Southern War Songs: Camp-Fire, Patriotic and Sentimental. Collected and Arranged

 

 

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	Page
“A flash from the edge of a hostile trench,”	351
“And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing,”	64
“Arise to thy lattice, the moon is asleep,”	173
“Come back to me, my darling son, and light my life again,”	257
Confederate note,	371
“Farewell to earth and all its beauteous bloom,”	161
“For I know there is no other e’er can be so dear to me,”	297
General J. E. B. Stuart,	331
General Lee,	97
“He faintly smiled and waved his hand,”	235
“He’s in the saddle now,”	201
“* * * How mellow the light showers down on that brow,”	117
“I am thinking of the soldier as the evening shadows fall,”	183
“I’m a good old rebel,”	361
“I marched up midout fear,”	11
“Jack Morgan,”	282
“Knitting for the soldiers! matron—merry maid,”	54
“Knitting for the soldiers! wrinkled—aged crone,”	53
“Lady, I go to fight for thee,”	151
“Lying in the shadow, underneath the trees,”	75
“Massa,”	216
“Massa run, aha,”	217
“My right arm bared for fiercer play,”	139
“No matter should it rain or snow, That bugler is bound to blow,”	23
“Only a list of the wounded and dead,”	87
“So we’ll bury ‘old Logan’ to-night,”	127
“The Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star,”	32
“The hero boy lay dying,”	107
“Then gallop by ravine and rocks,”	316
“There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,”	63
“Though fifteen summers scarce have shed their blossoms on thy brow,”	256
“Three acres I,”	43
“Thy steed is impatient his mistress to bear,”	172
“We’ll one day meet again,”	44
“When the stars are softly smiling * * * Then I think of thee and Heaven,”	299

 

 

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Southern War Songs.

 

 

National Hymn.

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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.”

 

 

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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!”

 

 

 

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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!”

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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[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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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!

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

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Words by A. Pender. Music by P. Nutt.

[The music of this song can be obtained of Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

One of the most widely known Confederate Songs. The melody suited a soldier, and in his gayest mood he rolled out: “Peas! Peas! Peas!” with a gusto that was charming.

Sitting by the roadside on a summer day, Chatting with my messmates, passing time away, Lying in the shadow underneath the trees, Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas! Chorus.—Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas! eating goober peas! Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas! When a horseman passes, the soldiers have a rule, To cry out at their loudest, “Mister, here’s your mule,” But another pleasure enchantinger than these, Is wearing out your grinders, eating goober peas! Chorus. Just before the battle the General hears a row, He says “The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now,” He turns around in wonder, and what do you think he sees? The Georgia militia eating goober peas! Chorus.

 

“Lying in the shadow underneath the trees.”

 

I think my song has lasted almost long enough, The subject’s interesting, but the rhymes are mighty rough, I wish this war was over, when free from rags and fleas, We’d kiss our wives and sweethearts and gobble goober peas! Chorus.

 

 

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By H. Walther.

[Permission of Henri Wehrmann.]

To arms! Oh! men in all our Southern clime, Do you not scent the battle from afar, And hear the ringing clash of armor chime, Where men have met all panoplied for war? To arms! Let not your country call in vain For willing hearts to shield her from the foe, But let the ardor of a patriot’s fame Brightly within each manly bosom glow. Chorus.—But let the ardor of a patriot’s fame Brightly within each manly bosom glow. To arms! in this, your country’s hour of need! Behold her beautiful and broad domain, And say, if patriot hearts shall freely bleed To keep it sacred from invasion’s stain? To arms! and don the panoply of war, Stay not like cowards from the battle-field; But with your armor on, march where the roar Of cannon tells you that your brothers bleed! Chorus. The trumpet and the clarion sound to arms, The noisy drum in solemn echo beats, And martial music, robed in all her charms, The magic words, To arms! To arms! repeats. To arms! The mortal combat has begun, Rush on and fight amidst the deadly fray, Nor pause until the work is nobly done, And honor crowns us with her wreath of bay!

 

 

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Aha! a song for the trumpet’s tongue! For the bugle to sing before us, When our gleaming guns, like clarions, Shall thunder in battle chorus! Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing, Where the black bombs whistle o’er us, With rolling wheel and rattling peal They’ll thunder in battle chorus! Chorus.—With the cannon’s flash, and the cannon’s crash, With the cannon’s roar and rattle, Let Freedom’s sons, with their shouting guns, Go down to their country’s battle! Their brassy throats shall learn the notes That make old tyrants quiver; Till the war is done, or each Tyrrell gun Grows cold with our hearts forever! Where the laurel waves o’er our brothers graves, Who have gone to their rest before us Here’s a requiem shall sound for them And thunder in battle chorus! Chorus. By the light that lies in our Southern skies, By the spirits that watch above us; By the gentle hands in our Summer lands, And the gentle hearts that love us! Our father’s faith let us keep till death, Their fame in its cloudless splendor— As men who stand for their mother land, And die—but never surrender! Chorus.

 

 

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Air—“Vive la Compagnie.”

I’ll sing you a song of the South’s sunny clime, Chivalrous C. S. A.! Which went to housekeeping once on a time; Bully for C. S. A.! Like heroes and princes they lived for a while, Chivalrous C. S. A.! And routed the Hessians in most gallant style; Bully for C. S. A.! Chorus.—Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they! Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they! In C. S. A.! In C. S. A.! Aye, in chivalrous C. S. A.! They have a bold leader—Jeff. Davis his name— Chivalrous C. S. A.! Good generals and soldiers, all anxious for fame; Bully for C. S. A.! At Manassas they met the North in its pride, Chivalrous C. S. A.! But they easily put McDowell aside; Bully for C. S. A.! Chorus. Ministers to England and France, it appears, Have gone from the C. S. A.! Who’ve given the North many fleas in its ears, Bully for C. S. A.! Reminders are being to Washington sent, By the chivalrous C. S. A.! That’ll force Uncle Abe full soon to repent, Bully for C. S. A.! Chorus. Oh, they have the finest of musical ears, Chivalrous C. S. A.! Yankee Doodle’s too vulgar for them, it appears; Bully for C. S. A.! The North may sing it and whistle it still, Miserable U. S. A.! Three cheers for the South!—now, boys, with a will! And groans for the U. S. A.! Chorus.

 

 

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Air—“Annie Laurie.”

We leave our pleasant homesteads, We leave our smiling farms, At the first call of duty We rush at once to arms; We rush at once to arms, To guard our coasts we fly, For the land our mothers lived, on Bravely to bleed or die. Up, boys, and quit your pleasure, Up, men, and quit your toil! The invader’s foot must never Be pressed upon our soil; Be pressed upon our soil, In which our fathers sleep; Their blessed graves our care, boys, Most sacredly must keep. ’Twas in our brave old State, men, That first of all was sung, The thrilling song of freedom That through the land hath rung; That through the land hath rung, And we’ll sound its notes once more, Till our men and children shout From the mountain to the shore. Sweet eyes are filled with tears, men, Sweet tears of love and pride, As our wives and sweethearts bid us Go meet whate’er betide, Go meet whate’er betide, And God our guide shall be, As we drive the foe before us, And rush to victory.

 

 

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By Carrie Bell Sinclair.

Air—“Bonnie Blue Flag.”

Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl, And glory in the name, And boast it with far greater pride Than glittering wealth or fame. We envy not the Northern girl, Her robes of beauty rare, Though diamonds grace her snowy neck, And pearls bedeck her hair. Chorus.—Hurrah! Hurrah! For the sunny South so dear, Three cheers for the homespun dress The Southern ladies wear! The homespun dress is plain, I know, My hat’s palmetto, too; But then it shows what Southern girls For Southern rights will do. We send the bravest of our land, To battle with the foe, And we will lend a helping hand— We love the South, you know. Chorus. Now Northern goods are out of date; And since old Abe’s blockade, We Southern girls can be content With goods that’s Southern made. We send our sweethearts to the war; But, dear girls; never mind— Your soldier-love will ne’er forget The girl he left behind. Chorus. The soldier is the lad for me— A brave heart I adore; And when the sunny South is free, And when fighting is no more, I’ll choose me then a lover brave, From out that gallant band. The soldier lad I love the best Shall have my heart and hand. Chorus. The Southern land’s a glorious land, And has a glorious cause; Then cheer, three cheers for Southern rights, And for the Southern boys! We scorn to wear a bit of silk, A bit of Northern lace, But make our homespun dresses up, And wear them with a grace. Chorus. And now, young man, a word to you: If you would win the fair, Go to the field where honor calls, And win your lady there. Remember that our brightest smiles Are for the true and brave, And that our tears are all for those Who fill a soldier’s grave. Chorus.

 

 

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By James B. Marshall.

Up, up with the banner, the foe is before us, His bayonets bristle, his sword is unsheathed, Charge, charge on his line with harmonious chorus, For the prayers go with us that beauty has breathed. He fights for the power of despot and plunder, While we are defending our altars and homes; He has riven the firmly knit Union asunder, And to bind it with tyranny’s fetters he comes, Like the prophet Mokanna, whose veil so resplendent, His monstrous deformity closely concealed; Duplicity marks Lincoln’s course, and dependent On falsehood is every fair promise revealed. When that veil shall be raised, Freedom’s last feast be taken, A banquet to which all his followers will crowd; Oh, horror of horrors! who can view it unshaken? Without sense they will sit all in suppliance bowed! We do not forget that they once were our brothers, That we sat in our boyhood around the same board, That our heart’s best idolatry blest the same mothers, And to the same fathers libations we poured. We rallied around the same star-spangled standard, When called to the field by the tocsin of war, But they from our side have unfeelingly wandered, And we strip from our flag every recusant star. They have forced us to stand by our own constitution, To defend our lov’d homesteads, our altars and fires, While they tamely submit to a tyrant’s pollution, Beneath whose foul tread their own freedom expires. Then up with the banner, its broad stripes wide flowing, ’Tis the emblem of Liberty—flag of the free; Let it wave us to triumph, and every heart glowing, Nerve each arm’s bravest blows for its lov’d Tennessee.

 

 

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Permission of H. Wehrman. Arranged by J. C. Viereck.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

The hour was sad, I left the maid, A lingering farewell taking; Her sighs and tears my steps delayed, I thought her heart was breaking. In hurried words her name I blessed, I breathed the vows that bind me, And to my heart in anguish pressed The girl I left behind me. Then to the East we bore away To win a name in story, And, there, where dawns the sun of day, There dawned our sun of glory. Both blazed in noon on Manassas’ plain, Where, in the post assigned me, I shared the glory of that fight— Sweet girl I left behind me! Full many a name our banners bore Of former deeds of daring— But they were of the days of yore, In which we had no sharing; But now, our laurels freshly won, With the old ones shall entwin’d be, Still worthy of our sires, each son, Sweet girl I left behind me! The hope of final victory Within my bosom burning, Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee, And of my fond returning. But should I ne’er return again, Still worth thy love thou’lt find me, Dishonor’s breath shall never stain The name I leave behind me.

 

 

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“Is there any news of the war?” she said; “Only a list of the wounded and dead,” Was the man’s reply, Without lifting his eye To the face of the woman standing by. “’Tis the very thing I want,” she said; “Read me a list of the wounded and dead.” He read the list—’twas a sad array Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray; In the very midst was a pause, to tell That his comrades asked, “Who is he, pray?” “The only son of the widow Gray,” Was the proud reply Of his Captain nigh. What ails the woman standing near? Her face has the ashen hue of fear! “Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick! Oh, God! but my heart is sorrow sick! Is he wounded?” “No! he fell,” they say, “Killed outright on that fatal day!” But see, the woman has swooned away!

 

“Only a list of the wounded and dead.”

 

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light, Slowly recalled the events of the fight; Faintly she murmured, “Killed outright! It has cost me the life of my only son, But the battle is fought and the victory won; The will of the Lord, let it be done!” God pity the cheerless widow Gray, And send from the halls of Eternal Day The light of His peace to illume her way!

 

 

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By W. A. Haynes.

Air—“Star Spangled Banner.”

Oh, the tocsin of war still resounds o’er the land, And legions of braves are now rushing to battle, Our lint-stocks are lighted, our guns are all manned, Loud thunders the cannon, and musketry rattle, Our hosts there are led By the blue, white and red, While the battle fiend flaps his pale wing o’er the dead. Chorus.—Let the bars and stars of our banner ever wave O’er the land of the South, the home of the brave. O, say, can you see through the mist and the gloom, Through the clouds of the battle our stars brightly shining, ’Tis a beacon of hope, ’tis a signal of doom To the hordes of the vandals our borders now lining; Proud defiance we hurl And our flag we unfurl, Let it float, proudly float, in the gaze of the world. Chorus. For thirty years or more, we have waited and prayed That the chains of oppression and wrongs might be sundered, But the black fiends of the North, with their plans foully laid, Have raised up a whirlwind and the old ship’s now foundered. We shouted the alarm, We spoke of our wrongs, Now the argument’s exhausted, we’ll stand by our arms. Chorus. Oh! Manassas has been fought, and the field has been won, And the brag guns of Sherman our brave boys have taken; Our foes have retreated back to old Washington, But the ranks of our Dixie still remain there unshaken; And over the graves Of the New York Zouaves The bars and the stars now triumphantly waves. Chorus.

 

 

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Charleston Mercury.

Respectfully inscribed to the companies mentioned.

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

March, march on, brave “Palmetto” boys, “Sumpter” and “Lafayettes” forward in order; March, march “Calhoun” and “Rifle” boys, All the base Yankees are crossing the border, Banners are round ye spread, Floating above your head, Soon shall the Lone Star be famous in story, On, on, my gallant men, Vict’ry be thine again; Fight for your rights till the green sod is gory. Young wives and sisters have buckled your armor on; Maidens ye love bid ye go to the battle-field; Strong arms and stout hearts have many a vict’ry won, Courage shall strengthen the weapons ye wield; Wild passions are storming, Dark schemes are forming, Deep snares are laid, but they shall not enthrall ye; Justice your cause shall greet, Laurels lay at your feet, If each brave band be but watchful and wary. Let fear and unmanliness vanish before ye; Trust in the Rock who will shelter the righteous; Plant firmly each step on the soil of the free,— A heritage left by the sires who bled for us, May each heart be bounding, When trumpets are sounding, And the dark traitors shall strive to surround ye; The great God of battle Can still the war-rattle, And brighten the land with a sunset of glory.

 

 

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Tune—“A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.”

Three cheers for the Southern flag, That floats upon the gale, Once more fling out its flapping folds, And make its foeman quail. And make each foeman quail, my boys, While, like an earthquake roar, Goes forth our war cry through the land, For liberty once more. Chorus.—Three cheers for the Southern flag, That floats above the gale, Once more fling out its flapping folds, And make its foeman quail. Oh, for an Abolition crowd, I hear old Abe cry out, Affrighted by the march of foes, The freeman’s mighty shout. That shouting welcomes to our heart, The freeman’s chosen man— Jeff Davis—who now heads our hosts, And leads the glorious van. Chorus. Full brightly waves our flag in air, O’er Sumpter’s fort just won. And soon o’er Pickens’ towering heights It will glitter in the sun. It will glitter in the sun, my boys, And fan the battle cloud, The struggling freeman’s sigh of hope, The fallen heroes’ shroud. Chorus. And now three cheers for the glorious flag, That victory has won, And may it soon be towering o’er The Dome at Washington. The Dome at Washington, my boys, While Abolition hosts Shall quail and shake before the flag— The freeman’s glorious boast. Chorus.

 

 

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O, the South is the queen of all nations, The home of the brave and the true— She makes no vain demonstration; But shows what her brave sons can do; Her freedom and advancement they cherish— “Our rights, our liberties,” they cry, “To the rescue, we’ll win the fight or perish, For the Southern boys never fear to die.” Chorus.—Then hurrah for the “Stars and Bars,” No stain on its folds ever be— Its glory dishonor never mars, And ’twill yet grace the land of the free. Bring forward the tankard and fill it, Ye sons that are loyal and brave, Our blood—O, how freely we’ll spill it, We are fighting for freedom or the grave; Our armies may be scattered and disbanded, Yet the wild-woods we still will infest— Yet shall fear the brave foe tho’ single-handed, When the death rattle burst from his breast. Chorus. Though black clouds sometimes may darken, And shadow the bright sunny sky; To the rumbling of cannon we’ll hearken, Which tells of the foe as they fly. Tho’ thousands may fall stark and gory, Their requiem from gun and cannon mouth, They’ll win fame, freedom and glory; And all for the loved “Sunny South.” Chorus.

 

 

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Air—“Bruce’s Address.”

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

Rally round our country’s flag! Rally, boys, nor do not lag; Come from every vale and crag, Sons of Liberty! Northern Vandals tread our soil, Forth they come for blood and spoil, To the homes we’ve gained with toil, Shouting, “Slavery.” Traitorous Lincoln’s bloody band Now invades the freeman’s land, Arm’d with sword and firebrand, ’Gainst the brave and free. Arm ye, then, for fray and fight, March ye forth both day and night, Stop not till the foe’s in sight, Sons of chivalry. In your veins the blood still flows Of brave men who once arose— Burst the shackles of their foes; Honest men and free Rise, then, in your power and might, Seek the spoiler, brave the fight; Strike for God, for Truth, for Right: Strike for Liberty!

 

 

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By Miss Mollie E. Moore.

’Twas a terrible moment! The blood and the rout! His great bosom shook With an awful doubt. Confusion in front, And a pause in the cries: And a darkness like night Passed over our skies: There were tears in the eyes Of General Lee. As the blue-clad lines Swept fearfully near, There was wavering yonder, And a break in the cheer Of our columns unsteady: But “We are here! We are ready With rifle and blade!” Cried the Texas Brigade To General Lee. He smiled—it meant death, That wonderful smile; It leaped like a flame Down each close set file; And we stormed to the front With a long, loud cry— We had long ago learned How to charge and to die: There was faith in the eye Of General Lee. But a sudden pause came, As we dashed on the foe, And our scathing columns Swayed to and fro; Cold grew our blood, Glowing like wine, And a quick, sharp whisper Shot over our line, As our ranks opened wide— And there by our side Rode General Lee. How grandly he rode! With his eyes on fire, And his great bosom shook With an awful desire! But, “Back to the rear! ’Till you ride to the rear We will not do battle With gun or with blade!” Cried the Texas Brigade To General Lee.

 

Gen. Robert E. Lee.

 

And so he rode back; And our terrible yell Stormed up to the front; And the fierce, wild swell, And the roar and the rattle, Swept into the battle From General Lee. I felt my foot slip In the gathering fray— I looked, and my brother Lay dead in my way. I paused but one moment To draw him aside; Ah! the gash in his bosom Was bloody and wide! But he smiled, for he died For General Lee. Christ! ’twas maddening work; But the work was done, And a few came back When the hour was won. Let it glow in the peerless Records of the fearless— The charge that was made By the Texas Brigade For General Lee.

 

 

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By “L. M.,” in Louisville Courier.

If ever I consent to be married, And who would refuse a good mate? The man whom I give my hand to, Must believe in the rights of the State. To a husband who quietly submits To negro-equality sway, The true Southern girl will not barter Her heart and affections away. The heart I may choose to preside o’er, True, warm, and devoted must be, And have true love for a Union Under the Southern Liberty Tree. Should Lincoln attempt to coerce him To share with the negro his right, Then, smiling, I’d gird on his armor, And bid him God-speed in the fight. And if he should fall in the conflict, His memory with tears I will grace; Better weep o’er a patriot fallen, Than blush in a Tory embrace. We girls are all for a Union, Where a marked distinction is laid Between the rights of the mistress And those of the kinky-haired maid.

 

 

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By James Haines, of Texas.

Sons of the South, arouse to battle! Gird on your armor for the fight! The Northern Thugs, with dread “war’s rattle,” Pour on each vale, and glen, and height; Meet them as ocean meets in madness The frail bark on the rocky shore, When crested billows roam and roar, And the wrecked crew go down in sadness: Chorus.—Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves! Scatter yon vandal hordes! Despots and bandits, fitting food For vultures and your swords. Shall dastard tyrants march their legions To crush the land of Jackson—Lee? Shall freedom fly to other regions, And sons of Yorktown bend the knee? Or shall their “footprints’ base pollution” Of Southern soil in blood be purged, And every flying slave be scourged Back to his snows in wild confusion. Chorus. Vile despots, with their minions knavish, Would drag us back to their embrace; Will freemen brook a chain so slavish? Will brave men take so low a place? O, Heaven! for words—the loathing, scorning We feel for such a Union’s bands: To paint with more than mortal hands, And sound our loudest notes of warning. Chorus. What! Union with a race ignoring The charter of our Nation’s birth? Union with bastard slaves adoring The fiend that chains them to the earth? No! we reply in tones of thunder, No! our staunch hills fling back the sound— No! our hoarse cannon echo round— No! evermore remain asunder! Chorus.

 

Jackson’s Cadet Button.

 

 

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The tyrant’s broad pennant is floating In the South, o’er our waters so blue: On our homes now his foul eye is gloating; The homes of the brave and the true. Chorus.—But our flag at the “head of the Passes,” Is borne by men brave and true; We will teach them to fear our “Manassas;”[2] Three cheers for our Red, White, and Blue. We will give his proud fleet such a greeting As the storm-cloud’s shaft to the tree; As the rock to the wave in their meeting— Is the stroke of the brave and the free. Chorus. Though his minions may come as the locust, And outnumber the sands of the sea, Their numbers will serve to provoke us, To dare, to die, or live free. Chorus. Every breeze from the “Crescent” is laden With defiance to the despot on our shore; Strong men, the child, and each maiden, Join in chorus with the cannon’s loud roar. Chorus.

 

 

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Of all the mighty nations, in the East or in the West, Our glorious Southern nation is the greatest and the best; We have room for all true Southrons, with our Stars and Bars unfurled, And a general invitation to the people of the world. Chorus.—Then, to arms, boys! to arms, boys! make no delay, Come from every Southern State, come from every way, Our army isn’t large enough, Jeff Davis calls for more, To hurl the vile invader from off our Southern shore. Ohio is our northern line, far as her waters flow, And on the south is the Rio Grande and the Gulf of Mexico; While between the Atlantic Ocean, where the sun begins to rise, Westward to Arizona, the land of promise lies. Chorus. While the Gulf States raise the cotton, the others grain and pork, North and South Carolina’s factories will do the finer work; For the deep and flowing waterfalls that course along our hills, Are “just the things” for washing sheep and driving cotton mills. Chorus. Our Southern boys are brave and true, and joining heart and hand And are flocking to the “Stars and Bars” as they are floating o’er the land. And all are standing ready, with their rifles in their hands, And invite the North to open graves down South in Dixie’s land. Chorus.

 

 

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By “P. E. C.,” in Richmond Examiner.

Tune—“Barclay and Perkins’ Drayman.”

These lines were written Jan. 8, 1861, for a friend, who expected to sing them in the theatre, but thought at the time to be too much in the secession spirit.

I’m a soldier, you see, that oppression has made! I don’t fight for pay or for booty; But I wear in my hat a blue cockade, Placed there by the fingers of Beauty. The South is my home, where a black man is black, And a white man there is a white man; Now I am tired of listening to Northern clack,— Let us see what they will do in a fight, man. The Yankees are cute; they have managed, somehow, Their business and ours to settle; They make all we want, from a pin to a plough, Now we’ll show them some Southern mettle. We have had just enough of their Northern law, That robbed us so long of our right, man, And too much of their cursed abolition jaw,— Now we’ll see what they’ll do in a fight, man! Their parsons will open their sanctified jaws, And cant of our slave-growing sin, sir; They pocket the profits, while preaching the laws, And manage our cotton to spin, sir. Their incomes are nice, on our sugar and rice, Though against it the hypocrites write, sir; Now our dander is up, and they’ll soon smell a mice, If we once get them into a fight, sir. Our cotton bales once made a good barricade, And can still do the State a good service; With them and the boys of the blue cockade, There is power enough to preserve us. So shoulder your rifles, my boys, for defense, In the cause of our freedom and right, man; If there’s no other way for to learn them sense, We may teach them a lesson in fight, man. The stars that are growing so fast on our flags, We treasure as Liberty’s pearls, And stainless we’ll bear them, though shot into rags; They were fixed by the hands of our girls, And fixed stars they shall be in our national sky, To guide through the future aright, man, And your Cousin Sam, with their gleam in his eye, May dare the whole world to fight, man.

 

 

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By A. B. Cunningham, of Louisiana.

Air—“Maid of Monterey.”

Upon Manassas’ bloody plain a soldier boy lay dying! The gentle winds above his form in softest tones were sighing; The god of day had slowly sank beneath the verge of day, And the silver moon was gliding above the milky way. The stars were shining brightly, and the sky was calm and blue, Oh, what a beautiful scene was this for human eyes to view! The river roll’d in splendor, and the wavelets danc’d around, But the banks were strew’d with dead men, and gory was the ground. But the hero-boy lay dying, and his thoughts were very deep, For the death-wound in his young side was wafting him to sleep; The thought of home and kindred away on a distant shore, All of whom he must relinquish, and never see them more. And as the night-breeze passed by, in whispers o’er the dead, Sweet memories of olden days came rushing to his head; But his mind was weak and deaden’d, so he turned from where he lay, As the Death-angel flitted by, and call’d his soul away!

 

“The hero-boy lay dying.”

 

 

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By Col. W. S. Hawkins, C. S. A., Camp Chase, Ohio.

Sing-ho! for the Southerner’s meteor flag As ’tis flung in its pride to the breeze, From the happy glen and the beetling crag, ’Tis the pride of the land and the seas. Hurrah! for the scintillant Cross of Red, As it waves and glances in light, Beneath it our brothers grandly tread, To battle for God and right. The flag for which Southrons had gladly died Is the badge of the tyrant now, And for it no blush of joy or pride Suffuseth the cheek or brow. **** Sing ho! for the Southerner’s flag for aye, And ho! for its beautiful Cross; It shall be the signal of bold array Where the windy surges toss. On a traitor’s heart be the curses of night, And palsied the craven hand That fails in the hazard of furious fight For God and our Native Land. Hurrah! as over the hills it waves, Or is borne on the ocean’s breast, Hurrah! as it leads our valorous braves, Or is drooped o’er the hero’s rest. Whether it greets the uprising sun Or is bathed in the western light, Beneath it shall all our hopes be won For “God will defend the right.”

 

 

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Air—“John Anderson, my Jo.”

In December, 1861, eighty-seven British ships-of-war were lying in the waters of the West Indies. This fact gave rise to the following imitation of an old song.

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! I wonder what you mean, By sending all these frigates out, commissioned by the Queen; You’ll frighten off the Yankees, John, and why should you do so? But catch and sink, or burn them all, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo! O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Yankee hands profane, Were laid in wanton insult upon the lion’s mane, He roared so loud and long, John, they quickly let him go, And sank upon their trembling knees, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo! O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Lincoln first began To try his hand at war, John, you were a peaceful man; But now your blood is up, John, and well the Yankees know, You play the —— when you start, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo! O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! let’s take the field together, And hunt the Yankee Doodles home, in spite of wind and weather, And ere a twelve-month roll around, to Boston we will go, And eat our Christmas dinner there, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

 

 

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By Gen. Basil Duke, of Kentucky.

Air—A combination of the “Marseillaise” and the “Old Granite State.”

Ye sons of the South, take your weapons in hand, For the foot of the foe hath insulted your land: Sound! sound the loud alarm! Arise! arise and arm! Let the hand of each foeman grasp the sword to maintain Those rights which, once lost, he can never regain. Chorus.—Gather fast ’neath our flag, For ’tis God’s own decree, That its folds shall still float O’er a land that is free! See ye not those dark clouds which now threaten the sky? Hear ye not that stern thunder now bursting so nigh? Shout! shout your battle-cry! Win! win this fight or die! What our fathers achieved our own valor can keep, And we’ll save our fair land or we’ll sleep our last sleep! Chorus. On our hearts and our arms and our God we rely, And a nation shall rise, or a people shall die. Form! form the serried line! Advance! advance our proud ensign: To your country devote every life that she gave, Let the land they invade give their army its grave. Chorus. Though their plunder-paid hordes come to ravage our land, Give our fields to the spoiler, our homes to the brand, Our souls are all aglow, To face the hireling foe. Give the robbers to know that we never will yield, While the arm of one Southron a weapon can wield. Chorus. From our far Southern shore now arises a prayer, While the cry of our women fills with anguish the air. O! list that pleading voice, Each youth now make his choice; Now tamely submit like a coward or slave, Or rise and resist like the free and the brave. Chorus. Kentucky! Kentucky! can you suffer the sight Of your sisters insulted, your friends in the fight? Awake! be free again! O! break the tyrant’s chain: Let each hand seize the sword it drew for the right, From the homes of your fathers drive the dastard in flight. Chorus. Knoxville, Tenn., July 4, 1862.

 

 

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Air—“Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

We all went down to New Orleans, For Bales, for Bales; We all went down to New Orleans, For Bales, says I; We all went down to New Orleans To get a peep behind the scenes, “And we’ll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl.” We thought when we got in the “ring,” For Bales, for Bales; We thought when we got in the “ring,” For Bales, says I; We thought when we got in the “ring,” Greenbacks would be a dead sure thing, “And we’ll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl.” The “ring” went up with bagging and rope, For Bales, for Bales; Upon the “Black Hawk” with bagging and rope, For Bales, says I; Went up “Red River” with bagging and rope, Expecting to make a pile of “soap,” “And we’ll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl.” But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks, For Bales, for Bales; But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks, For Bales, says I; But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks, Burned up the cotton and whipped old Banks, “And we’ll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl.” Our “ring” came back and cursed and swore, For Bales, for Bales; Our “ring” came back and cursed and swore, For Bales, says I; Our “ring” came back and cursed and swore, For we got no cotton at Grand Ecore, “And we’ll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl.” Now let us all give praise and thanks, For Bales, for Bales; Now let us all give praise and thanks, For Bales, says I; Now let us all give praise and thanks For the victory (?) gained by General Banks, “And we’ll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl.”

 

 

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Hurrah for the South, the glorious South! the land of song and story— Her name shall ring, and the world shall sing her honor, fame, and glory; For the skies above, which smiled in love, are dark with hearth-fires burning; She rises in might to defend the right, on her treacherous brethren turning. Chorus.—Sons of the South, arise! arise! For never shall fall upon her— The land we love all the earth above, One stain of dark dishonor. Hurrah for the South, the gallant South, with her great heart proudly beating; She takes her stand at Freedom’s hand, and dreams not of retreating; Oh! Southern boys, for fireside joys, with their hearts so brave and tender, Will relentlessly fight, and to death’s dark night alone will they surrender. Chorus. No Northern band shall rule this land—to the breeze give Freedom’s banner, As its glowing folds o’er our land unroll, from mountain and savannah; O’er river and lake the sound shall break, and swell with thundering glory; Hurrah for the South! the noble South! the land of war and story! Chorus.

 

 

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By A. F. Leonard.

Air—“Friend of My Soul.”

Land of the South! the fairest land Beneath Columbia’s sky! Proudly her hills of freedom stand, Her plains in beauty lie. Her dotted fields, her traversed streams Their annual wealth renew; Land of the South! in brightest dreams No dearer spot we view. **** Flag of the South! aye, fling its folds Upon the kindred breeze; Emblem of dread to tyrant holds— Of freedom on the seas, Forever may its stars and stripes In cloudless glory wave; Red, white, and blue—eternal types Of nations free and brave! States of the South! the patriot’s boast! Here equal laws have sway; Nor tyrant lord, nor despot host, Upon the weak may prey. Then let them rule from sea to sea, And crown the queenly isle— Union of love and liberty, ’Neath heaven’s approving smile.

 

 

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By “Personne,” Correspondent of the Charleston Courier.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wreath of your tendril-like tresses, Braid back in a serious way: No more delicate gloves, no more laces; No more trifling in boudoir or bower; But come with your souls in your faces, To meet the stern wants of the hour. Look around! By the torch-light unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one; What? trembling and paling already, Before your mission’s begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Time presses her lips to each scar, While she chants of that glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.

 

“...     How mellow The light showers down on that brow.”

 

Pause here by this bedside. How mellow The light showers down on that brow; Such a brave, brawny visage! Poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now; Some wife shaded her eyes in the clearing; Some mother sits moaning, distressed; While the lov’d one lies faint but unfearing, With the enemy’s ball in his breast. Here’s another; a lad—a mere stripling— Picked up on the fields almost dead, With the blood through the sunny hair rippling, From a horrible gash in the head! They say he was first in the action, Gay-hearted, quick-handed and witty; He fought till he dropped with exhaustion, In front of our fair Southern city. Fought and fell ’neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years; Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And wet his pale lips with your tears: Touch him gently; most sacred that duty Of dressing that poor shatter’d hand; God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for his land! Who groan’d? What a passionate murmur: “In Thy mercy, oh God! let me die! Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,” That musket ball’s entered his thigh: Turn the light on those poor furrow’d features, Gray-haired and unknown, bless thee, brother! Oh Heaven! that one of Thy creatures Should e’er work such woe on another. Wipe the sweat from his brow with your ’kerchief Let the tatter’d old collar go wide! See! he stretches out blindly to see if The surgeon still stands by his side: “My son’s over yonder—he’s wounded— O this ball has entered my thigh!” And again he burst out all a tremble, “In Thy mercy, O God, let me die!” Pass on: It is useless to linger While other are claiming your care; There is need for your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy there: There are sick ones athirst for caressing; There are dying ones raving of home There are wounds to be bound with a blessing And shrouds to make ready for some. They have gathered about you the harvest Of death in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the farthest Is here with the traitor and true; And crown’d with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart; You must balsam the wounds of a nation, Nor falter nor shrink from your part. Up and down through the wards where the fever Stalks noisome and gaunt and impure, You must go with your steadfast endeavor To comfort, to counsel, to cure! I grant you the task is superhuman, But strength will be given to you To do for those lov’d ones, what woman Alone in her pity can do. And the lips of the mothers will bless you, As angels sweet visaged and pale; And the little ones run to caress you, And the wives and the sisters cry Hail! But e’en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God’s ways are the best! You have pour’d out your life where ’twas needed, And He will take care of the rest.

 

 

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By Lieut. W. P. Cunningham.

Soldiers! raise your banner proudly, Let it pierce our Texan sky— Hurrah! it was shouted loudly— “We will do it or we’ll die!” Thus spoke the heroic Dowling! To his Irish gallant band: “Let us send the foes a howling, From our lovely Texas land!” Nobly answer’d those brave men all, To his soul-stirring appeal; “Aye, we’ll drive them away or fall; We’ll fight them with lead and steel.” The Irishmen desert never The people that treat them well; Their friends they love forever; Their foes may “go to ——!” “Steady, steady, keep cool, my boys, Now they are near—ready—fire!” Thus their noble chieftain cries, And they fire and never tire. Hear the heavy, thundering sound, The men of war they cry; The dull earth itself resounds As the foemen fight and die. But hurrah! the white flag’s flying— See, they spare the fallen foe! They attend the wounded—dying— The brave will have it so. O, Davis Guards! ye men of war, You’ve made a glorious name! Thus always guard our Texas Star, And preserve, for aye, your fame. And when around the social glass In years to come, you meet, O ne’er forget the Sabine Pass! But its mem’ries fondly greet.

 

 

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By J. H. Woodcock.

Tune—“Bonnie Blue Flag.”

Huzza! huzza! let’s raise the battle cry, And whip the Yankees from our land, Or with them fall and die; Rush on our Southern columns, And make the brigands feel That all the booty they will get, Will be our Southern steel. Chorus.—Huzza! huzza! let’s raise our banner high, And nobly drive the Yankees out, Or with them fall and die. We are fighting for our mothers, our sisters and our wives; For these, and our country’s rights, We’ll sacrifice our lives. Then trusting still to Heaven, We’ll charge th’ invading host, Till liberty and independence Shall be the Nation’s boast. Chorus. Then on with our columns—slay the vandal foe— Beat them from our sunny soil, And lay their colors low. To the great God of Nations Our sacred cause confide, For we are fighting for our liberty And He is on our side. Chorus.

 

 

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The South for me! The sunny clime, Where earth is clothed in beauty’s hue, And Nature vies in scenes sublime, With all the old world ever knew; I love thy soil where’er I roam, Sweet land! and when afar from thee, My fond heart throbs with thoughts of home, And echoes back “The South for me.” Chorus.—The South for me, the South for me, The golden clime, the heart’s desires, The only land where men are free, And worthy of their free-born sires. The South for me! the patriot’s heart Beats ever to that slogan cry; And heroes, armed and ready, start For their loved land to do or die; But leave the Southron’s valor free, Let Southern heroes meet the foe, And when rings out “the South for me,” Their strong right arms will deal the blow. Chorus. The South for me! its bright-eyed maids, Its clime, its stars, its silvery skies, Its streamlets, with their lovely naiads, Its vales, where varying beauties rise, Its cotton fields, where dusky slaves, Are happy in protection kind, The stranger’s home, though Yankee knaves May never there a welcome find. Chorus.

 

 

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By Mrs. C. A. B. Music by A. E. B.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

’Mid her ruins proudly stands, Our Carolina! Fetters are upon her hands, Dear Carolina! Yet she feels no sense of shame, For upon the scroll of Fame, She hath writ a deathless name, Brave Carolina! She was first our wrongs to feel, Our Carolina! First to draw the glittering steel, Dear Carolina! Ready first to strike the blow, At th’ oppressor and the foe, And to lay their standard low, Brave Carolina! Nobly now she bears her wrongs, Our Carolina! In her might she still hath songs, Dear Carolina! In the dust her sons lie low, Yet though stricken by the foe, Pride is mingled with her woe— Brave Carolina! On her brow there is no stain, Our Carolina! She hath poured out blood like rain, Dear Carolina! Vain her sufferings and her pains, On her limbs are clanking chains, But her glory yet remains, Brave Carolina! Bitterly we mourn her fate, Our Carolina! Cherished old Palmetto State; Dear Carolina! Yet while man’s brave soul is free, Honored proudly she shall be, Mother of true chivalry! Brave Carolina!

 

 

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By Capt. J. W. A. Wright.

Air—“A Life on the Ocean Wave.”

A life on the Vicksburg bluff, A home in the trenches deep, Where we dodge “Yank” shells enough— And our old “pea-bread” won’t keep. On “Old Logan’s” beef I pine, For there’s fat on his bones no more; Oh! give me some pork in brine, And “truck” from a sutler’s store. Chorus.—A life on the Vicksburg bluff, A home in the trenches deep, Where we dodge “Yank” shells enough— And our old “pea-bread” won’t keep, Pea-bread, pea-bread, pea-bread; Our old pea-bread won’t keep.

 

“So we’ll bury ‘Old Logan’ to-night.”

 

Old Grant is starving us out, Our grub is fast wasting away, Pemb don’t know what he’s about, And he hasn’t for many a day. So we’ll bury “Old Logan” to-night, From tough beef we’ll be set free; We’ll put him far out of sight— No more of his meat for me. Chorus. Texas “steers” are no longer in view, Mule steaks are now “done up brown,” While “pea-bread,” mule roast, and mule stew, Are our fare in old Vicksburg town. And the song of our hearts shall be, While the “Yanks” and their gunboats rave, A life in “bomb-proofs” for me, And a tear o’er “Old Logan’s” grave. Chorus.

 

 

 

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A VICKSBURG SONG.

Air—“Do They Miss Me At Home?”

Do they miss me in the trenches, do they miss me, When the shells fly so thickly around? Do they know that I’ve run down the hillside To hunt for my hole in the ground? The shell exploded so near me, It seemed best for me to run; And altho’ some laugh’d as I crawfished, I could not discover the fun. I often get up in the trenches, When some Yank is near out of sight, And fire a round or two at him, To make the boys think I will fight; But when the Feds commence shelling, I run to my hole down the hill— I’ll swear my legs never would stay there, Altho’ all may stay there that will. I’ll save myself thro’ the dread struggle, And when the great battle is o’er, I’ll claim my full rations of laurels, As always I’ve done heretofore. I’ll swear that I fought them as bravely As the best of my comrades who fell— And swear to all others around me, That I never had fears of a shell.

 

 

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Can’st tell who lose the battle, oft in the council-field? Not they who struggle bravely, not they who never yield. Chorus.—Not they who are determined to conquer or to die, And hearken to this caution: Boys, keep your powder dry! The foe awaits you yonder! he may await you here, Have brave hearts, stand with courage; be strangers all to fear! And when the charge is given, be ready at the cry: Look well each to his priming—Boys, keep your powder dry! Chorus. Does a lov’d one home await you, who wept to see you go, When with a kiss imprinted, you left with sacred vow— You’d come again when warfare and arms are all laid by, To take her to your bosom?—Boys, keep your powder dry! Chorus. Does a father home await you? a sister whom you love? A mother who has reared you, and pray’d to Him above— “Protect my boy, preserve him, and when the battle’s done, Send to his weeping mother, bereft, her darling son!” Chorus. The name of Freedom calls you, the names of martyr’d sires, And Liberty’s imploring, from all her hallow’d fires! Can you withstand their calling? You cannot pass them by— You cannot! now charge fiercely!—Boys, keep your powder dry. Chorus.

 

 

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IN THE CHICKAHOMINY SWAMP.

Fighting for our rights now, feasting when they’re won, By that Cross and Stars, boys, fluttering in the sun— The girls at home will hear, boys, of our banquet of hard corn, And they’ll think and pray for us, boys, at night and dewy morn, Then hand around the corn, boys, and pass the full canteen; Corn and water, and a fight, boys, are enough for us, I ween. Sleeping in the swamps now, without shelter or a bed; The heaven’s green sky above us, green turf beneath our head; But at home when we arrive, boys, tender arms shall us enfold; Our pillows shall be the hearts, boys, that now our image hold. Shells are flying over us, the bullets ’round us fly; But we’ll lie upon the grass, boys, and munch our corn away! We’re driven to their gunboats the base, invading foe; In quick time, such as Texans can, we’ll make the Federals go. Our mothers are praying for us, our darling sisters too; Our sweethearts—ah! God bless them! what can’t we dare or do? With our country’s rights and darling ones emblazon’d on our shields, We’ll fight with God’s protection, till each base invader yields. In thinking of our cause, boys, and all we love at home, These hard grains to heavenly manna have miraculously turn’d; And from this battered old canteen I’ve drained a nectar sweet; ’Tis the heart that makes the banquet, and not what we have to eat. Soon will we hail brave “Stonewall!” in Maryland set free! And our “Old Line” Chief[4] with his Texas boys shall shout for his victory. With the Cross and Stars then wreathed in flowers, we’ll turn our steps again, To the hearts and homes that sigh for us, on our proud prairie plain; Then with gentle hands to tend us, and the chalice for canteen, With our rights all won, we’ll rest us, boys, in peace and joy serene.

 

 

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Alas! the rolling hours pass slow— The night is very dark and still— And in the marshes, far below, Is heard the lonely whippoorwill: I scarce can see a foot ahead— My ears are strained to catch each sound— I feel the leaves beneath me spread— And the springs bubbling thro’ the ground. Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rays mark my sentry’s track; In formless things I seem to trace The foeman’s form, with bended back— I think I see him crouching low! I stop and list—I stop and peer— Until the neighb’ring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers, far and near. With ready piece I wait, and watch, Until my eyes—familiar grown— Detect each harmless earthern notch, And turn “Guerrillas” into stone; And then amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall magnolia trees, My silent marches I resume, And think of other times than these. “Halt! who goes there?” my challenge cry— It rings along the watchful line— “Relief!” I hear a voice reply— “Advance and give the countersign!” With bayonet at the charge, I wait— The corporal gives the mystic word— With “arms aport” I change my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well! But in my tent, that night, awake, I ask, “If in the fray I fall, Can I the mystic answer make, When the angelic sentries call?” And pray that Heaven so ordain, Where’er I go, what fate be mine, Whether in pleasure or in pain I still may have the “Countersign!”

 

 

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By Col. C. G. Forshey.

The sentinel treads his martial round, Afar from his humble home— The soldier he tramps till his thoughts are found On missions of love and tenderness bound, Away among his darlings to roam. What tender emotions now over him rush! And the tears down his bearded cheeks steal, As he sees his darlings from their sportings rush, And bound to meet him with a joyful gush, “Papa’s come!” from their happy lips peal. Bright Mary! as fleet as a bounding gazelle, Is into his arms with a spring; And Cabie, with voice clear as a bell, “There’s papa, dear papa!” his joyous notes swell Yet choking with tears as they ring. And next, little Nubbie comes toddling along, Bright curls streaming out to the wind— With hands reaching up, and infantile tongue— He’s lifted the welcoming group among— As tears the stern sentinel blind. And then, with the darling bright babe, mamma comes, To welcome him home to their cot— What sobs and caresses, That happy group blesses; Is the sentinel dreaming or not? The stern sergeant of guard, calls out from his tent, “Number Four has deserted his post!” The sentinel nearest saw whither he went, And found him, o’er musket, in reverie bent, At home—with his little ones—lost! **** The sentinel treads his lonely round— As dawn in the East is breaking A cannon’s deep thundering shakes the ground! Another! an army springs up at the sound— To thousands Death’s reveille waking! What a thrilling pang traverses his soul! And a tear down his cheek is stealing, For a thought of home, with the drum’s deep roll, Spite a soldier’s manliness, over him stole, As the trumpet of battle was pealing. A moment he saw his darlings and wife; To Heaven he breath’d a short prayer! To his country then consecrated his life, Rush’d in where the clamor of battle was rife— When a tempest of ball filled the air. **** A wounded soldier, who fell by the Run, Lies panting for breath and for water— His hand still grasping his trusty gun— Expires ’mid the glad notes of “victory won!” On Manassas’ red field of slaughter. **** In a far away cabin, a wailing is heard, When the lists of the fallen have come; A mother, long sicken’d by hope deferr’d, A widow with orphans is made at a word, And she weeps o’er the “darlings at home.”

 

 

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You shudder as you think upon th’ carnage of the grim report, The desolation when we won the inner trenches of the fort; But there are deeds ye may not know, that scourge the pulses into strife; Dark memories of deathless woe pointing the bayonet and knife. The house is ashes where I dwelt, beyond the mighty inland sea, The tombstones shattered where I knelt by that old church at Pointe Coupee; The Yankee fiends that came with fire, camped on the consecrated sod, And trampled in the dust and mire the holy Eucharist of God! The spot where darling mother sleeps, beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, Is crushed with splintered marble heaps, to stall the horse of some dragoon; God! when I ponder that black day it makes my frantic spirit wince; I marched—with Longstreet—far away, but have beheld the ravage since. The tears are hot upon my face, when thinking what black fate befell The only sister of our race—a thing too horrible to tell! They say that ere her senses fled, she rescue of her brothers cried; Then freely bowed her stricken head, too poor to live thus—so she died. Two of those brothers heard no plea; with their proud hearts forever still— John shrouded by the Tennessee, and Arthur there at Malvern Hill; But I have heard it everywhere, vibrating like a passing knell; ’Tis as perpetual as the air, and solemn as a funeral bell. By scorched lagoon and murky swamp, my wrath was never in the lurch; I’ve killed the picket in his camp, and many a pilot on his perch; With steady rifle, sharpen’d brand, a week ago upon my steed, With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed. You should have seen our leader go upon the battle’s burning marge, Sweeping like falcon on the foe, heading the Gray line’s iron charge! All outcasts from our ruined marts, we heard th’ undying serpent hiss, And in the desert of our hearts the fatal spell of Nemesis.

 

“My right arm bared for fiercer play.”

 

The Southern yell rang loud and high the moment that we thundered in, Smiting the demons hip and thigh, cleaving them to the very chin; My right arm bared for fiercer play, the left one held the rein in slack; In all the fury of the fray I sought the white man, not the black. The dabbled clots of brain and gore across the swirling sabres ran; To me each brutal visage bore the front of one accurs’d man! Throbbing along the frenzied vein, my blood seem’d kindled into song— The death-dirge of the sacred slain, the slogan of immortal wrong. It glared athwart the dripping glaves, it blazed in each avenging eye— The thought of desecrated graves and some lone sister’s desperate cry.

 

Virginia Sword-Belt Clasp.

 

 

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By Colonel Hamilton Washington.

Raise the thrilling cry, to arms! Texas needs us all, Texans! Home and love and pleasure’s charms, Yield to duty’s call, Texans! Now the stream of battle lowers— Who before the tempest cowers? Who could hide in woman’s bowers? Show him to the field, Texans! Twice our sires for freedom fought— Twice with blood the treasure bought— By the lessons they have taught We’ll die, but never yield, Texans! Long we’ve heard the storm afar; Now ’tis coming near, Texans! Onward rolls the din of war, Let us meet it here, Texans! All we have and love’s in danger, Forward, then, each Texan Ranger! Let us meet the daring stranger, That brings us war at home, Texans!— Never shall our happy land Be ravaged by a robber band— We will meet them hand to hand, And fight each step they come, Texans.

 

 

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Air—“My Maryland.”

By the Cross upon our banner—glory of our Southern sky— Swear we now, a band of brothers, free to live, or free to die! Northrons! by the rights denied, listen to our solemn vow— Here we swear, as freemen, never to your galling yoke to bow! By our brave ones lost in battle, best and noblest of our land, Fighting with your Northern hirelings, face to face and hand to hand; By a sacrifice so priceless, by the spirits of the slain— Swear we now, our Southern heroes shall not thus have died in vain. Wide and deep the breach between us—rent by hatred’s poisoned darts, And ye cannot now cement it with the blood of Southern hearts! Streams of gore that gulf shall widen, running strong and deep and red, Severing you from us forever, while there is a drop to shed. Think you we will brook the insults of your fierce and ruffian chief, Heaped upon our dark-eyed daughters stricken down and pale with grief! Think you while astounded nations curse your malice, we will bear Foulest wrong? with God to call on—arms to do—and hearts to dare! When we prayed in peace to leave you, answering came a battle cry; Then we swore that oath which freemen never swear who fear to die! Northrons, come! and you shall find us heart to heart and hand to hand, Shouting to the God of Battles, Freedom and our native land!

 

 

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By the Company’s Own Poet.

From Houston city and Brazos bottom, From selling goods and making cotton, Away, away, away, away! We go to meet our country’s foes, To win or die in freedom’s cause; Away, away, away, away! Chorus.—We’re going to old Virginia, hooray, hooray! To join the fight for Southern rights— We’ll live or die for Davis, hooray, hooray! We’ll live or die for Davis. You’ve heard of Abe, the gay deceiver, Who sent to Sumter to relieve her; Away, away, away, away! But Beauregard said “save your bacon! Sumter’s ours and must be taken!” Away, away, away, away! With a floating battery and a few hot shot, He sent them back to General Scott— Old Abe he swore and cuss’d like fun When he found the rebels wouldn’t run. Scott with his army started South! You’ve heard how our armies cleaned them out— On Manassas’ plains for miles around, Their dead and wounded fill’d the ground. Senator Wilson, the ugly sinner, Went over to Centreville to eat a big dinner— The M. C.’s and ministers of State, Left their champagne behind and dinners on the plate. They had to leave on an empty stomach, And “git up and git” on t’other side of the Potomac— But some of the invaders are with us still— We’ll send them back again if the Lord will. Our country calls for volunteers, And Texas boys reply with cheers— The Henderson Guards and Leon Hunters, Friends in peace—in war like panthers. The Tom Green Rifles and Lone Star Guards, In a cause that is just, nothing retards; The Echo Company, and the brave Five Shooters, Will deal out death to all freebooters. The Northern vandals will learn to their sorrow, Of the Porter Guards, and Rifles of Navarro— The Mustang Greys, O, they never fight for bounty, Nor do the other Greys—those from Navarro county. The Liberty Invincibles and Hardeman Texans Can wallop ten to one, whether Yanks or Mexicans; From the Waverly Confederates and the Dixie Blues, And the Bayou City Guards you may expect good news.

 

 

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These capital verses were found [written?] on board of the English barque Premier, in January, 1863, bound from Liverpool to Havana, sixty miles west of Madeira, by Lone Star, of Galveston, Texas.

I’m gwine back to de land of cotton, Wid de “English Flag” in an “English bottom,” Far away, far away, far away; Kase dere I’m safe from Uncle Sam, And he can’t make me contraban’, In de land, in de land, in de land, Away down South in Dixie. Chorus.—O, in Dixie land I’ll take my stand, And live and die in Dixie land; Hoe away, hoe away, hoe away, De cotton down in Dixie. Nor confiscate me for his use, To black and clean his sojers’ shoes, Far away, etc., To “dig his trenches” and save his health, For a picayune a day and find myself, Far away, far away, far away, From de cotton land of Dixie. Chorus. O, I’m gwine back to de old plantations, To tell de boys ob my observations, Far away, etc., Made by myself in de British nation— I’ll tell de trufe widout “sensation,” Far away, etc. Chorus. I’ve been across de Atlantic Ocean, Where dey all do make so great commotion, Far away, etc., About de war and cotton “famine,” Dey talk a heap of “twaddle and gammon,” Far away, etc. Chorus. For in dis English land I’ve bin in, Dey’ve got no cotton for de spinnin’, Hard times, etc., For de warehousemen of Manchester, De spinners, too, of Lancashire, Far away, etc. Chorus. Some say, “Make muslin widout cotton,” Others, “O no, ’twill be too rotten;” Talk away, etc., Some say, “From India we’ll get plenty, From Egypt, Greenland and Ashantee,” Far away, etc. Chorus. Dey’se holdin’ meetin’s night and day, To find out soon some oder way, Some way, etc., To git dere cotton widout you, But dat’s a fac’ dey’ll nebber do, Far away, etc. Chorus. For it will take six million bales For de mills ob England, Scotland, Wales, Spin away, etc., To feed de spinnin’ mules and jennies, Dere boys and gals and pickaninnies, Far away, etc. Chorus. Now dis will take a time so long, ’Twill be like de horse in de ole man’s song’, Sing away, etc., Dat he learned to lib widout corn or hay, But he went dead dat berry same day, Right away, etc. Chorus. O gemmen ob de “Supply Association,”[6] I’ll tell you ob de “New-born Nation,” Far away, etc., De Confederate States of America, Where cotton grows both night and day, Far away, etc. Chorus. For we can grow de cotton-wool, For John Crapeau and Johnny Bull, “Parley voo,” etc., An’ dey will feed and keep de workies, “White weaver folk,” and “hoe in darkies,” Quite right, etc. Chorus. O I’se gwine back to de land ob cotton, Sea Island seed and sandy bottom, Far away, etc., To de bressed land whar I was born, De land of sugar, cotton and corn, Far away, etc. Chorus.

 

 

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By A. W. Morse.

Haste thee, falter not, noble patriot band, Bravely meet thy lot, firm maintain thy stand, God, the God of War, who defends the just, Give thine arm the power to defend thy trust. Thy country called thine aid, prompt thine answer came: “We’ll draw our battle blade, and shield our country’s name, ’Till our firm demand shall have been proclaimed, Justice through the land—equal rights maintained.” Welcome, welcome, then, to thy happy home, Warm hearts wait thee, when thou mayst thus return But shouldst thou fall in defense of right With grateful hearts we’ll all cherish thy memory bright.

 

Infantry Button.

 

 

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Words by J. S. Thovington. Music by J. W. Groschel.

Vocal Duett.

SOLDIER.

Lady, I go to fight for thee, Where gory banners wave, To fight for thee, and, oh, perchance To find a soldier’s grave.

LADY.

Soldier, I stay to pray for thee, A harder task is mine; To which, and long in lonely grief, That victory may be thine.

SOLDIER.

Lady, I go and fight for thee.

LADY.

Soldier, I stay and pray for thee.

BOTH.

And strength and faith combined, Still form the magic sword, Wherewith the Southrons victory find, The Southrons victory find.

 

“Lady, I go to fight for thee!”

 

SOLDIER.

Fare thee well!

LADY.

Fare thee well!

 

 

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Words by E. M. Thompson. Music by J. A. Butterfield.

Our country, our country, oh, where may we find, Amid all the proud relics of legend or story, A holier charm for the patriot mind Than that soul-stirring topic—our native land’s glory. That land on whose standard the eagle’s proud pinions Flutter lordly defiance to tyranny’s minions, And whose soil all untarnished by sceptre or throne, Is a home for the brave, and the free heart alone. And we care not to honor the bleak shores of Maine, With her ship-peopled strand in proud grandeur careering, Nor the West, with her wide prairies waving in grain, The gainers of plenty by name so endearing. But the South is our home the land of bright flowers, Where the softest of suns, and the gentlest of showers Distill a sweet balm from the blossoming earth, And make life a bright vision of pleasure and mirth. Though dreams of the past cling around the heart still, And a thousand proud memories will ever be cherished Of Princeton and Monmouth and brave Bunker Hill The spots where our country’s defenders have perished; The union they bled for is now rudely severed, The idols are broken we once fondly revered, And discord has scattered its pestilent bane From Florida’s reefs to the snow peaks of Maine. But union still gladdens our own sunny home, Whose bright blades and brave hearts will ever defend her, And though wreck and disaster and ruin may come, While the bright sun shines o’er them they never will surrender. Let the foeman come on in his daring effrontery, Let him trample the loved soil we call our dear country, And for every fair flower that fades in his path, A proud heart shall bleed ’neath the sword of our wrath.

 

 

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By Dan D. Emmett.

[The music of this song can be obtained of Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

I wish I was in de land ob cotton, Old times dar am not forgotten, Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land! In Dixie land whar I was born in, Early on one frosty mornin’, Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land! Chorus.—Den I wish I was in Dixie— Hooray, hooray! In Dixie land I’ll took my stan’! To lib an’ die in Dixie Away, away, Away down south in Dixie Away, away, Away down south in Dixie. Ole Missus marry “Will-de-Weaber,” William was gay deceber Look away, etc. But when he put his arm around ’er He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder Look away, etc. Chorus. His face was sharp as a butcher’s cleaber, But dat did not seem to grieb ’er, Look away, etc. Ole Missus acted de foolish part, An’ died for a man dat broke her heart, Look away, etc. Chorus. Now, here’s a health to de next ole Missus, Ah! all de gals dat want to kiss us, Look away, etc. But if you want to drive ’way sorrow, Come an’ hear dis song to-morrow, Look away, etc. Chorus. Dar’s buckwheat cakes an’ Injun batter, Makes you fat, or a little fatter, Look away, etc. Den hoe it down and scratch your grabble, To Dixie’s Land I’m bound to trabble, Look away, etc. Chorus.

 

 

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By Rev. J. E. Carnes.

Young Florida sends forth her clan—the old Dominion’s brave, With sons of Texas, lead the van to glory or the grave; Now, by the fame of Yorktown’s name, and by the Alamo, The sons will not the fathers shame, though mightier be the foe. From desecrated Maryland come out a faithful few, And old Kentucky sends a band to God and Freedom true; There comes a thrill from Sharpsburg’s rill—and from the “bloody ground,” Heap’d with the mounds of Perryville, the spectral slogans sound! And Alabama’s well-tried host into the Grey line wheels, From wasted farms, beleaguered coast, from Florence to Mobile; The torch-lit home, whence kindred roam, has lent its wings their fire; And wrongs, tear-writ in mem’ry’s tome, to deeds of blood inspire. Ho, Louisiana! vengeance fraught by rapine’s hellish scenes, Comes vanward with the blended thought of Mansfield—New Orleans; By spicy groves, where beauty roves, and where the Yankees swarm, With vandal feet, in hireling droves, she swears her vengeance warm. Arkansas strikes Missouri’s hand—they cross the bayonet, Each thinking of a glorious band with blood of kindred met; They bless the Post, whose little host fought all but treason well; And Elkhorn’s grief and Springfield’s boast their patriot bosoms swell. From where the cypress droppeth down tear-dews on Jackson’s tomb; From where the darkest mountains frown, and brightest valleys bloom, All broad of breast, with lance in rest, and in their swift-streams free, Pour down the bravest and the best of sinewy Tennessee. With Vicksburg boiling in their veins, the Mississippians cheer, With wildest joy, the trumpet-strains that speak the battle near; O hear! O hark! the name of Stark is passed along the line— A thousand eyes more keenly mark where gathering foes combine. From Chickamauga to the flames that o’er Savannah glare, Inspired by Bee and Barton’s names the Georgians, too are there; By the sad path of Sherman’s wrath all thro’ their staid old state, They swear themselves to deeds of scath, and righteous love of hate! The Carolinas seek the fray—the scarr’d of every fight, From far Manassas’ glorious day to Fisher’s bloody night; Grand deeds of old their hearts unfold, and later memories clasp, While rifle stock and hilt of gold are griped with fiercer grasp. Now make one more immortal plain, ye men of battle skill, Ye of the comprehensive brain and the undaunted will; Now, Robert Lee! there comes to thee the all-decisive hour! God make thy flashing blade to be the lightning of his power! Now, Beauregard and Johnston, now as in your other fight, With mutual heart and answering brow inspire the hosts of right! Now, Bragg and Hood, who oft withstood, and oft have charged the foe, Come with a hand and will as good to lay the vandal low. Rise, Longstreet, with a face that shines as bright as battle’s flash, Where’er along the closing lines the burnish’d bayonets crash; Now, Forrest, aid with such a blade as made Fort Pillow quail; Now, Hill and Hardee, undismay’d, direct the iron hail. Ho! Smith, Magruder, Taylor, Price and Walker in your spheres, Warm with your zeal the hearts of ice, and charm the coward’s fears! For by the tree of Liberty God planted on this shore, This fight should be a victory or ye should breathe no more. Now, Davis! on the mount of State, discern the Lord’s command, While faith and courage on thee wait, and lift each cheering hand, To beckon all, from farm and street, and make the laggard feel A wish to meet the first that greets the carnival of steel! Let Honor beat the rataplan and Duty quick obey— Make “yea” an instant Tagerman, and “no” at once a Ney! Upon the blood our best have spilled, pledge me with common breaths War to the hilt with Yankee guilty, for “Liberty or Death!”

 

Louisiana.

 

 

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A VICKSBURG SONG.

Air—“Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still.”

There is freedom on each fold, and each star is freedom’s throne, And the free, the brave, the bold, guard thine honor as their own; Ev’ry danger hast thou known that the battle’s storm can fill, Thy glory hath not flown—we proudly wave thee still. Ev’ry danger, etc. Floating in the morning light, Freedom’s sun! thou shinest far, Floating thro’ the murky night, all shall see thee, Freedom’s star! For sic semper thy refrain, and thy motto e’er shall be, Let tyrants wear the chain—I am—I will be free! O’er the land or the sea where the hurling waves are torn, In the calm, the storm, the breeze, be thy standard proudly borne; For there’s freedom on each fold, and each star’s freedom’s throne— The free, the brave, the bold, thy glory is their own.

 

 

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By Miss Maria E. Jones.

Hark! the clock strikes! All, all that now remains, Is one short hour of this fast fleeting life, And then farewell the terrors and the strife, The heavenly joys, the sorrows of long years, It’s holy rapture, the corroding pains— That fill the heart with rapture or with tears. Farewell, old world! I never knew ’till now How well I lov’d thee; and my wayward heart Still fondly clings to thee—but we must part! Let not my proud heart in that parting fail! How can I weep to leave thee? I whose brow Hath oft been bared to battle’s iron hail! My heart beats proudly, yet the coward tears Steal from my eyes and bathe my pallid cheek; God! what womanly weakness do they speak And would half say, that the brave Southern spy Who had scorned death and mock’d his idle fears, Had, at last, forgotten how to die. O beauteous earth! each well remember’d place— All that I lov’d comes up before my mind— The lov’d and cherished I must leave behind— Stand out before me! every verdant spot In my life’s desert I can clearly trace, E’en to those pictures I had deemed forgot. I see my mother standing in the door Of my lov’d home, as in the evening breeze The curtains wave, and the gigantic trees, Stretching their arms to welcome me again, Cast dark’ning shadows on the bare bright floor— Mother, dear mother! you will watch in vain.

 

“Farewell to earth and all its beauteous bloom.”

 

Watch for the coming of my eager feet, My warm embraces and tender, loving kisses— They will not come! dear mother, you will miss Your boy’s lov’d presence, and in vain will seek, The well known form that you were wont to greet With tender kisses upon brow and cheek. The tall, green trees will cast their lengthen’d shade Across the prairie, and the shadows pale Will fill your home, and the wild winds will wail With frantic madness, as they swiftly sweep Thro’ the dark forests where your children play’d— Where all save one in death’s embraces sleep. And he will fill an unhonor’d far-off grave, Unmark’d and lone! The hated foeman’s scorn, Will soon be o’er. This glorious, golden morn I leave my life, my honor and my fame, To nobly die as fits a soldier brave— Who asks of Southrons but an honor’d name? The hour is gone! and I must meet my doom, And die, as should a soldier always die, With unblanch’d cheek, and proudly scornful eye, While stern defiance doth my bosom swell— Farewell to earth and all its beauteous bloom— My country! mother! one long, last farewell!

 

 

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By Paul H. Hayne.

Like the roar of the wintry surges on a wild tempestuous strand, The voice of the madden’d millions comes up from an outraged land; For the cup of our woe runs over, and the day of our grace is past, And Mercy has fled to the Angels, and Hatred is King at last! Chorus.—Then up with the Sable Banner! Let it thrill to the War God’s breath, For we march to the watchword—Vengeance! And we follow the Captain—Death! In the gloom of the gory breaches, on the ramparts wrapt in flame, ’Mid the ruin’d homesteads, blacken’d by a hundred deeds of shame; Wheresoever the vandals rally, and the bands of the alien meet, We will crush the heads of the hydra with the stamp of our armed feet. They have taught us a fearful lesson! ’tis burn’d on our hearts in fire, And the souls of a host of heroes leap with a fierce desire; And we swear by all that is sacred, and we swear by all that is pure, That the crafty and cruel dastards shall ravage our homes no more. We will roll the billows of battle back, back on the braggart foe, ’Till his leaguer’d and stricken cities shall quake with a coward’s throe; They shall compass the awful meaning of the conflict their lust begun, When the Northland rings with wailing, and the grand old cause hath won.[8]

 

 

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You know the Federal General Banks, Who came through Louisiana with his forty thousand Yanks; His object was to execute the Abolition law, With as mongrel a horde of soldiers as creation ever saw; There were Irish and English, and Spanish and Dutch, And negroes and Yankees, and many more such, All dress’d out in blue coats and fine filagree— But such a skedaddle you never did see! Chorus.—Doodle, doodle, Yankee doodle, doodle, dee, O such a skedaddle you never did see! They came prepared to shear our sheep and gather in our crops, And thus destroy the government by knocking down its props; They’d rob us of our wheat and wool, our poultry and such things, And steal the ladies’ jewelry, their dresses and their rings; They had scythe-blades and whiskey, and sheep shears and hams, And threshes and jack-knives, and jellies and jams, O glorious their object—a nation to free! But such a skedaddle you never did see! The veterans of Vicksburg, who never had been whipped, All swore that not a leaflet of their laurels should be clipped; They wanted to see Texas, and the famous Texas boys, Who thro’ the whole Confederacy were making such a noise; They had banners and mottoes, and trumpets and drums, And small arms and cannon, and round shot and bombs, Their most famous column, the “Feds” did agree— But such a skedaddle you never did see! How first they saw the Texans and heard the Texan yell— But whether men or devils they declare they could not tell, They faced about, at “double quick,” and run with all their might, For they had seen the “elephant,” and did not like the sight; They left baggage and Enfields, and knapsacks and shoes, And pickles and blankets, and negroes and stews, And broke for the river as fast as might be— But such a skedaddle you never did see! Helter, skelter, neck or nothing, driven by their fears, From ev’ry side the Texan yell was ringing in their ears! Still on they rush’d, like quarter-horses, shouting as they ran, “The Rebels take the hindmost—now save himself who can!” They had gunboats and transports, and all sorts of crafts, They were all clad in iron, with guns fore and aft, In these they expected in safety to flee— But such a skedaddle you never did see!

 

 

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Air—“Dixie.”

Hear ye not the sound of battle, Sabre clash and musket rattle? Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Hostile footsteps on your border; Hostile columns tread in order; Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Chorus.—O, fly to arms in Texas! to arms! to arms! From Texas land we’ll rout the band That comes to conquer Texas— Awake, awake, and rout the foe from Texas. See the red smoke hanging o’er us; Hear the cannon’s booming chorus; Awake, awake, awake in Texas! See our steady columns forming; Hear the shouting—hear the storming, Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Chorus. All the Northmen’s forces coming; Hark! the distant rapid drumming: Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Prouder ranks than theirs were driven, When our Mexic ties were riven; Awake, awake, awake in Texas. Chorus. Gird your loins, with sword and sabre; Give your lives to freedom’s labor; Awake, awake, awake in Texas! What though ev’ry heart be sadden’d— What though all the land be redden’d— Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Chorus. Shall this boasting, mad invader, Trample Texas and degrade her? Awake, awake, awake in Texas! By our fathers’ proud example, Texas soil they shall not trample; Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Chorus. Texans! meet them on the border; Charge them into wild disorder; Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Hew the vandals down before you, Till the last inch they restore you; Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Chorus. Through the echoing hills resounding, Hear the Texan bugles sounding; Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Arouse from ev’ry hill and valley; List the bugle! Rally! rally! Awake, awake, awake in Texas! Chorus.

 

 

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Air—“Wake Snakes and Bite a Biskit.”

’Twas early in the morning of eighteen sixty-three, We started out on picket, not knowing what we’d see; The bridge we knew was floating. If the Yankees should pursue, We knew we should be captured if running we’d not do. To stop and give them battle, we never tho’t of it— The shot at us did rattle, so we tho’t we’d better “git,” The captain tried to rally us, and so did brave young Linn; And Rader, too, with pistol drawn—Fenly next “put in.” Rainbolt, too, with angry words attempts to stop our flight, They tell us yet to stop with them, and give the Yankees fight: They saw they could not stop us—to try it would be vain— So their only chance of safety was to give their steeds the rein. Now this portion of my story will cause your hearts to bleed, It tells of those who halted while going at full speed. First came Billy Eddins, with musket shot in thigh, He was told by the Yankees, “surrender now or die!” Then came poor Johnny Burns, with sabre cut in head, And near by him, and wounded, stood the still unconquer’d Red; Then Oscar, and June Harris stood near in sore affright— Then came the young De Marcus, in none the better plight. Yarborough, too, with chalky cheek, was walking down the road— The Yankees had to some extent relieved him of his load; His overcoat he had pulled off, and in his shirt he stood, In woeful plight, he was a sight,—his face contain’d no blood. Then came the lively Lilly, with teeth hard set in wrath, To think that some had pass’d him by, but pick’d him up at last! Then Burnes came, and Maynard, then Graham and Jim Baugh— The gallant Bone was found alone, and bro’t back from afar. But of the handsome Parton I must not fail to tell; His graceful way of riding you all remember well; But to-day the fates concluded to stop his wild career, So from his horse was jolted by a musket from the rear. The gallant Hill, and dashing Dees, were spurring for dear life, When a Yankee rode with perfect ease upon them with a knife; “Surrender, now, my pretty pair; and do it quickly too, Stop at once and turn your mare, or I will run you through.” They stopp’d at once, and faced about and to the rear did start; And back they came, with legs quite lame, with faint and sinking heart: And there they saw a crowd who were gobbled up that day— They were the twain that made seventeen, and we were marched away.

 

 

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Words by Laura Lorrimer. Music by J. W. Groschel.

Over vale and over mountain Pealing forth in triumph strong, Comes a lofty swell of music, Alabama’s greeting song. In the new-born arch of glory, So, she burns, the central star, Never shame shall blight its grandeur, Never cloud its radiance mar. Chorus.—Alabama, Alabama, Listen, Southrons, to the strain, Alabama, Alabama, Shout the rallying cry again. As the gulf waves rushing shoreward, Break in music echoes grand, Alabama sends this greeting, Proudly to her sister band. This her ultimatum, burning, In each heart of Southern flame, Peace, if gained not by dishonor, But far better war than shame. Chorus. Let the “Northern Lion” couchant, On his bleak and froze plain, Lift his shaggy front in wonder, And defiant shake his mane. Sunward soars the mighty eagle, And where blossom brighter bowers, Than amid the green savannahs Of this sunny land of ours. Chorus. And her sons will rise in legions, Bleed and die at her behest, Ere a hostile Northern footstep Trample, conqueror, on her breast. This the faith she plights her sisters, In this glorious Southern band, Side by side she will be with them, Heart with heart, and hand to hand. Chorus.

 

 

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By Maj.-Gen. J. B. Magruder.

Wake! dearest, wake! ’tis thy lover who calls, Imogen; List! dearest, list! the dew gently falls, Imogen; Arise to thy lattice, the moon is asleep, The bright stars above us their bright vigils keep.

 

“Thy steed is impatient his mistress to bear.”

 

Chorus.—Then fear not, my Imogen, Thou’rt dearer than life! The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife, Imogen, The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife.

 

“Arise to thy lattice, the moon is asleep.”

 

Thy steed is impatient his mistress to bear, Imogen, Home to her lover, on the prairie afar, Imogen, Belov’d as a maiden, adored as a wife, Thou shalt be forever the star of my life.

 

 

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By Reuben E. Brown.

Come all ye temper’d hearts of steel—come, quit your flocks and farms, Your sports, your plays, your holidays, and hark! away to arms! And hark! away to arms! Your sports, your plays, your holidays, And hark! away to arms! For a soldier is a gentleman—his honor is his life— And he that won’t fight at his post shall ne’er stay with his wife! Shall ne’er stay with his wife! And he that won’t fight at his post, Shall ne’er stay with his wife! For love and honor are the same, they are so near alike, They neither can exist alone, but flourish side by side. Our country calls us to the field—let’s not a moment stay; Gird on your arms with cheerfulness, and fearless march away. No foreign power shall us enslave—no Northern tyrant reign; ’Twas independence made us free, and freedom we’ll maintain. The rising world shall sing of us a thousand years to come, And children to their children tell what glories we have won. Farewell, sweethearts! ’tis for awhile; my dear, sweet girls, adieu; Let’s drive these Northern dogs away, we’ll come and stay with you. And when the war is over, boys, we’ll then sit down at ease— We’ll plow and sow, and reap and mow, and do just as we please.

 

 

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(Lines prompted by the spirit that pervaded the soldiers of Galveston on receiving the news of our disaster.)

By A. E. Morris, Company C, Twentieth Infantry.

Arise! ye sons of free-born sires; arise! your country save; Kindle again the wonted fires that animate the brave: Your heritage your foes menace—secure it from their foul embrace— Your chains asunder burst! What tho’ they count as harvest-seed—as fathers bled, their sons must bleed, Or be forever accursed! The boasted chivalry of yore you can, you must, maintain; Let not the scars our fathers bore for us, be borne in vain! Degenerate sons of noble sires, by baleful, wild, fanatic fires, And madden’d folly mov’d, Profaned their Hero’s sacred dust—betrayed their country’s sacred trust, And double traitors proved. They’ve rais’d the fratricidal hand—they’ve shed their brother’s blood— Spread desolation thro’ your land with sword and fire and blood, Your desecrated altars lie ensanguin’d in the deepest dye Of holy thing’s profaned Your homes and towns in ruins piled—your matrons, maids—your very child With foul pollution stained. Then rise, ye sons of free-born sires, once more! and freedom’s won, Kindle again the fervid fires that glow’d in sixty-one! Your heritage your foes menace—secure it from their foul embrace— Your chains asunder burst! What tho’ they count as harvest-seed—as fathers bled, their sons must bleed, Or be fore’er accursed!

 

 

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We’re the boys so gay and happy, Wheresoever we chance to be— If at home, or on camp duty, ’Tis the same, we’re always free! Chorus.—Then let the Yanks say what they will, We’ll be gay and happy still; Gay and happy, gay and happy, We’ll be gay and happy still. Chorus. We’ve left our homes, and those we cherish In our own dear Texas land! We would rather fight and perish Side by side, and hand in hand. Chorus. Old Virginia needs assistance— Northern hosts invade her soil— We’ll present a firm resistance, Courting danger, fire and toil. Chorus. Then let drums and muskets rattle— Fearless as the name we bore, We’ll not leave the field of battle While a Yank is on our shore. Chorus.

 

 

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By Mary L. Wilson, of San Antonio, Texas.

Air—“Dixie.”

Hear the summons, sons of Texas! Now the fierce invaders vex us, Come on, come on, come on for Texas! Daring, dauntless, reckless Ranger! First in glory, first in danger— Come on, come on for Texas. Chorus.—Exalt the fame of Texas, strike home, strike home! Where Baylor leads the foeman bleeds! Then strike with him for Texas— Come on, come on, ye gallant sons of Texas! Awhile ago they dared defy us— Now they meet us but to fly us; Bright the stars and bars are gleaming! Bright our future star is beaming! Chorus. By base Butler’s proclamation, By our sister’s defamation,— By the sword of justice sheathless, Be the fires of vengeance quenchless. Chorus. **** Honor, safety, vengeance call you, Ere the tyrant’s chains enthrall you— Cities burning, women wailing! Shall their tears be unavailing? Chorus. Fiercely now the vandal’s smiting, Southern homes his torch is blighting— Well he knows he’ll conquer never, So would ruin us forever. Chorus. A Texan’s name, who would not wear it? Well the foe has learned to fear it! Green the laurels for you springing, Bright the halo ’round you clinging. Chorus. Chosen by the gallant Morgan! The North has heard the Texan slogan; Rangers, ask not, give not quarter! Be your pathway marked with slaughter! Chorus.

 

Volunteer Confederate Button.

 

 

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Air—“Barring of the Door.”

It was on a New Year’s morn so soon, Before the break of day, Oh! General Magruder had laid his plan To catch the Yankees in the Bay, Oh! Chorus.—Skedaddle, skedaddle, leave horse, spur and saddle, Charge! Horse Marines, with a hoo-way! Skedaddle, skedaddle, the Yankees will toddle; Rush on them with pistol and bowie— O, skedaddle! Magruder march’d down through Galveston town, And placed his men on the shore, Oh! And the fight then began when he fired the first gun, And the fleet replied with a roar, Oh! Chorus. The Yankees’ big shot flew fast, thick and hot, They thought they’d gain’d the day, Oh! When Bagby and Green, with the new Horse Marine, Came rushing down the Bay, Oh! Chorus. The two bayou boats went to butting like goats, The big steamer’s deck to gain, Oh! Then L’on Smith, that trump, he made the first jump, Right abroad of the Harriet Lane, Oh! Chorus. Let it not be forgotten, that Jim Dowlan, the Briton, Pitch’d in through flood and through flame, Oh! From the sinking boat swam to the Bayou City ram, And boarded the Harriet Lane, Oh! Chorus. Then flew the white flag o’er the Federal rag; The Yankees cried stop! just at light, Oh! By cunning and lies, to get off with the prize We had fairly won in the fight, Oh! Chorus. But General Bill Scurry, was in too great a hurry, To wait for a three hours’ truce, Oh! He bagged all ashore, and would have bagged more, Had any been lying around loose, Oh! Chorus. Old General Magruder will let no intruder Our soil with his footsteps pollute, Oh! The Arizona Brigade, with L’on Smith as aid, Will send them to—Butler, the brute, Oh! Chorus. Then rejoice, O rejoice, ye Texans, rejoice; Charge! Horse Marines, with a hoo-way! The invaders are dead, ta’en pris’ner, or fled— They can’t stand the pistol and bowie. Chorus.

 

 

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By Mary E. Smith, of Austin, Texas.

O, I’m thinking of the soldier as the evening shadows fall, As the twilight fairy sketches her sad picture on the wall; As the trees are resting sadly on the waveless silence deep, Like the barks upon the ocean when the winds are hush’d to sleep. All my soul is with the absent, as the evening shadows fall; While the ghosts of night are spreading o’er the dying light a pall; As the robes of day are trailing in the halls of eventide, And yon radiant star is wooing blushing eve to be his bride. I have shunn’d the cosy parlor—for a silence lingers there, Since our lov’d one went to battle, and we find a vacant chair; And a sigh is stealing upward, as the evening spirits come, With the zephyrs, to the bowers of this sadly deserted home. For when soft “good nights” are ended there’s a room not like the rest, Since a soldier left that chamber and that pillow is unprest; O, my soul is in a shadow, and my heart cannot be gay, As the eve with low refraining comes to shroud the dying day.

 

“I’m thinking of the soldier as the evening shadows fall.”

 

For I’m dreaming of the soldier, on his pallet bed of straw; As the leaves are growing yellow and November winds are raw— And a vision comes before me of aching, fever’d brow; And a proud form blighted, blasted, strangely, strangely alter’d now. And I feel that strong heart beating fainter, fainter with each breath, Fluttering softly in its prison, fluttering thro’ the gate of death; And a voice of sad despairing stirs my heart’s deep fountain now,— As my hand is slowly wandering o’er that strangely altered brow. And a sigh, soul full of longing, fills the chambers of my soul— While the quivering heart-strings whisper “Life’s a tale that soon is told;” God of Love, receive the soldier on that dim mysterious shore, Where the weary are at rest and souls are sad, ah! nevermore. Still the dusky sybil, “Future,” on her dim, prophetic leaves, Writes that death will claim the soldier, when he gathers up his sheaves; This is why I’m ever sighing, and my heart cannot be gay, As the eve with low refraining comes to shroud the dying day. That is why I still am sighing as the deep gray shadows fall, As the twilight spirit settles down her shadows in the hall, And I’m praying for the soldier from a soul with sorrow sore, For our soldier boys have left us—gone, perchance, to come no more.

 

 

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By Mrs. L. E. Caplen, Galveston.

Air—“The Harp that once thro’ Tara’s Halls.”

’Twas on that dark and fearful morn, That anxious hearts beat high! And many from their friends were torn Beneath the wintry sky. But hark! what cannon roar is that? Terrific—but sublime— Wafting some mortals to their graves, Far from their Northern clime. As the battle rag’d, voices high Echoed along the shore, For death or victory was nigh Amid the battle’s roar. The Yanks appeared to gain the ground, Their hopes were sure and high, Our little boats then hove in sight, Which caused their men to cry. Magruder, for example sake, The cannon first did fire, When soon their boats were made to quake— When one embrac’d his sire. But death hath taken for his own Their Captain, Lee, Monroe— And many more they lost that day, Whose death they’ll long deplore. But were we favored? Sure we were, For victory was ours! But death had stolen our gallant Wier; Our tears did fall in showers. Another one, deserving most, The brave and noble son! Sherman! thy country’s pride! is lost— A death most nobly won. Come, all ye people, far and near, Example you must take, For Texas men and women are Heroes for country’s sake!

 

 

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By George B. Milror, of Harrisburg.

The sun was sinking o’er the battle plain, Where the night winds were already sighing, While, with smiling lips, near his war-horse slain, Lay a valiant chieftain dying! And as he sank to his long, last rest, The banner—once o’er him streaming— He folded ’round his most gallant breast, On the couch that knows no dreaming. Proudly he lay on the battle-field, On the banks of the noble river; And the crimson stream from his veins did yield, Without a pang or quiver! There were hands that came to bind his wounds, There were eyes o’er the warrior streaming, As he rais’d his head from the bloody ground, Where many a brave was sleeping. “Now, away,” he cried—“your aid is vain! My soul will not brook recalling! I have seen the tyrant enemy slain, And like Autumn vine-leaves falling! “I have seen our glorious banner wave O’er the tents of the enemy vanquish’d— I have drawn a sword for my country brave, And in her cause now perish! “Leave me to die with the free and the brave, On the banks of my own noble river— Ye can give me naught but a soldier’s grave, And a place in your hearts forever!”

 

 

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