Part 3

_Dedicated to "Old Abe."_

There's a general alarm, The South's begun to arm, And every hill and glen Pours forth its warrior men; Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song.

Six States already out, Beckon others on the route; And the cry is "Still they come!" From the Southern sunny home; Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song.

There's a wail in the land, From a want-stricken band; And "Food! Food!" is the cry: "Give us work or we die!" Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song.

The sturdy farmer doth complain Of low prices for his grain; And the miller, with his flour, Murmurs the dullness of the hour. Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song.

The burly butcher in the mart, He, too, also takes his part; And the merchant in his store Hears no creaking of his door. But, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song.

Stagnation is everywhere; On the water, in the air, In the shop, in the forge, On the mount, in the gorge; With the anvil, with the loom, In the store and counting-room; In the city, in the town, With Mr. Smith, with Mr. Brown! And "yet there's nothing wrong," Is the burden of my song.

A. M. W.

NEW ORLEANS, _March 4, 1861_.

MARYLAND.

BY JAMES R. RANDALL.

The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to thy wand'ring son's appeal, Maryland! My mother State! to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll's sacred trust; Remember Howard's warlike thrust,-- And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come! with thy panoplied array, Maryland! With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, With Watson's blood, at Monterey, With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come! to thine own heroic throng, That stalks with Liberty along, And give a new _Key_ to thy song, Maryland! My Maryland!

Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain: "_Sic semper_," 'tis the proud refrain, That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland! But lo! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek-- Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland! The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb: Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come! Maryland! My Maryland!

POINTE COUPEE, _April 26, 1861_.

A CRY TO ARMS.

BY HENRY TIMROD.

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade!

The despot roves your fairest lands; And, till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armed hands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain, And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!

Come, with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife: He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows, With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn!

Does any falter? Let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch.

What hope, O God! would not grow warm, When thoughts like these give cheer? The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm-tree fear? No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain, And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain!

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales! Come! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our Country's right, And for the Lily's sake!

NEW ORLEANS, _March 9, 1862_.

WAR SONG.[4]

AIR--"_March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale_."

March, march on, brave "PALMETTO" boys, "SUMTER" and "LAFAYETTES" forward in order; March, march, "CALHOUN" and "RIFLE" boys, All the base Yankees are crossing the _border_. Banners are round ye spread, Floating above your head, Soon shall the _Lone Star_ be famous in story, On, on, my gallant men, Vict'ry be thine again; Fight for your _rights_, till the green sod is gory. March, march, etc.

Young wives and sisters have buckled your armor on; Maidens ye love bid ye _go_ to the battle-field; Strong arms and stout hearts have many a vict'ry won, _Courage_ shall strengthen the weapons ye wield. Wild passions are storming, Dark schemes are forming, _Deep snares_ are laid, but they _shall not_ enthrall ye; Justice your cause shall greet, Laurels lay at your feet, If each brave band be watchful and wary. March, march, etc.

Let fear and unmanliness vanish before ye; Trust in the Rock who will shelter the righteous; Plant _firmly_ each step on the soil of the _free_-- A heritage left by the sires who bled for us. May each heart be bounding, When trumpets are sounding, And the dark traitors shall strive to surround ye; The great God of Battle Can _still_ the war-rattle, And brighten the land with a sunset of glory. March, march, etc.

VIRGINIA--LATE BUT SURE!

BY W. H. HOLCOMBE.

The foe has hemmed us round: we stand at bay, Here we will perish, or be free to-day! To drum and bugle sternly sounding, The Southern soldier's heart is bounding; But stay--oh stay! Virginia is not here! Hush your strains of martial cheer; O bugle, peace! O war-drum, cease! Virginia is not here! Suspend, O chief, your word of fight! She will be soon in sight! Her children never called in vain! She comes not--comes not: the disgrace Were bitterer than the tyrant's chain! Oh, death! we dare thee face to face!

A gun! the foe's defiant shot--be still! Hurrah! an answering gun behind the hill; And o'er its summit wildly streaming The squadrons of Virginia gleaming![5] Hurrah! hurrah! the Old Dominion comes! Blow your bugles! beat your drums! O doubt accurst! The last is first-- The Old Dominion comes! She grasps her thunderbolts of war; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Now loose, O chief! your battle storm! We hang impatient on your breath; Here in the flashing front we form! Virginia!--victory or death!

SOUTHERN SENTIMENT.

BY REV. A. M. BOX.

The North may think that the South will yield, And seek for a place in the Union again; But never will Southrons abandon the field And place themselves under _tyrannical reign_.

Sooner by far would we yield to the grave, Than form an alliance with so hated a foe; To join the "old Union" would be to enslave Ourselves, our children, in want and in woe!

What! sons of the South! submit to be ruled By the minions of Abraham Lincoln, the fool? Our fair ones insulted--our wealth all controlled By Yankees, free negroes, and every such tool!

Heaven forbid it! and arm us with might, To drive back our foes, and grind them to dust! In every conflict may we put them to flight, Aided by thee, thou God of the just!

Our bosoms we'll bare to the glorious strife, And our oath is recorded on high, To prevail in the cause is dearer than life, Or crushed in its ruins to die!

The battle is not to the strong we know, But to the just, the true, and the brave-- With faith in our GOD, right onward we'll go, Our country, our loved ones, to save.

THE SOUTHRON'S WAR-SONG.

BY J. A. WAGENER.

Arise! arise! with main and might, Sons of the sunny clime! Gird on the sword; the sacred fight The holy hour doth chime. Arise! the craven host draws nigh, In thundering array; Arise, ye brave! let cowards fly-- The hero bides the fray.

Strike hard, strike hard, thou noble band; Strike hard, with arm of fire! Strike hard, for God and fatherland, For mother, wife, and sire! Let thunders roar, the lightning flash; Bold Southron, never fear! The bayonet's point, the saber's clash, True Southrons do and dare!

Bright flow'rs spring from the hero's grave; The craven knows no rest! Thrice curs'd the traitor and the knave! The hero thrice is bless'd. Then let each noble Southron stand, With bold and manly eye: We'll do for God and fatherland; We'll do, we'll do, or die!

_Charleston Courier._

JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY.

BY DE G.

We're free from Yankee despots, We've left the foul mud-sills, Declared for e'er our freedom-- We'll keep it spite of ills.

Bring forth your scum and rowdies, Thieves, vagabonds, and all; March down your Seventh Regiment, Battalions great and small.

We'll meet you in Virginia, A Southern battle-field, Where Southern men will never To Yankee foemen yield.

Equip your Lincoln cavalry, Your NEGRO _light_-brigade, Your hodmen, bootblacks, tinkers, And scum of every grade.

Pretended love for negroes Incites you to the strife; Well, come each Yankee white man, And take a negro wife.

You'd make fit black companions, Black heart joined to black skin; Such _unions_ would be glorious-- They'd make the Devil grin.

Our freedom is our panoply-- Come on, you base _black_-guards, We'll snuff you like wax-candles, Led by our Beauregards.

P. G. T. B. is not alone, Men like him with him fight; God's providence is o'er us, _He_ will protect the right.

THE BLUE COCKADE.

BY MARY WALSINGHAM CREAN.

God be with the laddie, who wears the blue cockade! He's gone to fight the battles of our darling Southern land; He was true to old Columbia, till more sacred ties forbade-- Till 'twere treason to obey her, when he took his sword in hand; And God be with the laddie, who was true in heart and hand, To the voice of old Columbia, till she wronged his native land!

He buckled on his knapsack--his musket on his breast-- And donned the plumed bonnet--sword and pistol by his side; Then his weeping mother kissed him, and his aged father bless'd, And he pinned the floating ribbon to his gallant plume of pride. And God be with the ribbon, and the floating plume of pride! They have gone where duty called them, and may glory them betide!

He would not soil his honor, and he would not strike a blow, For he loved the aged Union, and he breath'd no taunting word; He would dare Columbia, till she swore herself his foe-- Forged the chains for freemen--when he buckled on his sword. And God be with the freeman, when he buckled on his sword! He lives or dies for duty, and he yields no inch of sward.

The foes they come with thunder, and with blood and fire arrayed, And they swear that we shall own them--they the masters, we the slaves; But there's many a gallant laddie, who wears a blue cockade, Will show them what it is to dare the blood of Southern braves! And God be with the banner of those gallant Southern braves! They may nobly die as freemen--they can never live as slaves!

THE LEGION OF HONOR.

BY H. L. FLASH.

Why are we forever speaking Of the warriors of old? Men are fighting all around us, Full as noble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving, Mind and muscle, heart and soul, With the reins of judgment keeping Passions under full control.

Noble hearts are beating boldly As they ever did on earth; Swordless heroes are around us, Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses, Building up the purer laws, Scattering the dust of ages, Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no "right divine" In kings and princes from the rest; In their creed he is the noblest Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them-- Diamond stars they laugh to scorn-- Each will wear a "Cross of Honor" On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom-- Like the noble Hebrew youth, Striking down Goliath's error With the God-blessed stone of truth.

Marshaled 'neath the Right's broad banner, Forward rush these volunteers, Beating olden wrong away From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them, But the _coming_ times will say (Speaking of the slandered present), "There _were_ heroes in that day."

Why are we then idly lying On the roses of our life, While the noble-hearted struggle In the world redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion, Ever foremost in the fray-- Battling in the name of Progress For the nobler, purer day.

"WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID."

BY JOHN M'LEMORE, OF S. C.

Full many a year in the village church, Above the world have I made my home; And happier there, than if I had hung High up in air in a golden dome; For I have tolled When the slow hearse rolled Its burden sad to my door; And each echo that woke, With the solemn stroke, Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.

I know the great bell of the city spire Is a far prouder one than such as I; And its deafening stroke, compared with mine, Is thunder compared with a sigh; But the shattering note Of his brazen throat, As it swells on the Sabbath air, Far oftener rings For other things Than a call to the house of prayer.

Brave boy, I tolled when your father died, And you wept when my tones pealed loud; And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame Your mother dear lay in her shroud: And I rang in sweet tone The angels might own, When your sister you gave to your friend; Oh! I rang with delight, On that sweet summer night, When they vowed they would love to the end!

But a base foe comes from the regions of crime, With a heart all hot with the flames of hell; And the tones of the bell you have loved so long No more on the air shall swell: For the people's chief, With his proud belief That his country's cause is God's own, Would change the song, The hills have rung To the thunder's harsher tone.

Then take me down from the village church, Where in peace so long I have hung; But I charge you, by all the loved and lost, _Remember the songs I have sung_. Remember the mound Of holy ground Where your father and mother lie And swear by the love For the dead above To beat your foul foe, or die.

Then take me; but when (I charge you this) You have come to the bloody field, That the bell of God, to a cannon grown, You will ne'er to the foeman yield. By the love of the past, Be that hour your last, When the foe has reached this trust; And make him a bed Of patriot dead, And let him sleep in this holy dust.[6]

"WE COME! WE COME!"

BY MILLIE MAYFIELD.[7]

We come! we come for Death or Life, For the Grave or Victory! We come to the broad Red Sea of strife, Where the black flag waveth free! We come as Men, to do or die, Nor feel that the lot is hard, When _our_ Hero calls--and our battle-cry Is "On, to Beauregard!"

Up, craven, up! 'tis no time for ease, When the crimson war-tide rolls To our very doors--up, up, for these Are times to try men's souls! The purple gore calls from the sod Of our martyred brothers' graves, And raises a red right hand to God To guard our avenging braves.

And unto the last bright drop that thrills The depths of the Southern heart, We must battle for our sunny hills, For the freedom of our Mart-- For all that Honor claims, or Right-- For Country, Love, and Home! Shout to the trampling steeds of Might Our cry--"We come! we come!"

And let our path through their serried ranks Be the fierce tornado's track, That bursts from the torrid's fervid banks And scatters destruction black! For the hot life leaping in the veins Of our young Confederacy, Must break for aye the galling chains Of dark-browed Treachery.

On! on! 'tis our gallant chieftain calls (He must not call in vain), For aid to guard his homestead walls-- Our Hero of the Plain! We come! we come, to do or die, Nor feel that the lot is hard: "God and our Rights!" be our battle cry, And, "On, to Beauregard!"

MANASSAS.

BY A REBEL.

Upon our country's border lay, Holding the ruthless foe at bay, Through chilly night and burning day, Our army at Manassas.

To them our eager eyes were turned, While many a restless spirit burned, And many a fond heart wildly yearned, O'er loved ones at Manassas.

For fast the Vandals gathered, strong In wealth and numbers, all along Our highways pressed a countless throng, To battle at Manassas.

With martial pomp and proud array, With burnished arms and banners gay, Panting for the inhuman fray, They rolled upon Manassas.

The opening cannons' thunders rent The air, and ere their charge was spent, Muskets and rifles quickly sent Death to us at Manassas.

But, like a wall of granite, stood The true, the great, the brave, the good, Who, firmly holding field and wood, Guarded us at Manassas.

They promptly answered fire with fire; Danger could not with fear inspire Their hearts, whose courage rose the higher, When death ruled at Manassas.

At dawn the murderous work begun; The battle fiercely raged at noon; Evening drew on--'twas not done-- The carnage at Manassas.

Oh, trembling Freedom! didst thou stay Throughout that agonizing day, To watch where victory would lay Her laurels at Manassas?

Yea! and thy potent trumpet tone Ordered our gallant warriors on, To the bold charge which for thee won The triumph at Manassas.

Well might the dastard foemen yield, When Right and Vengeance joined to wield The well-aimed ball and glittering steel, Which hurled them from Manassas.

They broke, and fear lent wings to feet Flying before our chargers fleet, Which followed up their wild retreat-- Their mad rout at Manassas.

Strike! Southrons, strike! for ne'er a foe So worthy of your every blow Can your good swords and carbines know, As those who sought Manassas.

For that our homes are still secure, Our wives and sisters still left pure, Our altars drip not with our gore; Thanks, victors of Manassas!

Thy charmed trumpet sound, O Fame! Let music catch the loud refrain, While in a glad, triumphant strain, We celebrate Manassas.

And every soldier's breast shall fire With emulation, and desire To equal--fame can point no higher-- The heroes of Manassas.

Alas! that many writhe in pain, Whose precious blood was spilt to gain Glory and freedom on thy plain-- Thy bloody plain, Manassas.

If sympathy can aught avail, If fervent prayers with Heaven prevail, In your behalf they shall not fail, Poor wounded of Manassas.

Alas! that blended with the tone Of triumph, breathes the stifled moan For many brave, whose dear lives won The victory of Manassas.

A grateful nation long shall keep Their memory, and flock to weep Above the turf where softly sleep The martyrs of Manassas.

HANOVER CO., VA., _July 30_.

CHIVALROUS C. S. A.

BY "B."

AIR--"_Vive la Compagnie!_"

I'll sing you a song of the South's sunny clime, Chivalrous C. S. A.! Which went to house-keeping once on a time; Bully for C. S. A.! Like heroes and princes they lived for awhile, Chivalrous C. S. A.! And routed the Hessians in most gallant style; Bully for C. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they! Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they! In C. S. A.! In C. S. A.! Aye, in chivalrous C. S. A.!

They have a bold leader--Jeff. Davis his name-- Chivalrous C. S. A.! Good generals and soldiers, all anxious for fame; Bully for C. S. A.! At Manassas they met the North in its pride, Chivalrous C. S. A.! But they easily put McDowell aside; Bully for C. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

Ministers to England and France, it appears, Have gone from the C. S. A.! Who've given the North many fleas in its ears; Bully for C. S. A.! Reminders are being to Washington sent, By the chivalrous C. S. A.! That'll force Uncle Abe full soon to repent; Bully for C. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

Oh, they have the finest of musical ears, Chivalrous C. S. A.! Yankee Doodle's too vulgar for them, it appears; Bully for C. S. A.! The North may sing it and whistle it still, Miserable U. S. A.! Three cheers for the South!--now, boys, with a will! And groans for the U. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc.

THE BATTLE-FIELD OF MANASSAS.

BY M. F. BIGNEY.

Fill, fill the trump of fame With the name-- MANASSAS--the battle-field of pride; Where Freedom's heroes fought with their spirits all aflame, Where the Gospel of Liberty was sounded with acclaim, Where heroes for Liberty have died!

Come, Fancy, once again Fill the plain with armed men; Let us see the struggling hosts of Wrong and Right; Let the tide of battle pour, Fight and conquer o'er and o'er, Till we glow with inspiration at the sight.

There's glory in the air: Everywhere Glory rises from the ground, All around. A hundred thousand men, Gather in from hill and glen, And for battle fierce and bloody they are bound.

See, see the cohorts come, To the sound of fife and drum; They're the foemen of the North Coming forth, In the pride of conscious might; They would trample down the Right, As forth they come, those foemen of the North.