand at Marathon, Until the last red foeman's shriek Proclaimed that freedom's fight was won, Still lives unquenched—unquenchable: Through every age its fires will burn— Lives in the hermit's lonely cell, And springs from every storied urn.
The hearthstone embers hold the spark Where fell oppression's foot hath trod; Through superstition's shadow dark It flashes to the living God! From Moscow's ashes springs the Russ; In Warsaw, Poland lives again: Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus, Strikes liberty's electric chain!
Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss; Vainly the invader ever strives; He finds Sic Semper Tyrannis In San Jacinto's bowie-knives! Than these—than all—a holier fire Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son! Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire, Strike for the grave of Washington!
The Northern rabble arms for greed; The hireling parson goads the train— In that foul crop from, bigot seed, Old "Praise God Barebones" howls again! We welcome them to "Southern lands," We welcome them to "Southern slaves," We welcome them "with bloody hands To hospitable Southern graves!"
Hymn to the National Flag.
By Mrs. M. J. Preston.
Float aloft, thou stainless banner! Azure cross and field of light; Be thy brilliant stars the symbol Of the pure and true and right. Shelter freedom's holy cause— Liberty and sacred laws; Guard the youngest of the nations— Keep her virgin honor bright.
From Virginia's storied border, Down to Tampa's furthest shore— From the blue Atlantic's clashings To the Rio Grande's roar— Over many a crimson plain, Where our martyred ones lie slain— Fling abroad thy blessed shelter, Stream and mount and valley o'er.
In thy cross of heavenly azure Has our faith its emblem high; In thy field of white, the hallow'd Truth for which we'll dare and die; In thy red, the patriot blood— Ah! the consecrated flood. Lift thyself, resistless banner! Ever fill our Southern sky!
Flash with living, lightning motion In the sight of all the brave! Tell the price at which we purchased Room and right for thee to wave Freely in our God's free air, Pure and proud and stainless fair, Banner of the youngest nation— Banner we would die to save!
Strike Thou for us! King of armies! Grant us room in Thy broad world! Loosen all the despot's fetters, Back be all his legions hurled! Give us peace and liberty, Let the land we love be free— Then, oh! bright and stainless banner! Never shall thy folds be furled!
Sonnet—Moral of Party
The moral of a party—if it be That healthy States need parties, lies in this, That we consider well what race it is, And what the germ that first has made it free. That germ must constitute the living tie That binds its generations to the end, Change measures if it need, or policy, But neither break the principle, nor bend. Each race hath its own nature—fixed, defined, By Heaven, and if its principle be won, Kept changeless as the progress of the sun, It mocks at storm and rage, at sea and wind, And grows to consummation, as the tree, Matured, that ever grew in culture free.
Our Faith in '61.
By A. J. Requier.
"That governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed: that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as TO THEM SHALL SEEM most likely to effect their safety and happiness."—[Declaration of Independence, July 4, '76.]
Not yet one hundred years have flown Since on this very spot, The subjects of a sovereign throne— Liege-master of their lot— This high degree sped o'er the sea, From council-board and tent, "No earthly power can rule the free But by their own consent!"
For this, they fought as Saxons fight, On bloody fields and long— Themselves the champions of the right, And judges of the wrong; For this their stainless knighthood wore The branded rebel's name, Until the starry cross they bore Set all the skies aflame!
And States co-equal and distinct Outshone the western sun, By one great charter interlinked— Not blended into one; Whose graven key that high decree The grand inscription lent, "No earthly power can rule the free But by their own consent!"
Oh! sordid age! Oh! ruthless rage! Oh! sacrilegious wrong! A deed to blast the record page, And snap the strings of song; In that great charter's name, a band By grovelling greed enticed, Whose warrant is the grasping hand Of creeds without a Christ—
States that have trampled every pledge Its crystal code contains, Now give their swords a keener edge To harness it with chains— To make a bond of brotherhood The sanction and the seal, By which to arm a rabble brood With fratricidal steel.
Who, conscious that their cause is black, In puling prose and rhyme, Talk hatefully of love, and tack Hypocrisy to crime; Who smile and smite, engross the gorge Or impotently frown; And call us "rebels" with King George, As if they wore his crown!
Most venal of a venal race, Who think you cheat the sky With every pharisaic face And simulated lie; Round Freedom's lair, with weapons bare, We greet the light divine Of those who throned the goddess there, And yet inspire the shrine!
Our loved ones' graves are at our feet, Their homesteads at our back— No belted Southron can retreat With women on his track; Peal, bannered host, the proud decree Which from your fathers went, "No earthly power can rule the free But by their own consent!"
Wouldst Thou Have Me Love Thee.
By Alex B. Meek.
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 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 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, Stilled the stormy strife of war. Listen! now thy country's calling On her sons to meet her 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!
I know the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing, And summer sends kisses by beautiful May— Oh! to see all the treasures the spring is bestowing, And think—my boy Willie enlisted to-day.
It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming, I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine, While Robby, the four-year old, watched for the coming Of father, adown the street's indistinct line.
It is many a year since my Harry departed, To come back no more in the twilight or dawn; And Robby grew weary of watching, and started Alone on the journey his father had gone.
It is many a year—and this afternoon sitting At Robby's old window, I heard the band play, And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting, To recollect Willie is twenty to-day.
And that, standing beside him this soft May-day morning, The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar smoke, I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning, And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke:
"Dear mother, you know how these Northmen are crowing, They would trample the rights of the South in the dust; The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going—" He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh, say if I must!"
I smiled on the boy, though my heart it seemed breaking, My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away, And answered him, "Willie, 'tis well you are waking— Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day!"
I sit in the window, and see the flags flying, And drearily list to the roll of the drum, And smother the pain in my heart that is lying, And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb.
I shall sit in the window when summer is lying Out over the fields, and the honey-bee's hum Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing, And watch for the face of my darling to come.
And if he should fall—his young life he has given For freedom's sweet sake; and for me, I will pray Once more with my Harry and Robby in Heaven To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day.
Written at Pointe Coupee, LA., April 26, 1861. First Published in the New Orleans Delta.
The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland! My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life 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 ring thy dauntless Slogan-song, Maryland! My Maryland!
Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain— "Sic semper," 'tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland!
I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek— Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland!
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland! The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb— Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes—she burns! she'll come! she'll come! Maryland! My Maryland!
By a Lady of Savannah.
He is acting o'er the battle, With his cap and feather gay, Singing out his soldier-prattle, In a mockish manly way— With the boldest, bravest footstep, Treading firmly up and down, And his banner waving softly, O'er his boyish locks of brown.
And I sit beside him sewing, With a busy heart and hand, For the gallant soldiers going To the far-off battle land— And I gaze upon my jewel, In his baby spirit bold, My little blue-eyed soldier, Just a second summer old.
Still a deep, deep well of feeling, In my mother's heart is stirred, And the tears come softly stealing At each imitative word! There's a struggle in my bosom, For I love my darling boy— He's the gladness of my spirit, He's the sunlight of my joy! Yet I think upon my country, And my spirit groweth bold— Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old!
I would speed him to the battle— I would arm him for the fight; I would give him to his country, For his country's wrong and right! I would nerve his hand with blessing From the "God of battles" won— With His helmet and His armor, I would cover o'er my son.
Oh! I know there'd be a struggle, For I love my darling boy; He's the gladness of my spirit, He's the sunlight of my joy! Yet in thinking of my country, Oh! my spirit groweth bold, And I with my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old!
The Good Old Cause.
By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.
Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause, 'Tis a stirring sound to hear, For it tells of rights and liberties, Our fathers bought so dear; It brings up the Jersey prison-ship, The spot where Warren fell, And the scaffold which echoes the dying words Of murdered Hayne's farewell.
The Good Old Cause! it is still the same Though age upon age may roll; 'Tis the cause of the right against the wrong, Burning bright in each generous soul; 'Tis the cause of all who claim to live As freemen on Freedom's sod; Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons, By Tyranny's heel down-trod.
And whoever burns with a holy zeal, To behold his country free, And would sooner see her baptized in blood, Than to bend the suppliant knee; Must agree to follow her White-Cross flag, Where the storms of battle roll, A soldier—A SOLDIER!—with arms in his hands, And the love of the South in his soul!
Come one, come all, at your country's call, Let none remain behind, But those too young, and those too old, The feeble, the halt, the blind; Let every man, whether rich or poor, Who can carry a knapsack and gun, Repair to the ranks of our Southern host, 'Till the cause of the South is won.
But the son of the South, if such there be, Who will shrink from the contest now, From a love of ease, or the lust of gain, Or through fear of the Yankee foe; May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand, As though it was soiled for aye, And may every woman turn her cheek From his craven lips away; May his country's curse be on his head, And may no man ever see, A gentle bride by the traitor's side, Or children about his knee.
Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause, 'Tis a stirring sound to hear; For it tells of rights and liberties, Our fathers bought so dear; It summons our braves from their bloody graves. To receive our fond applause, And bids us tread in the steps of those Who died for the Good Old Cause.
By Catherine M. Warfield.
They have met at last—as storm-clouds meet in heaven; And the Northmen, back and bleeding, have been driven: And their thunders have been stilled, And their leaders crushed or killed, And their ranks, with terror thrilled, rent and riven!
Like the leaves of Vallambrosa they are lying; In the moonlight, in the midnight, dead and dying: Like those leaves before the gale, Swept their legions, wild and pale; While the host that made them quail stood, defying.
When aloft in morning sunlight flags were flaunted, And "swift vengeance on the rebel" proudly vaunted: Little did they think that night Should close upon their shameful flight, And rebels, victors in the fight, stand undaunted.
But peace to those who perished in our passes! Light be the earth above them! green the grasses! Long shall Northmen rue the day, When they met our stern array, And shrunk from battle's wild affray at Manassas!
By Catherine M. Warfield.
Glorious Virginia! Freedom sprang Light to her feet at thy trumpet's clang: At the first sound of that clarion blast, Foes like the chaff from the whirlwind passed— Passed to their doom: from that hour no more Triumphs their cause by sea or shore.
Glorious Virginia! noble the blood That hath bathed thy fields in a crimson flood; On many a wide-spread and sunny plain, Like leaves of autumn thy dead have lain: The Southron heart is their funeral urn! The Southern slogan their requiem stern!
Glorious Virginia! to thee, to thee We lean, as the shoots to the parent tree; Bending in awe at thy glance of might;— First in the council, first in the fight! While our flag is fanned by the breath of fame, Glorious Virginia! we'll bless thy name.
The War-Christian's Thanksgiving.
Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States.
By S. Teackle Wallis.
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 brothers' 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 sabre'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!
Man makes his own dread fates, and these in turn Create his tyrants. In our lust and passion, Our appetite and ignorance, he springs. The creature of our need as our desert, The scourge that whips us for decaying virtue, He chastens to reform us! Never yet, In mortal life, did tyrant rise to power, But in the people's worst infirmities Of crime and greed. The creature of our vices, The loathsome ulcer of our vicious moods, He is decreed their proper punishment.
Marching to Death.
By J. Herbert Sass, of South Carolina.
"The National Quarterly depicts a remarkable scene, which occurred some years since on one of the British transport ships. The commander of the troops on board, seeing that the vessel must soon sink, and that there was no hope of saving his men, drew them up in order of battle, and, as in the presence of a human enemy, bravely faced the doom that was before them. We know of no more impressive illustration of the power of military discipline in the presence of death."
The last farewells are breathed by loving lips, The last fond prayer for darling ones is said, And o'er each heart stern sorrow's dark eclipse Her sable pall hath spread.
Far, far beyond each anxious watcher's sight, Baring her bosom to the wanton sea, The lordly ship sweeps onward in her might, Her tameless majesty.
Forth from his fortress in the western sky, Flashing defiance on each crested wave, Out glares the sun, with red and lowering eye, Grand, even in his grave.
Till, waxing bolder as his rays decline, The clustering billows o'er his ramparts sweep, Slow droops his banner—fades his light divine, And darkness rules the deep.
Look once again!—Night's sombre shades have fled: But the pale rays that glimmer from their sheath, Serve but to show the blackness overhead, And the wild void beneath.
Mastless and helmless drifts the helpless bark; Her pride, her majesty, her glory gone; While o'er the waters broods the tempest dark, And the wild winds howl on.
But hark! amid the madness of the storm There comes an echo o'er the surging wave; Firm at its call the dauntless legions form, The resolute and brave.
Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host, In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck, Calmly as though they knew not they were lost— Lost in that shattered wreck.
Eight hundred men,—old England's tried and true, Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done, Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too, And the last fight be won.
Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand; No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring; Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand, "The king! God save the king!"
Lower and lower sinks the fated bark, Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave, But loud outswells, across the waters dark, The death-song of the brave.
Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep; Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring, Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep, "The king! God save the king!"
Oh thou! whoe'er thou art that reads this page, Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith, For all throughout our earthly pilgrimage, We hold a tryst with death.
Not in the battle-field's tumultuous strife, Not in the hour when vanquished foemen fly, Not in the midst of bright and happy life, Is it most hard to die.
Greater the guerdon, holier the prize, Of him who trusts, and waits in lowly mood; Oh! learn how high, how holy courage lies In patient fortitude.
By Henry Timrod.
Calm as that second summer which precedes The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, The city bides the foe.
As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, Her bolted thunders sleep— Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, Looms o'er the solemn deep.
No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur To guard the holy strand; But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, Above the level sand.
And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched. Unseen, beside the flood— Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, That wait and watch for blood.
Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade As lightly as the pen.
And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Over a bleeding hound, Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Whose sword she sadly bound.
Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, Across her tranquil bay.
Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And summer to her courts.
But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak.
Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, As fair and free as now?
We know not; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed her doom; And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The triumph or the tomb.
By Paul H. Hayne.
What! still does the Mother of Treason uprear Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea? Unquelled by mistrust, and unblanched by a Fear, Unbowed her proud head, and unbending her knee, Calm, steadfast, and free?
Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your wrath, Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;— But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path, And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire Of your fruitless desire.
Ringed round by her Brave, a fierce circlet of flame, Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast; She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, And never, we swear, shall your footsteps be pressed Where her dead heroes rest!
Her voice shook the Tyrant!—sublime from her tongue Fell the accents of warning,—a Prophetess grand,— On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung, And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand Broke the sleep of her land!
What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound will The Fate that would trample her honor to earth,— The light in those deep eyes is luminous still With the warmth of her valor, the glow of her worth, Which illumine the Earth!
And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved, "Without fear or reproach," lifts her Banner on high; He stands in the vanguard, majestic, unmoved, And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh, Vow, "'tis easy to die!"
Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air! The world's breath is hushed at the conflict! before Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair— And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore, We shall prize her the more!
And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes To the height of her promise, the voices of yore, From the storied Profound of past ages arise, And the pomps of their magical music outpour O'er the war-beaten shore.
Then gird your brave Empress, O! Heroes, with flame Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast, She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame, And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed Where her dead Martyrs rest!
"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.
Nec Temere, Nec Timide.
By Annie Chambers Ketchum.
Gentlemen of the South, Gird on your glittering swords! Darkly along our borders fair Gather the Northern hordes. Ruthless and fierce they come At the fiery cannon's mouth, To blast the glory of our land, Gentlemen of the South!
Ride forth in your stately pride, Each bearing on his shield Ensigns our 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 stainless crest At the belching cannon's mouth, Decori decus addit avito, Gentlemen of the South!
Morrison, Douglas, Stuart, Erskine, and Bradford, and West, Your gauntlets on many a bloody field Have stood the battle's test! Animo non astutia! March to the cannon's mouth, Heirs of the brave dead centuries! Onward, Gentlemen of the South!
Call forth 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! Onward! 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 fiery 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 sakes 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!
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'll take our stand, To 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-winds flutter! To arms! etc. Send them back your fierce defiance! Stamp upon the accursed alliance! To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Fear no danger! shun no labor! Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre! 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 cannon's ringing voices; To arms! etc. For faith betrayed and pledges broken, Wrong 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 bonds asunder! Let them hence 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 Old Rifleman.
By Frank Ticknor, of Georgia.
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 trigger 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've never thought to draw a bead On Yanke-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!