Part 4

The flag which they bear Is a snare: Its Stripes writhe as snakes upon the air; And its Stars, no longer bright, Tell of chaos and of night, And of how they yet Will set In despair.

On comes the lengthening line, As if eager for the wine Which from the press of battle freely flows; And from the Southern heart Such wine will freely start, As the pledge to each hecatomb of foes.

On comes the lengthened line, And a "higher law" _divine_; The snakes on their banners seem to hiss; "Destruction to the South," Bursts in hate from every mouth, And the demon-words are held akin to bliss.

A brave, heroic band, Hand to hand, To meet the shock of battle are prepared; For wife and child they stand-- For home and native land; Oh, pray that every hero may be spared!

The drum and fife may sound, But their stirring notes are drowned In the roar and the thunder of the guns; The death-charged bullets fly, And the shells ascend the sky-- They are offerings to God's and Freedom's sons.

Where Freedom nerves the arm, There's a charm; Where Freedom stirs the heart, Fears depart. Oh, sacred is the strife, And the sacrifice of life, Where Freedom's chosen heroes point the dart.

God! how the freemen press! There's distress In each lead and iron shower that they send; Their countless columns pour, Like the waves in wild uproar, Beating on a rocky shore They would rend.

But firm as rocks our band Grandly stand-- For home and native land Hand to hand. How the proud invaders reel, As with shot and shell and steel, Destruction wide we deal, Sternly grand!

Again, and yet again, These wild, fanatic men-- Those foemen that invade our Southern homes-- Still rally to the cry: "We must conquer here, or die! The laurel, or the fate of hellish gnomes!"

Again, and yet again, Southern men Force the fierce insulting foe to retire. Again the Northmen fall, And to Heaven vainly call, While they yell, "There is hell In Southern fire!"

Speed, Beauregard the brave, onward speed! Speed, Davis unto Johnson, in his need! Hurrah! the foemen fly! Send the victor shout on high, For Heaven still rewards the daring deed.

How fearfully they bleed-- Man and steed! Oh, how their dying prayer Rends the air! All this for Northern greed, All that strange, fanatic creed, Which so wickedly they heed. _Do not spare!_

"The Southron is accurst"-- So they say; "He's baser than the worst Beast of prey;" And the African is white, In those Northern foemen's sight, As the lily, when it greets the god of day.

Then drive them to their lair; Do not spare! Let shot and shell reply To their cry. Though their bodies taint the air, And become the vulture's fare, It is just that such invading hordes should die.

McDowell, in the van, Sees his beaten columns fly! He calls on God and man For the aid that both deny; The army he would rally, as it runs. Thus, thus, McDowell raves: "Know ye not, ye unworthy knaves, That you fight the fight for slaves-- Sable ones; Come, and purchase redder graves With your guns."

But the guns are thrown away, The invaders will not stay; To them a fearful lesson has been read: For miles strewn all around, Encrimsoning the rich ground, Lie their fallen friends--the wounded and the dead.

The sun slopes down the west, But the foe in wild unrest Rushes on, though destruction follows fast. The Southern cavalcade Dyes with red each trusty blade, And the carnage is terrible and vast!

Oh, where is Scott, the chief? Why brings he not relief? And Patterson, the tardy, where is he? And where is Abe, the Great, With his cap and cloak of state? He should see How his warriors can flee.

Fear lendeth speed to flight, And the foe invokes the night To let its starless curtain quickly fall; But it falleth all too slow, For the terrors of the foe, And it seems to them the shadow of a pall.

A Nemesis concealed In the shades of wold and field, Breathes of vengeance to the foemen as they run; They are rushing in despair, But there's carnage everywhere, And they know not what to welcome or to shun.

Ten thousand of their slain Strew the plain; The shrieks from ten thousand more arise; And the ghosts From their hosts Wail despairingly and vain, In their pain, For a welcome to the skies.

At morning, in their pride, Side by side, They went forth in their might To the fight; And now they flee in fear, Trembling like the stricken deer, At the saber and the spear-- It is night.

They came forth to destroy, With a fierce, fanatic joy, And boasted of the Rebels they would slay; But, ere the set of sun, There are hundreds chased by one, And they pray their legs to bear them safe away.

For miles strewn all around O'er the ground, The records of their flight Meet the sight: Bodies 'neath the horses' tread; Bodies living; bodies dead; And the swords and guns most beautifully bright!

But let us leave the foe In their woe. To the God of Peace and Battle let us go. Let us praise the King of Kings, 'Neath whose wide-expanded wings There is shelter for his children here below. His arm, unseen, uprears Freedom's spears; If Freedom's voice be weak, His will speak In the cannon's thunder tones, Though the answer be in groans, And though a thousand tyrant hearts may break.

THE SOLDIER'S HEART.

BY F. P. BEAUFORT.

The trumpet calls, and I must go To meet the vile, invading foe; But listen, dearest, ere we part-- Thou hast, thou hast the soldier's heart!

It could not be so true to thee Were it not true to liberty; Far rather fill a soldier's grave Than live a dastard and a slave!

Thine eyes shall light dark danger's path, The gloomy camp, the foeman's wrath; Above the battle's fiery storm, I shall behold thy beauteous form!

With thoughts of thee, for thy dear sake, Redoubled efforts I will make; And strike with an avenging hand For lady-love and native land!

Then fare thee well, the trumpet's sound Commands me to the battle ground; But listen, dearest, ere we part-- Thou hast, thou hast the soldier's heart.

CONFEDERATE SONG.

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 the 4th of 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, haste! 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, Armed 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!

SOUTHERN SONG.

BY M. C. FREER.

TUNE--"_Wait for the Wagon_."

Come, all ye sons of freedom, And join our Southern band, We are going to fight the Yankees, And drive them from our land. Justice is our motto, And Providence our guide, So jump into the wagon, And we'll all take a ride. _Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, the dissolution wagon; The South is the wagon, and we'll all take a ride.

Secession is our watchword; Our rights we all demand; To defend our homes and firesides We pledge our hearts and hands. Jeff. Davis is our President, With Stephens by his side; Great Beauregard our General; He joins us in our ride. _Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Our wagon is the very best; The running gear is good; Stuffed round the sides with cotton, And made of Southern wood. Carolina is the driver, With Georgia by her side; Virginia holds the flag up, While we all take a ride. _Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

The invading tribe, called Yankees, With Lincoln for their guide, Tried to keep Kentucky From joining in the ride; But she heeded not their entreaties-- She has come into the ring; She wouldn't fight for a government Where cotton wasn't king. _Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Old Lincoln and his Congressmen, With Seward by his side, Put old Scott in the wagon, Just for to take a ride. McDowell was the driver, To cross Bull Run he tried, But there he left the wagon For Beauregard to ride. _Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Manassas was the battle-ground; The field was fair and wide; The Yankees thought they'd whip us out, And on to Richmond ride; But when they met our "Dixie" boys, Their danger they espied; They wheeled about for Washington, And didn't wait to ride. _Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.

Brave Beauregard, God bless him! Led legions in his stead, While Johnson seized the colors And waved them o'er his head. To rising generations, With pleasure we will tell How bravely our Fisher And gallant Johnson fell. _Chorus_--So wait for the wagon, etc.[8]

MY WIFE AND CHILD.

BY GEN. HENRY R. JACKSON, OF GEORGIA.

The tattoo beats, the lights are gone, The camp around in slumber lies; The night with solemn pace moves on, And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. I think of thee, oh, dearest one! Whose love my early life has blest; Of thee and him, our baby son, Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.

God of the tender, hover near To her whose watchful eye is wet; The mother, wife--the doubly dear-- And cheer her drooping spirits yet. Now, while she kneels before thy throne, Oh, teach her, Ruler of the Skies! No tear is wept to thee unknown, No hair is lost, no sparrow dies.

That thou canst stay the ruthless hand Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; That only by thy stern command The battle's lost, the soldier's slain. By day, by night--in joy or woe-- By fear oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe, Oh, God! protect my wife and child!

THE SOUTH IS UP.

BY P. E. C.

The South is up in stern array-- Chasseurs and Zouaves and Gallic Guard-- Types of their veteran fathers gray, Of war-marked visage, saber-scarred-- The children of Marengo's plains, Of Austerlitz and Waterloo, When tyrants dare to speak of chains We'll do as their brave sires would do. The sturdy German, hardy Pole, Who knows how Kosciusko fell-- The Tyrolean, who feels his soul Fired with that spark which gave them Tell.

The South is up! Italia's sons-- A Garibaldi in each form-- Their hands are grasping freemen's guns, Their bosoms feel his valor warm; Their crimson shirts, in bloody fields, Like walls of flame shall front the foeman; In that dread hour whoever yields, 'Tis not the offspring of the Roman; No renegade, to scorn his brother While guarding their adopted mother-- One feeling, _nationale_ and grand, Still binds them to their native land.

The South is up! those brawny hands That bless in peace or crush in war, Who fought on India's burning sands, At Egypt's Nile, and Trafalgar; That reckless mirth, that fiery joy, On field, or fort, or slippery deck, From Clontarf's plains to Fontenoy, At Quatre Bras or old Quebec; Magenta, Malakoff, Redan, Has heard their Celtic "Clear the way!" The slandered, exiled Irishman Stands for his Southern home to-day; And when, perchance, in Death's eclipse He grasps her flag with 'legiance due, The last breath lingering on his lips Might proudly say, I'm Irish, too!

The South is up! her native sons, Whose spirit prompts them to be free, Spring forth to man their trophied guns, So bravely won at Monterey-- Surpassing Buena Vista's deeds, Or Palo Alto's feats again, Though wives be wreathed in widow's weeds And children weep for fathers slain. What! think to bind the South? 'Tis vain! Freedom's inheritors at birth, Not all the leagued infernal train, If they were mustered here on earth, Those flashing eyes, like gleaming steel, Those hero boys and veterans gray! Oh, yes! the throbbing heart can feel-- The South is up in stern array.

Yet sad 'twill grieve the Southern heart To meet their brethren foot to foot, But cancers on a vital part Must now be severed branch and root; They share with us a blood-bought fame From foreign foe and savage grim; The memory of our George's name, Revered by us, is dear to them; Our ships in every clime have shown, Where jealous monarchies might see, What stars upon our flag have grown From old _thirteen_ to _thirty-three_; Soldier to lead, or sage to teach, Deep-scienced minds, of knowledge vast, The great one's fame, as in a niche, Lives in the history of the past. Now, pausing o'er our doubtful fate We _have been_, or we _shall be_, great.

THE OLD RIFLEMAN.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

Now, bring me out my buckskin suit! My pouch and powder, too! We'll see if seventy-six can shoot As sixteen used to do.

Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright! Our triggers quick and true! As far, if not as _fine_ a sight, As long ago, we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint! A real white and blue; Perhaps 'twill win the _other_ tint, Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your brass percussion-caps! Old "shut-pan" suits as well! There's something in the _sparks_; perhaps There's something in the smell!

We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed! The red-skin Indian, too! We never thought to draw a bead On Yankee-doodle-doo!

But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart! Those days are mostly done; And now we must revive the art Of shooting on the run!

If Doodle must be meddling, why, There's only this to do: Select the black spot in his eye And let the daylight through!

And if he doesn't like the way That Bess presents the view, He'll, maybe, change his mind and stay Where the good Doodles do!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, Who kissed the Testament; To keep the Constitution? No! _To keep the Government!_

We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, And take him half and half; We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool, And _miss_ him if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks By which a war is won; Especially how seventy-six Took Tories on the run.

ONLY ONE KILLED.

BY JULIA L. KEYES.

Only one killed in Company B, 'Twas a trifling loss--one man! A charge of the bold and dashing Lee, While merry enough it was, to see The enemy, as he ran.

Only one killed upon our side-- Once more to the field they turn. Quietly now the horsemen ride, And pause by the form of the one who died, So bravely, as now we learn.

Their grief for the comrade loved and true For a time was unconcealed; They saw the bullet had pierced him through; That his pain was brief--ah! very few Die thus on the battle-field.

The news has gone to his home, afar-- Of the short and gallant fight; Of the noble deeds of the young La Var, Whose life went out as a falling star In the skirmish of the night.

"Only one killed! It was my son," The widowed mother cried; She turned but to clasp the sinking one, Who heard not the words of the victory won, But of him who had bravely died.

Ah! death to her were a sweet relief, The bride of a single year. Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief, Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf, Now trodden and brown and sere!

But no, she must bear through coming life Her burden of silent woe, The aged mother and youthful wife Must live through a nation's bloody strife, Sighing and waiting to go.

Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars, Are meeting no more to part, They can smile once more through the crystal bars-- Where never more will the woe of wars O'ershadow the loving heart.

THE WAR CHRISTIAN'S THANKSGIVING.

_Respectfully dedicated to the War Clergy of the United States._

BY GEORGE H. MILES, OF BALTIMORE.

Oh, God of battles! once again, With banner, trump and drum, And garments in thy wine-press dyed, To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded, Unto Thine altars go; With brother's blood, by brothers shed, Our glad libations flow.

From pest-house and from dungeon foul, Where, maimed and torn, they die, From gory trench and charnel-house, Where, heap on heap, they lie.

In every groan that yields a soul, Each shriek a heart that rends, With every breath of tainted air, Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank Thee for the saber's gash, The cannon's havoc wild; We bless Thee for the widow's tears, The want that starves her child!

We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit The torch and fanned the flame; That lust and rapine hunt their prey, Kind Father, in Thy name!

That for the songs of idle joy False angels sang of yore, Thou sendest war on earth--ill-will To men for evermore!

We know that wisdom, truth and right To us and ours are given; That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath, To do the work of heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste Are pleasant in Thine eyes-- Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate, Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.

Let not our weakness fall below The measure of Thy will, And while the press hath wine to bleed, Oh, tread it with us still!

Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught Fond fools, of yore, to love; Give us Thy vengeance as our own-- Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands, The pages of Thy word, And learn the blessed curses there, On them that sheathe the sword.

Where'er we tread may deserts spring, Till none are left to slay; And when the last red-drop is shed, We'll kneel again--and pray!

UP! UP! LET THE STARS OF OUR BANNER.

BY M. F. BIGNEY.

_Respectfully dedicated to the Soldiers of the South._

Up! up! Let the stars of our banner Flash out like the brilliants above! Beneath them we'll shield from dishonor The homes and the dear ones we love. With "God and our Right!" Our cry in the fight, We'll drive the invader afar, And we'll carve out a name In the temple of Fame With the weapons of glorious war.

Arise with an earnest endeavor-- A nation shall hallow the deed; The foe must be silenced forever, Though millions in battle may bleed. With "God and our Right!" etc.

Strong arms and a conquerless spirit We bring as our glory and guard: If courage a triumph can merit, Then Freedom shall be our reward. With "God and our Right!" etc.

Beneath the high sanction of Heaven, We'll fight as our forefathers fought; Then pray that to us may be given Such guerdon as fell to their lot. With "God and our Right!" etc.

THE SOLDIER BOY.

BY H. M. L.

I give my soldier boy a blade, In fair Damascus fashioned well; Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not: but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling, base or low, I give my soldier boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood, In which its tempering work was done; As calm, as clear, as clear of mood Be thou whene'er it sees the sun; For country's claim, at honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise; And still the gleaming sword remains. So when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heartfelt strains, I give my soldier boy a blade.

LYNCHBURG, VA., _May 18, 1861_.

A SOUTHERN GATHERING SONG.

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH.

AIR--"_Hail Columbia_."[9]

Sons of the South, beware the foe! Hark to the murmur deep and low, Rolling up like the coming storm, Swelling up like 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 invader back!

Sons of the brave!--a barrier stanch 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!_

BATTLE-CALL.

Nec temere, nec timide.

_Dedicated to her Countrymen, the Cavaliers of the South._

BY ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM.

Gentlemen of the South! Gird on your flashing swords! Darkly along your borders fair Gather the ruffian hordes! Ruthless and fierce they come; Even at the cannon's mouth To blast the glory of your land, Gentlemen of the South!

Ride forth in your stately pride, Each bearing on his shield Ensigns your fathers won of yore On many a well-fought field. Let this be your battle-cry, Even to the cannon's mouth, _Cor unum via una!_ Onward! Gentlemen of the South!

Brave knights of a knightly race, Gordon and Chambers and Gray, Show to the minions of the North How valor dares the fray! Let them read on each spotless crest, Even at the cannon's mouth, _Decori decus addit avito_, Gentlemen of the South!

Morrison, Douglas, Stuart, Erskine and Bradford and West, Your gauntlets on many a hill and plain Have stood the battle's test. _Animo non astutia!_ March to the cannon's mouth, Heirs of the brave dead centuries, Gentlemen of the South!