Part 10

By old Potomac's rushing tide Our bayonets are gleaming; And o'er the bounding waters wide We gaze while tears are streaming. The distant hills of Maryland Rise sadly up before us, And tyrant bands have chained our land-- Our mother, proud, that bore us.

Our proud old mother's queenly head Is bowed in subjugation; With her children's blood her soil is red, And fiends in exultation Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, While her heart is torn with anguish; Old mother, on famed Manassas's plains Our vengeance did not languish!

We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, 'Mid shot and shell appalling; We heard your voice as it upward gushed From the Maryland life-blood falling. No pity we knew! Did they mercy show When they bound the mother that bore us? But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe, Till they, shrieking, fled before us!

We mourn for our brothers brave, that fell On that field, so stern and gory; But their spirits rose with our triumph-yell To the heavenly realms of glory. And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-- By their love so true and tender; We'll keep the prize they would not yield, We'll die, but we'll not surrender.

And, mother, we wait but the signal-blast, To rush to redeem thy glory; We may fall, but our conquering dust shall rest On thy soil, so famed in story. The tyrant's flag shall no longer shine, Thy liberty to smother, When the word is passed to the Maryland Line, To strike for their loved old mother.

CONFEDERATE LAND.

BY H. H. STRAWBRIDGE.

States of the South! Confederate land! Our foe has come--the hour is nigh; His bale-fires rise on every hand-- Rise as one man, to do or die! From mountain, vale, and prairie wide, From forest vast, and field, and glen, And crowded city, pour thy tide, Oh! fervid South! of patriot men. 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! Fear not their steel, but fear their gold-- Not Yankee force, but Yankee fraud; Trust not the race--as false as cold-- Whose very prayers are lies to God. Up! old and young, etc.

Armed, or unarmed, stand fearless forth, Sons of the South! stand, wife and maid! Against the foul insidious North, Our _babes_ shall wield the battle-blade! On! though perennial be the strife, For honor dear, for hearth-stone fire; Give blow for blow! take life for life! "Strike! till the last armed foe expire!" Up! old and young, etc.

THE BANNER SONG.

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 unfeeling 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 blow for its lov'd Tennessee.

THE SOUTHERN HOMES IN RUINS.

BY R. B. VANCE.

Many a gray-haired sire has died, As falls the oak, to rise no more, Because his son, his prop, his pride, Breathed out his last all red with gore. No more on earth, at morn, at eve, Shall age and youth, entwined as one-- Nor father, son, for either grieve-- Life's work, alas, for both is done!

Many a mother's heart has bled While gazing on her darling child, As in its tiny eyes she read The father's image, kind and mild; For ne'er again his voice will cheer The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, Fast falling on the orphan's head!

Many a little form will stray Adown the glen and o'er the hill, And watch with wistful looks the way For him whose step is missing still; And when the twilight steals apace O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home, And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face-- The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"

And many a home's in ashes now, Where joy was once a constant guest, And mournful groups there are, I trow, With neither house nor place of rest; And blood is on the broken _sill_,[21] Where happy feet went to and fro, And everywhere, by field and hill, Are sickening sights and sounds of woe;

There is a God who rules on high, The widow's and the orphan's friend, Who sees each tear and hears each sigh That these lone hearts to Him may send! And when in wrath He tears away The reasons vain which men indite, The record-book will plainest say Who's in the wrong, and who is right.

'TIS MIDNIGHT IN THE SOUTHERN SKY.

BY MRS. M. J. YOUNG.

'Tis midnight in the Southern sky-- See the starry cross decline! The watching flowers, all bath'd in tears, Creep o'er the mournful sign!

But that decline but serves to mark A bright and glorious hour, Whose gleaming splendors shall then crown With stars the simplest flower!

A day that in its turn shall tell Of the starry cross uprighted! Then weep not--ev'ry change is well-- All wrongs shall be requited!

"STACK ARMS."

BY JOSEPH BLYTHE ALSTON.[22]

"Stack arms!" I've gladly heard the cry, When, weary with the dusty tread Of marching troops, as night grew nigh, And sank upon my soldier bed, And calmly slept; the starry dome Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, And mingled with my dreams of home, The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.

"Stack arms!" I've heard it, when the shout, Exulting, rang along our line, Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, Captured, dispersed; its tones divine Then came to mine enraptured ear, Guerdon of duty nobly done, And glistened on my cheek the tear Of grateful joy for victory won.

"Stack arms!" In faltering accents, slow And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, A broken, murmuring wail of woe, From manly hearts by anguish wrung. Like victims of a midnight dream, We move, we know not how nor why, For life and hope but phantoms seem, And it would be relief--to die.

THE INVOCATION.

BY B. W. W.

God bless the land of flowers, And turn its winter hours To bright summer time! Be the brave soldier's friend, And from dangers defend, When Northern balls descend On the Southern line!

Father, we implore Thee, Let Thy people go free From their foes once more! And they will bend the knee, And Thine the praise shall be, On sunny land and sea, As in days of yore!

Lord, bid the carnage cease, Let the banner of peace Again be unfurled! Two nations make from one, And when the work is done, Over both reign alone-- Saviour of the world!

DOFFING THE GRAY.

BY LIEUTENANT FALLIGANT.

Off with your gray suits, boys, Off with your rebel gear! They smack too much of the cannon's peal, The lightning flash of your deadly steel, The terror of your spear.

Their color is like the smoke That curled o'er your battle-line; They call to mind the yell that woke When the dastard columns before you broke, And their dead were your fatal sign.

Off with the starry wreath, Ye who have led our van; To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death, When we followed you over the gory heath, Where we whipped them man to man.

Down with the cross of stars-- Too long hath it waved on high; 'Tis covered all over with battle-scars, But its gleam the Northern banner mars-- 'Tis time to lay it by.

Down with the vows we've made, Down with each memory-- Down with the thoughts of our noble dead-- Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid, And down with Liberty.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY FATHER A. J. RYAN.

Take that banner down, 'tis weary, Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, Furl it, hide it, let it rest; For there's not a man to wave it-- For there's not a soul to lave it In the blood that heroes gave it. Furl it, hide it, let it rest.

Take that banner down, 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff, and shattered; And the valiant hearts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it-- Hard to think there's none to hold it-- Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that banner, furl it sadly; Once six millions hailed it gladly, And three hundred thousand madly, Swore it should forever wave-- Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever-- That their flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that banner--it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe; For though conquered, they adore it, Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it-- Oh! how wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so!

Furl that banner; true 'tis gory, But 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust; For its fame, on brightest pages-- Sung by poets, penned by sages-- Shall go sounding down to ages-- Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that banner--softly, slowly; Furl it gently, it is holy, For it droops above the dead. Touch it not, unfurl it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are fled.

FOLD IT UP CAREFULLY.

Gallant nation, foiled by numbers, Say not that your hopes are fled; Keep that glorious flag which slumbers, One day to avenge your dead.

Keep it till your children take it, Once again to hail and make it All their sires have bled and fought for, All their noble hearts have sought for, Bled and fought for all alone. All alone! aye, shame the story, Millions here deplore the stain, Shame, alas! for England's glory, Freedom called, and called in vain.

Furl that banner, sadly, slowly, Treat it gently, for 'tis holy: 'Till that day--yes, furl it sadly, Then once more unfurl it gladly-- Conquered Banner--keep it still![23]

WHY CAN NOT WE BE BROTHERS?

BY CLARENCE PRENTICE.

Why can not we be brothers? the battle now is o'er; We've laid our bruis'd arms on the field, to take them up no more; We who have fought you hard and long, now overpower'd stand As poor defenseless prisoners in our own native land. _Chorus_--We know that we are Rebels, And we don't deny the name, We speak of that which we have done With grief, but not with shame.

But we have rights most sacred, by solemn compact bound, Seal'd by the blood that freely gush'd from many a ghastly wound; When Lee gave up his trusty sword, and his men laid down their arms, It was that they should live at home, secure from war's dire harms.

And surely, since we've now disarm'd, we are not to be dreaded; Our old chiefs, who on many fields our trusty columns headed, Are fast within an iron grasp, and manacled with chains, Perchance, 'twixt dreary walls to stay as long as life remains!

Oh! shame upon the coward band, who in the conflict dire, Went not to battle for their cause, 'mid the ranks of steel and fire, Yet now, since all the fighting's done, are hourly heard to cry: "Down with the traitors! hang them all, each Rebel dog shall die!"

We know that we were Rebels, we don't deny the name, We speak of that which we have done with grief, but not with shame! And we never will acknowledge that the blood the South has spilt, Was shed defending what we deem'd a cause of wrong and guilt.

REUNITED.

BY FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN.[24]

Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountain's height, Deeper than the ocean's flow, Stronger than thy own proud might; Oh! Northland, to thy sister land Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand.

Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed; Its mist of green o'er battle plain For nigh two decades spring had breathed; And yet the crimson life-blood stain From passive swards had never paled, Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed.

Between the Northland, bride of snow, And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride, Swept, deepening ever in its flow, The stormy wake, in war's dark tide: No hand might clasp across the tears, And blood, and anguish of four deathless years.

When summer, like a rose in bloom, Had blossomed from the bud of spring, Oh! who could deem the dews of doom Upon the blushing lips could cling? And who could believe its fragrant light Would e'er be freighted with the breath of blight?

Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, That e'en from out its brightness spread; And prostrate, powerless, she fell, Rachel-like, amid her dead. Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, The waiting grave would welcome, as its guest.

The Northland, strong in love, and great, Forgot the stormy days of strife; Forgot that souls with dreams of hate, Or unforgiveness, e'er were rife. Forgotten was each thought and hushed, Save--she was generous and her foe was crushed.

No hand might clasp, from land to land; Yea! there was one to bridge the tide; For at the touch of Mercy's hand The North and South stood side by side: The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, In Charity's espousals are made one.

"Thou givest back my sons again," The Southland to the Northland cries; "For all my dead, on battle plain, Thou biddest my dying now uprise: I still my sobs, I cease my tears, And thou hast recompensed my anguished years.

"Blessings on thine every wave, Blessings on thine every shore, Blessings that from sorrows save, Blessings giving more and more, For all thou gavest thy sister land, Oh! Northland, in thy generous deed and grand."

INDEX.

A Ballad of the War. George Herbert Sass, 179.

A Cry to Arms. Henry Timrod, 72.

"A. M. W.," 68.

Address of the Women to the Southern Troops. Mrs. Jane T. H. Cross, 160.

Alexandria, The Martyr of, 36.

Alston, Joseph Blythe, of South Carolina, 305.

A New Red, White, and Blue. Jeff Thompson, 153.

Antrobur, John, 196.

A Poem for the Times. John R. Thompson, 5.

A Poem which Needs no Dedication. James Barron Hope, 264.

"A Rebel," 92.

Arise. C. G. Poynas, 20.

Arm for the Southern Land. Mirabeau B. Lamar, 235.

"A Soldier's Wife," 256.

"Atlanta Confederacy," 62.

Ballard, Sallie E., of Texas, 44.

Band in the Pines, The. John Esten Cooke, 230.

Banner Song, The. James B. Marshall, 299.

Barrick, J. R., of Kentucky, 192.

Battle-field of Manassas, The. M. F. Bigney, 98.

Battle at Bull Run, The. "Ruth," 137.

Battle-Call. Annie Chambers Ketchum, 131.

Beaufort, F. P., 108.

Beauregard Songster, The, 171.

Bell, Maurice, 190.

Beyond the Potomac. Paul H. Hayne, 204.

Bigney, M. F., 98, 126.

Blue Cockade, The. Mary Walsingham Crean, 83.

Blunt, Mrs. Ellen Key, 292.

Bombardment of Vicksburg. Paul H. Hayne, 278.

Bonnie Blue Flag, The. Harry Macarthy, 135.

Box, Rev. A. M., 78.

Boy-Soldier, The. A Lady of Savannah, 284.

Burgess, G. T., 172.

Burn the Cotton. "Estelle," 211.

"B. W. W.," 306.

Call All! Call All! "Georgia," 31.

Canedo, Mrs. Margarita J., 199.

"Caroline," 23.

Cavaliers of Dixie, The. Benj. F. Porter, 162.

"Charleston Mercury," 23.

Chivalrous C. S. A. "B.," 96.

Civile Bellum. "The Once United States," 271.

"C. L. S.," 175.

Confederate Flag, The. J. R. Barrick, 192.

Confederate Flag, The. Mrs. C. D. Elder, 222.

Confederate Flag, The. Father A. J. Ryan, 309.

Confederate Land. By H. H. Strawbridge, 298.

"Confederate Prisoner," 226.

Confederate Song. Capt. E. Lloyd Wailes, 109.

Cooke, John Esten, 230.

"Cora," 252.

Crean, Mary Walsingham, 83.

Cross, Mrs. J. T. H., 160.

C. S. A. Father Ryan, 288.

Cummins, Alex. H., 248.

Dixie. Albert Pike, 38.

"De G.," 81.

Doffing the Gray. Lieutenant Falligant, 307.

Dying Soldier, The. James A. Mecklin, 239.

Elbert, Evan, 27.

Elder, Mrs. C. D., 222.

Estelle, 211, 260.

Estres, William C., 243.

Ethnogenesis. Henry Timrod, 9.

Falligant, Lieutenant, of Savannah, Georgia, 307.

Farewell to Brother Jonathan. "Caroline," 23.

Flash, Henry L., of Texas, 85, 246.

"Follow, Boys, Follow!" Millie Mayfield, 273.

Fold it up Carefully. Sir Henry Houghton, 311.

Freer, M. C., 111.

French, L. Virginia, 129.

From the South to the North. C. L. S., 175.

"Georgia," 31.

Girls of the Monumental City. "Confederate Prisoner," 226.

God Save the South. Reuben Nason, 268.

Gone to the Battle-field. John Antrobur, 196.

Gray, Nanny, 30.

Guerillas, The. S. Teackle Wallis, 166.

Harp of the South. "Cora," 252.

Harp of the South, Awake. J. M. Kilgour, 17.

Hayne, Paul H., 204, 278.

Heart of Louisiana, The. Harriet Stanton, 63.

Heart Victories. "A Soldier's Wife," 256.

"H. M. L.," 128.

Holcombe, Wm. H., of Louisiana, 77.

Holtz, Robert E., 149.

Hood, Thomas B., 139.

Hope, James Barron, 264.

Houghton, Sir Henry, Bart., 312.

Invocation, The. B. W. W., 306.

Jackson. Henry L. Flash, 246.

Jackson, Gen. H. R., of Louisiana, 114.

Jacobus, Mrs. J. J., 33.

"J. H. H.," 66.

Johnson, Bradley T., 19.

Justice is our Panoply. De G., 81.

Kentucky. "Estelle," 260.

Ketchum, Anna Chambers, 131.

Keyes, Julia L., of Ala., 121.

Kilgour, J. M., 17.

Killum, John, 233.

Lamar, Gen. M. B., 235, 269.

Land of King Cotton. Jo. Augustine Signiago, 164.

Land of the South. A. F. Leonard, 185.

Legion of Honor, The. H. L. Flash, 85.

Leonard, A. F., 185.

Lomas, Henry, 253.

Lorrimer, Laura, 142.

Macarthy, Harry, 135.

Manassas. "A Rebel," 92.

Marseilles Hymn, The. B. F. Porter, of Alabama, 216.

Marshall, James B., 299.

Martin, Rev. J. H., 45.

Martyr of Alexandria, The. James W. Simmons, 36.

Mayfield, Millie, 90, 249, 273.

Maryland. James R. Randall, 69.

McCabe, J. D., Jr., 296.

McLemore, John C., of South Carolina, 87.

Mecklin, James A., 239.

Meek, A. B., of Mobile, Alabama, 52.

Melt the Bells. F. Y. Rockett. 47.

Miles, George H., of Balt., 123.

Monody on the Death of Gen. Stonewall Jackson. "The Exile," 220.

Moore, Emily J., 210.

"M. S.," 241.

Murden, E. O., 54.

My Wife and Child. Gen. H. R. Jackson, of Louisiana, 114.

Nason, Reuben, 268.

New Orleans "True Delta," 43.

"Nil Desperandum." Ada Rose, 158.

No Surrender. "N. P. W.," 234.

No Union Men. Millie Mayfield, 249.

"N. P. W.," 146, 234.

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John, 154.

Old Betsy. John Killum, 233.

Old Rifleman, The. Frank Ticknor, M. D., 119.

Only One Killed. Julia L. Keyes, 121.

On! Southron, on! M. B. Lamar, 269.

Ordered Away, The. Mrs. J. J. Jacobus, 33.

Our Boys are Gone. Col. Hamilton Washington, 141.

Overall, John W., of La., 41, 145, 259.

Patriotism, 294.

"P. E. C.," 116.

Pensacola, To my Son. M. S., 241.

Pierpont, James, 29.

Pike, Albert, of Arkansas, 38.

Porter, Benjamin F., of Alabama, 162, 216, 228.

Poynas, C. G., of South Carolina, 20.

Prentice, Clarence, 312.

Printers of Virginia to Old Abe, The. Harry C. Treakle, 214.

Prize Song, The, 201.

Randall, James R., of Maryland, 69, 188.

Rebels! 'tis a Holy Name! "Atlanta Confederacy," 61.

Re-enlistment. Mrs. Margarita J. Canedo, 199.

Requier, A. J., of Alabama, 143.

Reunited. Father Ryan, 315.

"Richmond Examiner," 52.

Richmond on the James. G. T. Burgess, 172.

Right Above the Wrong, The. John W. Overall, 41.

Rivers, Pearl, 208.

Rivers, W. P., 281.

Rockett, F. Y., 47.

Rose, Ada, 158.

"Ruth," 137.

Ryan, Father A. J., 276, 288, 309, 315.

Sass, George Herbert, of South Carolina, 179.

Savannah, A Lady of, 284.

Seventy-Six and Sixty-One. John W. Overall, 259.

Signiago, Jo. Augustine, 164.

Simmons, Jas. W., of Texas, 36.

Simms, Wm. Gilmore, 290.

Soldier Boy, The. H. M. L., 128.

Soldier's Heart, The. F. P. Beaufort, 108.

Song for the Maryland Line. J. D. McCabe, Jr., 296.

Song of the Glorious Southland, Mrs. Mary Ware, 231.

Song of the Privateer. Alex. H. Cummins, 248.

Sons of Freedom. Nanny Gray, 30.

South in Arms, The. Rev. J. H. Martin, 45.

South is Up, The. P. E. C., 116.

Southern Cross, The. St. George Tucker, 14.

Southern Cross, The. Ellen Key Blunt, 292.

Southern Gathering Song. L. Virginia French, 129.

Southern Homes in Ruins, The. R. B. Vance, 302.

Southern Marseillaise. "Beauregard Songster," 170.

Southern Pleiades, The. Laura Lorrimer, 142.

Southern Sentiment. Rev. A. M. Box, 78.

Southern Song. M. C. Freer, 111.

Southern Song of Freedom. J. H. H., 65.

Southern War Song. N. P. W., 146.

Southland. "The Prize Song," 201.

Southern Mother's Charge, The. Thomas B. Hood, 139.

"Southrons." Catharine M. Warfield, 156.

Southron's War Song, The. J. A. Wagener, 80.

"Stack Arms!" J. Blythe Alston, of South Carolina, 305.

Stanton, Harriet, 63.

Stars and Bars, The. A. J. Requier, 143.

Stonewall Jackson's Way, 194.

Strawbridge, H. H., 298.

Sweet South, The. Wm. Gilmore Simms, 290.

Sumter, A Ballad of 1861. E. O. Murden, 54.

Tell the Boys the War is Ended. Emily J. Moore, 210.

"The Exile," 220.

The March. John W. Overall, 145.

The Men. Maurice Bell, 150.

There's Life in the Old Land Yet. J. R. Randall, 188.

There's Nothing going Wrong. A. M. W., 67.

"The South." Charlie Wildwood, 223.

"The Star of the West." "Charleston Mercury," 22.

The Sword of Robert Lee. Father Ryan, 276.

Thinking of the Soldiers, 237.

Thompson, Jeff., 153.

Thompson, John R., of Virginia, 5.

Ticknor, Frank, M. D., of Georgia, 119, 286.

Timrod, Henry, of South Carolina, 9, 72.

'Tis Midnight in the Southern Sky. Mrs. M. J. Young, 304.

To My Soldier Brother. Sallie E. Ballard, 44.

To the Tories of Virginia. "Richmond Examiner," 49.

Treakle, Harry C., 214.

True to the Gray. Pearl Rivers, 208.

Tucker, St. George, of Virginia, 14.

Turtle, The, 245.

Uniform of Gray, The. Evan Elbert, 27.

United States, The Once, 273.

Up! Up! let the Stars of our Banner. M. F. Bigney, 126.

Vance, R. B., of North Carolina, 302.

Virginia: Late but Sure! William H. Holcombe, 77.

Virginians of the Valley. Frank Ticknor, M. D., 286.

Volunteers to the Melish. W. C. Estres, 243.

Wagener, J. A., of South Carolina, 80.

Wailes, Capt. E. Lloyd, 109.

Wallis, S. Teackle, of Maryland, 166.

War Christian's Thanksgiving, The. George H. Miles, of Maryland, 123.

Ware, Mrs. Mary, 231.