Part 6

"I've seen from the smoking village Our mothers and daughters fly; I've seen where the little children Sank down in the furrows to die.

"On the banks of the battle-stained river I stood as the moonlight shone, And it glared on the face of my brother, As the sad wave swept him on.

"Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horrors and shame had been there, For I found on the fallen lintel This tress of my wife's torn hair!

"They are turning the slaves upon us, And with more than the fiend's worst art, Have uncovered the fire of the savage, That slept in his untaught heart!

"The ties to our hearths that bound him, They have rent with curses away, And maddened him, with their madness, To be almost as brutal as they.

"With halter, and torch, and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of murder, And pray for lust's kingdom to come.

"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done!

"Wherever the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel, And when at his bosom you can not, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel.

"Through thicket and wood, go hunt him, Creep up to his camp-fire side, And let ten of his corpses blacken Where one of our brothers hath died.

"In his fainting, foot-sore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts we owe him, pay.

"In God's hand alone is vengeance, But he strikes with the hands of men, And his blight would wither our manhood, If we smite not the smiter again.

"By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes, and hopes, and freedom, Let every man swear on his blade,

"That he will not sheathe nor stay it, Till from point to hilt it glow With the flush of Almighty vengeance, In the blood of the felon foe."

They swore--and the answering sunlight Leaped red from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo To the wrath in their burning words.

There's weeping in all New England, And by Schuylkill's banks a knell, And the widows there and the orphans, How the oath was kept, can tell.[12]

SOUTHERN MARSEILLAISE.

Ye men of Southern hearts and feeling, Arm, Arm! your struggling country calls-- Hear ye the guns now loudly pealing, From Sumter'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. To arms, to arms! each one, The sword unsheathe, raise the gun, Then on, rush on, ye brave and free, To death or 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. To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

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? To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

Their tyranny we'll bear no longer, But burst asunder every tie, Although in numbers 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. To arms, to arms, each one, etc.

_Beauregard Songster._

RICHMOND ON THE JAMES.

BY G. T. BURGESS.

A soldier of our army lay gasping on the field, When battle's shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield. He fell a youthful hero, before the foemen's aims, On a blood-red field near Richmond, near Richmond on the James.

But one still stood beside him, his comrade in the fray, They had been friends together through boyhood's happy day, And side by side had struggled on field of blood and flames, To part that eve near Richmond, near Richmond on the James.

He said, "I charge thee, comrade, the friend in days of yore, Of the far, far distant dear ones that I shall see no more, Though scarce my lips can whisper their dear and well-known names, To bear to them my blessing from Richmond on the James.

"Bear my good sword to my brother, and the badge upon my breast, To the young and gentle sister that I used to love the best; But one lock from my forehead give my mother who still dreams Of her soldier boy near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

"Oh, I wish that mother's arms were folded round me now, That her gentle hand could linger one moment on my brow, But I know that she is praying where our blessed hearth-light gleams, For her soldier's safe return from Richmond on the James.

"And on my heart, dear comrade, close lay those nut-brown braids, Of one who was the fairest of all our village maids; We were to have been wedded, but death the bridegroom claims, And she is far, that loves me, from Richmond on the James.

"Oh, does the pale face haunt her, dear friend, that looks on thee? Or is she laughing, singing in careless girlish glee? It may be she is joyous, and loves but joyous themes, Nor dreams her love lies bleeding near Richmond on the James.

"And though I know, dear comrade, thou'lt miss me for a while, When their faces--all that loved thee--again on thee shall smile; Again thou'lt be the foremost in all their youthful games, But I shall lie near Richmond--near Richmond on the James."

And far from all that loved him, that youthful soldier sleeps, Unknown among the thousands of those his country weeps; But no higher heart nor braver, than his, at sunset's beams, Was laid that eve near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

The land is filled with mourning, from hall and cot left lone, We miss the well-known faces that used to greet our own; And long poor wives and mothers shall weep, and titled dames, To hear the name of Richmond--of Richmond on the James.

FROM THE SOUTH TO THE NORTH.

BY C. L. S.

There is no union when the hearts That once were bound together Have felt the stroke that coldly parts All kindly ties forever. Then oh! your cruel hands draw back, And let us be divided In peace, since it is proved we lack The grace to live united.

We can not bear your scorn and pride, Your malice and your taunting, That have for years our patience tried-- Your hypocritic canting. We WILL not bow our necks beneath The yoke that you decree us, We WILL be free, though only death Should have the power to free us!

Oh, Southern sons are bold to dare, And Southern hearts courageous. Nor meekly will they longer bear Oppression so outrageous. And you shall feel our honest wrath, If hearts so cold _can_ feel; Shall meet us in your Southern path And prove our Southern steel.

We ask no favor at your hand, No gifts and no affection; But only peace upon our land, And none of your protection. We ask you now, henceforth, to know We are a separate nation; And be assured we'll fully show We scorn your "proclamation."

We were not first to break the peace, That blessed our happy land; We loved the quiet, calm, and ease, Too well to raise a hand, Till fierce oppression stronger grew, And bitter were your sneers-- Then to our land we must be true, Or show a coward's fears!

We loved our banner while it waved An emblem of our Union, The fiercest danger we had braved To guard that sweet communion. But when it proved that "stripes" alone Were for our sunny South, And all the "stars" in triumph shone Above the chilly North--

Then, not till then, our voices rose In one tumultuous wave-- We WILL the tyranny oppose, Or find a bloody grave! Another flag shall lead our hosts To battle on the plain, The "rebels" will defy your boasts, And prove your sneering vain!

There is no danger we could fear-- No hardship or privation-- To free the land we hold so dear, From tyrannous dictation. Blockade her ports--her seas shall swell Beneath your ships of war, And every breeze in anger tell Your tyranny afar.

Her wealth may fail--her commerce droop With every foreign nation; But mark you, if her pride shall stoop, Or her determination! The products of her fields will be For food and raiment too-- From mountain cliff to rolling sea Her children will be true.

Her banner may not always wave On victory's fickle breath, The young, chivalrous, and the brave, May feel the hand of death. But, when her gallant sons have died, Her daughters will remain-- Nor crushed will be the Southern pride, Till they too, all are slain.

A BALLAD OF THE WAR.

BY GEORGE HERBERT SASS, OF S. C.

Watchman, what of the night? Through the city's darkening street, Silent and slow, the guardsmen go On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down, Falleth the wintry rain; And the cold gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows, The sleet falls heavy and chill, And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.

Silent is all without Save the sentry's challenge grim, And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night? Hark! from the old church tower Rings loud and clear, on the wintry air, The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in, A summons deep and rude, The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum Of a gathering multitude.

And the dim and flickering torch Sheds a red and lurid glare, O'er the long dark line, where bayonets shine Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard: "Rest on your arms, my men." Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes Gaze down on that grim array, For a rumor hath spread that that column dread Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels," Whose camp lies heavy and still, Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint, As she thinks of her darling one, Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too, Is the cheek of the fair young wife; And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons, Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is, There is each loving heart; And sadly they gaze by the torch's blaze, And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp, None from that anxious throng? Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town-- The way is dark and long.

No _man_ is left behind, None that is brave and true, And the bayonets bright, in the lurid light, With menace stern shine through.

Guarded is every street, Brutal the hireling foe; Is there one heart here will boldly dare So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room, Alone a woman kneels, With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow, A matron, she, and fair, Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer Her pale lips move, and then, Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way, Through the lonely, misty street, Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, ay, onward still, Far past the weary town, Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on, Breasting the cold, dank rain, And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears A dull and muffled tramp; But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam Shines out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge, Her work of love is done; She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, Who saved from a ruthless foe Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic How a noble Scottish maid Her own life gave, her king to save From foul assassin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor, Shall live in lasting fame, Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children Shall cluster round our knee, With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days When we swore that we would be free,

We'll tell them the thrilling story, And we'll say to each childish heart, "By this gallant deed, at thy country's need, Be ready to do thy part."

_Southern Field and Fireside._

LAND OF THE SOUTH.

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.

Men of the South! a free-born race, They vouch a patriot line; Ready the foemen's van to face, And guard their country's shrine. By sire and son a haloing light Through time is borne along-- They "nothing ask but what is right, And yield to nothing wrong."

Fair of the South! rare beauty's crown Ye wear with matchless grace; No classic fair of old renown Deserve a higher place. Your vestal robes alike become The palace and the cot; Wives, mothers, daughters! every home Ye make a cherished spot.

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!

God of the South! protect this land From false and open foes! Guided by Thine all-ruling hand, In vain will hate oppose. So mote the ship of State move on Upon the unfathomed sea; Gallantly o'er its surges borne, The bulwark of the free.

THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET!

BY JAS. R. RANDALL.

By blue Patapsco's billowy dash, The tyrant's war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal's fitful clash, And the growl of his sullen drums. We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget; There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, There's life in the old land yet!

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred; We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph tread Of the peerless BEAUREGARD. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There's faith in the victor's stainless sword, There's life in the old land yet!

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind, With the clank of an iron chain, The spirit of freedom sings in the wind, O'er _Merryman_, _Thomas_, and _Kane_; And we, though we smite not, are not thralls, Are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry's dungeon-walls _There's life in the old land yet_!

Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day, In their dear defiant hands. They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set; There's faith in their unrelenting woes, There's life in the old land yet!

There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, 'Tis vocal without noise, It gushed o'er Manassas's solemn plains, From the blood of the MARYLAND BOYS! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat; By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies. _There's life in the old land yet!_

THE MEN.

BY MAURICE BELL.

In the dusk of the forest shade A sallow and dusty group reclined; Gallops a horseman up the glade-- "Where will I your leader find? Tidings I bring from the morning's scout-- I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen." "Well, sir, stay not hereabout, Here are only a few of 'the men.'

"Here no collar has bar or star, No rich lacing adorns a sleeve; Further on our officers are, Let them your news receive. Higher up, on the hill up there, Overlooking this shady glen, There are their quarters--don't stop here, We are only some of 'the men.'

"Yet stay, courier, if you bear Tidings that the fight is near, Tell them we're ready, and that where They wish us to be we'll soon appear; Tell them only to let us know Where to form our ranks, and when; And we'll teach the vaunting foe That they've met a few of 'the men.'

"We're _the men_, though our clothes are worn-- We're _the men_, though we wear no lace-- We're _the men_, who the foe have torn, And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace; We're the men who have triumphed before-- We're the men who will triumph again; For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar, And the clashing bayonets--'_we're the men_.'

"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, Of garments faded, and soiled and bare, Yet who have for the 'stars and bars' Praise, and homage, and dainty fare; Mock the wearers and pass them on, Refuse them kindly word, and then Know, if your freedom is ever won By human agents--_these are the men_!"

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY J. R. BARRICK.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Thy stars shall cheer each eye, Thy folds a sacred banner be, To all beneath our sky; From where the blue Ohio flows, Far to the sea-gulf's stream, Borne by each gentle breath that blows, Thy hues shall flush and gleam.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Type of a new estate, Thy folds shall wave o'er land and sea, And heart and home elate; At thy approach shall tyrants quail And despots, trembling, flee; Nor wrong thy sway of right assail-- Nought mar thy liberty.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Bright symbol of a land Wrung from the grasp of tyranny, Ere fettered heart and hand; Freedom fixed in thy firm embrace, A home for age shall find, Linking the high hopes of our race With the grand march of mind.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free! The one to which we clung In years agone, hath ceased to be The pride on which we hung; Long trampled in the dust, that flag Hath lost the charm it bore; No longer vale, and glen, and crag, Swell with its praise of yore.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free! Type of the Land of Flowers; Thy stars shall light our victory O'er all contending powers; Where law and order still shall reign, Thou shalt a signal be To man, that he may still attain The boon of Liberty!

GLASGOW, KY.

"STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY."

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fire bright; No matter if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the brigade's rousing song Of "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

We see him now--the old slouched hat Cocked o'er his eye askew, The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; Says he, "That's Banks--he's fond of shell; Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well, That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! Old Blue-Light's going to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it's his way. Appealing from his native sod, _In forma pauperis_ to God-- "Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod! Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."

He's in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade! Hill's at the ford, cut off--we'll win His way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? "Quick-step! we're with him before dawn!" That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and by George! Here's Longstreet struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Yankees, whipped before; "Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!" Is "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn For news of Stonewall's band! Ah! widow, read with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand. Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on! Thy life shall not be all forlorn. The foe had better ne'er been born That gets in "Stonewall's way."

GONE TO THE BATTLE-FIELD.

BY JOHN ANTROBUR.

The reaper has left the field, The mower has left the plain; And the reaper's hook, and the mower's scythe, Are changed to the sword again; For the voice of a hundred years ago, When Freedom struck her mightiest blow, Thrills every heart and brain.

The way-side mill is still, And the wheel drips all alone, For the miller's brother, and son, and sire, And the miller's self have gone; And their wives and daughters, tarrying still, With smiles and tears about the mill, Wave, wave their heroes on.

The grain is full and ripe, And the harvest-moon is nigh, But the farmer's son is among the slain, And the father heard the cry; And his ancient eyes flashed fires of old, His hoary head rose strong and bold, As, wild, he hurried by.

The corn is yet a-field, But many a stalk is red; Yet not with the autumn-tassel stained, But the blood of heroes shed; And their blood cries out from heaps of slain: Oh, brothers, leave the sheaves of grain; On, to the fields of the dead!

By every quiet farm, Whence father and son had gone, The fairest daughters of the land, Brave-hearted, cheer us on, With the tender smiles that shelter tears, And words to thrill a soldier's ears, When bloody fields are won.

Scarcely the form of man Was seen on the long highway; But patriot age, whose withered hands Stretched feebly up to pray, And children whose voices haunt us still, Gathered on every knoll and hill, Cheering us on our way.

Yonder, with feeble limbs, A matron, with silver hair, Knelt, trembling, down on the soldier's path, And breathed to heaven a prayer, With quivering lips, with streaming eyes: "O God! preserve these gallant boys; In battle, be Thou there!"