Part 7

O, soldiers! such as these Like household memories come; For a thousand prayers ascend to-day From those we left at home; For the red, red field to-night may be Our couch, our grave--while Victory Shall shout above our tomb.

In battle's bloody hour These pictures shall arise, Of mothers, sisters, wives, and homes, And red and streaming eyes; And every arm shall stronger be, For home, for God, for liberty, And strike, while mercy dies.

HEADQUARTERS, _9th Regt. Virginia Vols._

RE-ENLISTMENT.

BY MRS. MARGARITA J. CANEDO.

What! shall we now throw down the blade, And doff the helmet from our brows? _Now_ see our holy cause betrayed, And recreant prove to all our vows? When first we drew these patriot swords, "A nation's freedom!" was the cry; Our faith was pledged in these proud words, And heaven has sealed the oath on high.

Since then on dear-bought battle-plains We've seen our martyr brethren die, While on the soil that drank those stains, Their native earth where now they lie, The foe now treads--th' exulting foe, And desecrates the hero-graves. Say, can we peace or honor know While there the accursed banner waves?

Dear are our homes, that smile afar; Oft in the weary soldier's dreams, While resting from the toils of war, He sees the light that round them beams. Dear are the loved and lovely maids Shrined in the patriot soldier's heart; Yet, while the foe our land invades, In vain the longing tear may start.

_No!_ let the despot's hireling band, Who feel not honor--know not faith, Who war not for their native land, Fly trembling from a dreaded death. Our lives are to our country pledged, Until her last red field is won; For "liberty or death" is waged The war where fights her faithful son.

Then plant that flag-staff in the earth, And round it rally, every son Who loves the State that gave him birth, Till her proud sovereignty be won. What though our limbs be weak with toil, What though we bear full many a scar; Huzza! here's to our native soil, _We re-enlist, and for the war_!

SOUTHLAND.

THE PRIZE SONG.[13]

They sing of the East, With its flowery feast, And clime of the North, with its mountains of snow; But give me the land Where the breezes blow bland, O'er realms of magnolia and myrtle below. The land of the South, The fair sunny South, The flower-crowned South, In its _grandeur_ for me.

Her sons are aye brave, And no chains can enslave, Though countless the hordes of their foemen may be; Ah! see, even now, As with battle-stained brow, They vanquish the Northmen on land and on sea! The land of the South, The young gallant South, The invincible South, In its _valor_ for me.

Her daughters are fair As the pure lilies there, And cheer her brave soldiers for freedom to die; Their smiles are the light Of the war-clouded night, Their tears are sweet dew-drops distilled from the sky. The land of the South, The sweet rosy South, The starry-gemmed South, In its _beauty_ for me!

In green blossomed dales, And in violet vales, And fields white with cotton, its dwellings once stood; The spoilers now seek Their vile vengeance to wreak, And darken this Eden with ashes and blood! The land of the South, The opulent South, The long-plundered South, In its _richness_ for me!

Oh, who would not stand With his life in his hand, To shield such a land from the feet of the foe? God made it thus free, And oh, perish must we, Before it can be in bondage laid low! The land of the South, The proud sovereign South, The God-shielded South, In its _freedom_ for me!

BEYOND THE POTOMAC.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.[14]

They slept on the fields which their valor had won! But arose with the first early blush of the sun, For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, When they passed o'er the River.

They rose with the sun, and caught life from his light-- Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight-- And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, Marching swift for the River.

On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills-- On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills-- And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills, At the thought of the River.

On! the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes, It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies, O'er the path to the River.

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore, On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before, Like the wings of Death-angels swept fast to the shore, The green shore of the River.

As they march--from the hill-side, the hamlet, the stream-- Gaunt throngs, whom the Foeman had manacled, teem, Like men just roused from some terrible dream, To pass o'er the River.

They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair, And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, While a peal as of victory swells on the air, Rolling out to the River.

And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread, Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed, And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead-- Ay! press on to the River.

On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills, On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills, As they pause by the River.

Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn, At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, And she turned on the Foeman full statured in scorn, Pointing stern to the River.

And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her breast, With her low-lying billows all bright in the west, For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest Of the fair rolling River.

Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide. (Hark, Despot! and hear the wild knell of your pride, Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side Of the calm flowing River.)

'Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall, Vain! vain! to his God swells a desolate call, For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall, Since they passed o'er the River.

TRUE TO THE GRAY.

BY PEARL RIVERS.

I can not listen to your words, the land is long and wide; Go seek some happy Northern girl to be your loving bride; My brothers they were soldiers--the youngest of the three Was slain while fighting by the side of gallant FITZHUGH LEE!

They left his body on the field (your side the day had won), A soldier spurn'd him with his foot--_you_ might have been the one; My lover was a soldier--he belonged to GORDON'S band; A saber pierced his gallant heart--_yours_ might have been the hand.

He reel'd and fell, but was not dead, a horseman spurred his steed, And trampled on the dying brain--_you_ may have done the deed: I hold no hatred in my heart, no cold, unrighteous pride, For many a gallant soldier fought upon the other side:

But still I can not kiss the hand that smote my country sore, Nor love the foes who trampled down the colors that she bore; Between my heart and yours there rolls a deep and crimson tide-- My brother's and my lover's blood forbid me be your bride.

The girls who loved the boys in gray--the girls to country true-- May ne'er in wedlock give their hands to those who wore the blue.

TELL THE BOYS THE WAR IS ENDED.

BY EMILY J. MOORE.

While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier, from the Eighth Arkansas Regiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the boys the war is ended."

"Tell the boys the war is ended," These were all the words he said; "Tell the boys the war is ended," In an instant more was dead. Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful Was the smile upon his face, While the pain, of late so fearful, Had not left the slightest trace.

"Tell the boys the war is ended," And with heavenly visions bright Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, As his spirit took its flight. "Tell the boys the war is ended," "Grant, O God, it may be so," Was the prayer which then ascended, In a whisper deep, though low.

"Tell the boys the war is ended," And his warfare then was o'er, As by angel bands attended, He departed from earth's shore. Bursting shells and cannons roaring Could not rouse him by their din; He to better worlds was soaring, Far from war, and pain, and sin.

BURN THE COTTON.

BY ESTELLE.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Let the solemn triumph rise; Fanned by Freedom's breath, its white wing Spreads her banner to the skies. "Melt the bells" is but re-echoed O'er our valley's gathered pride, Lay the cotton on the altar Where our loved have nobly died.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Does this sacrifice compare With the battle-field red flowing With the brave hearts offered there? They no more shall strike for Freedom, Never worship at her shrine-- To hurl back the fell invader, To avenge them--it is thine.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Down the Mississippi's tide Let it thunder, till its valleys Catch the echo, far and wide-- Frowning in its wrath, it rises, Spreads its dark wing o'er the land, Vetoes, in its swelling fury, Gain, to lure the robber band.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Pile the white fleece high and higher, Till the heavens reflect the glory Kindled by the patriot's fire. This shall teach the haughty foeman, Startle him too late, to find Chains were never made for freemen, Chains the Southern heart to bind.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Flaming sparks, instead of seed, Shall be sown in death and terror To the mongrel Yankee breed; And the _crowns_ who nod attendance On the treacherous Federal's lure, Feel too late the want and ruin, Unjust favor can not cure.

Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Let the record boldly stand; Not a bale for "filthy lucre"-- _All_ for Freedom to our land. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! From its ashes there shall spring Heralds of a new-born nation, Claiming still that "Cotton's King!"

MEMPHIS, TENN., _May 16, 1862_.

THE PRINTERS OF VIRGINIA TO "OLD ABE."

BY HARRY C. TREAKLE.

Though we're exempt, we're not the _metal_ To keep in when duty calls; But onward we will _press_, to settle This knotty _case_, with leaden _balls_; For our dear old mother State, the _fount_ From which we each our life did _take_, Is _locked up_ by a Vandal horde, And the honor of the _craft_'s at stake.

For _lean-faced_ Lincoln's after us-- His slim _shanks_ moving like a scout; But long before his _job_ is done, He'll find that all his _quads_ are _out_. For with Lee our _headline_--worthy _guide_-- We, _galley_-slaves will never be, But still _press_ onward by his side, For that _fat take_, sweet liberty!

Soon Abe will find what he's about Will cost him such a pile of rocks, Before his cherished _work_ is _out_, He'll have no _sorts_ in any _box_! For his _bank_ is now so very low, He scarce can _chase_ up _quoins_ to pay The hired scum, the foreign foe, Who comes to steal our rights away.

And his _chums_ now see, by his _foul matter_, To set _clean proof_ he ne'er was _cast_, And fears are felt that the gaunt old _ratter_ Will go _broadside_ to _hell_ at last, Where his friend, the _devil_, will welcome him, With _accents_ sweet--to his bosom fly, _Revise_ his _foul proof-sheets_ once more, And _knock_ his naked _form_ in _pi_.

And so to rush the base old _monk_ along, And bring the quiet soon about, We'll swell our _lines_ to _columns_ strong, And give no quarters till he's _out_; For Southern _jours._ now take a _stand_, Their _foremen_ marshaled at their _head_, And each with _shooting-stick_ in hand, Resolved they will his _matter lead_.

And while a foe is in the field, Our _hands_ still steady, our _leaders_ cool, Death we'll _em-brace_ before we'll yield; But, by God's help, we'll _stick_ and _rule_, And when, in after years to come, Our history's read by youth and sage, They'll make a _side-note_ of "well done," On this our _volume's_ brightest _page_.

NORFOLK, VA., _April 4, 1862_.

THE MARSEILLES HYMN.

_Translated and adapted as an ode_,

BY B. F. PORTER, OF ALABAMA.

Sons of the South, arise! awake! be free! Behold! the day of Southern glory comes. See where the blood-stained flag of tyranny Pollutes the air that breathes around your homes. Rise! Southern men, from villages and farms, Cry vengeance! Oh! shall worse than pirate slaves Strangle your children in their mothers' arms, And spit on dust that fills your fathers' graves? To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

What would these men, whose lives black treachery stains-- Conspirators, to plunder long endeared? For whom these vile, these ignominious chains-- These fetters, for our brother's hands prepared? Sons of the South, for us! Oh! bitter thought! What transports should our burning souls inspire! Shall Southern men, by mercenaries bought, Be sold to vassalage, from son to sire? To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

What! shall this groveling race, who cringe for gold, Make laws for Southern men, on Southern soil? Shall these degenerate hordes, to avarice sold, Crush freedom's sons, and Freedom's altars spoil? Great God! oh! by these iron-shackled hands, Ne'er shall our necks beneath their yokes be led. Of despots such as these, shall Southern bands Ne'er own the mastery, till every heart is dead. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

Tremble, O tyrants! and you, perfidious tools, Of every race and party long the scorn! Tremble, ye base, ye parricidal fools, The doom of treachery is already born. All Southern men are heroes in the fray; If fall they must, o'erpowered in the field, Long as the race endures, each child for aye Shall from his cradle strike the sounding shield. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

Sons of the South! magnanimous in war, Strike or withhold, as honor bids, your blows. Spare, if you will, those victims from afar, Who, ignorant of liberty, become your foes. But for these bastards of a free-born bed, These parasites, in Freedom's arms caressed, These beasts, by sin and spoil and rapine bred, Who dig for blood, deep in their mother's breast, To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

O sacred love of country! For the South, Come, brave avengers, rush to every field. Let cries of "Liberty" from every mouth Sound the alarm, till the base traitors yield. Under our glorious flag, let Victory Respond to Freedom's call. Wipe off the stain Of the invaders' feet. Dying, they will see Thy triumph, and the land redeemed again. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

_Nashville Gazette._

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON.

BY THE EXILE.

Aye, toll! toll! toll! Toll the funeral bell! And let its mournful echoes roll From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul That ever in battle fell.

Yes, weep! weep! weep! Weep for the hero fled! For death, the greatest of soldiers, at last Has over our leader his black pall cast, And from us his noble form hath passed To the home of the mighty dead.

Then toll! and weep! and mourn! Mourn the fall of the brave! For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation proud, At whose very name the enemy cowed, With the "crimson cross" for his martial shroud, Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave.

His form has passed away; His voice is silent and still; No more at the head of "the old brigade," The daring men who were never dismayed, Will he lead them to glory that never can fade-- Stonewall of the Iron Will!

He fell as a hero should fall; 'Mid the thunder of war he died. While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared, And the blood of the friend and foeman poured, He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword That erst was the nation's pride.

Virginia, his mother, is bowed; Her tread is heavy and slow. From all the South comes a wailing moan, And mountains and valleys re-echo the groan, For the gallant chief of her clans has flown, And a nation is filled with woe.

Rest, warrior! rest! Rest in thy laureled tomb! Thy mem'ry shall live through all of earth's years, And thy name still excite the despot's fears, While o'er thee shall fall a nation's tears; Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY MRS. C. D. ELDER.

Bright banner of freedom, with pride I unfold thee; Fair flag of my country, with love I behold thee, Gleaming above us, in freshness and youth, Emblem of liberty--symbol of truth; For this flag of my country in triumph shall wave O'er the Southerner's home and the Southerner's grave.

All bright are the stars that are beaming upon us, And bold are the bars that are gleaming above us; The one shall increase in their number and light, The other grow bolder in power and might; For this flag of my country in triumph shall wave O'er the Southerner's home or the Southerner's grave.

Those bars of bright red show our firm resolution To die, if need be, shielding thee from pollution; For man in this hour must give all he holds dear, And woman her prayers and her words of high cheer, If they wish this fair banner in triumph to wave O'er the Southerner's home and the Southerner's grave.

To the great God of battles we look with reliance; On our fierce Northern foe with contempt and defiance; For the South shall smile on in her fragrance and bloom When the North is fast sinking in silence and gloom; For the flag of our country in triumph must wave O'er the Southerner's home or the Southerner's grave.

NEW ORLEANS, LA.

THE SOUTH.

BY CHARLIE WILDWOOD.

The bright rose of beauty, unnurtured by art, And purity's lily doth thrive in thy heart, While honor hath crowned thee with glory's bright ray, And Flora hath decked thee with flowers of May. Oh, beautiful South! cherished home of my birth, Thou fairest, thou loveliest land of the earth! My heart, like the ivy, still clings unto thee, Oh, beautiful, beautiful land of the free! _Chorus_--The South! the South! my own beautiful South! Land of chivalry! home of liberty! Fondly I love thee, dear land of the South! Dear land of the South! dear land of the South!

Dear liberty, virtue, and truth, most sublime, The flowers that bloom in that sun-smiling clime, And these the base tyrant would crush to the earth, And mangle and bruise on the soil of their birth. All crimson thy land, with the life-glowing flood, And dabble his hands in thy heart's reeking blood! But oh! by the God of the righteous and free, Bright region! it never! no, never! shall be.

Like swarms of foul demons, his minions come down, And their war-rusted weapons insultingly frown, To fright thy fair fields with their bloody alarms, And rob thee, dear land, of all of thy charms. But thy free spirit still rides on the swift gale, Like the eagle that sweeps o'er the mountain and dale; And thy sons, they rush forth with the courage of men, To fight, and to bleed, and to conquer again.

The tyrant, with shackles, would manacle thee-- Would strangle thy spirit, dear land of the free, Would trample the banner of right in the dust, And yoke thee with iron, proud queen of the just! But the hearts of thy sons, unappalled by a fear, As their swords leap up fiercely and flame in the air, Now swear that it never! no! never! shall be, Bright queen of the lovely! sweet home of the free! _Chorus_--The South! the South, etc.

THE GIRLS OF THE MONUMENTAL CITY.

WRITTEN BY A CONFEDERATE PRISONER.

Daughters of the sunny South, Where Freedom loves to dwell, How rare your charms, how sweet your smiles, No mortal lips can tell; Your native hills, the rippling rills, The echo wild and free, Declare you born to hate and scorn All Northern tyranny.

Girls whose smiles are all reserved, The Southern youth to bless; Whose hearts are kept for those who fight For Freedom's happiness; Your spirits bold, so now unfold What willingly you would do, Where Yankee spirit--the tyrants might Not wield against you.

For you your loving brothers rush To overthrow the invader's might-- On martial field the sword they wield, And Yankee cowards smite. May heaven bless, with bright success, Each glorious Southern son; Be this your prayer, O maidens fair! And our freedom will be won.

Southern girls, on this we've sworn, The South _must_--_shall be free_-- No Northern shackles will be worn; To them we'll bend no knee. From hill to hill, exultant, shrill, Our battle-cry rings forth: Freedom or death on every breath, And hatred to the North.

Cease not to smile, brave Southern girls, On our efforts to be free-- Whilst life remains, we'll struggle on, Till all the world shall see That those who fight for home and right Can never be enslaved; Their blood may stain the battle-plain; Our country must be saved.

BALTIMORE, MD., _March, 1862_.

WAR SONG OF THE PARTISAN RANGERS.

BY BENJAMIN F. PORTER.

AIR--_McGregor's Gathering_.

The forests are green by the homes of the South, But the hearth-stones are red with the blood of her youth; Unfurl the black banner o'er mountain and vale, Let the war-cry of vengeance swell loud on the gale. Then gather, gather, gather, gather, gather; While there's leaf in the forest, and foam on the river, The cry of the South shall be Vengeance Forever!

Each drop of the blood of our children they've shed, Our foes shall atone for, in heaps of their dead; The signal for fight which our forefathers knew, Shall be heard in their midst in our vengeful halloo. Then gather, gather, etc.

Thro' their cities our horsemen, with sword and with flame, Shall carry the dread of the Southerner's name! At the sound of our bugles their strong men shall quail, And the cheeks of their wives and their mothers turn pale. Then gather, gather, etc.

They have blasted our fields, they have slaughtered our youth, And dishonored the names of the maids of the South; But the rivers shall dry, and the mountains be riven, Ere vengeance be quenched or our wrongs be forgiven. Then gather, gather, etc.