Part 8

Then rally from forest and rally from ford, Give their homes to the flames, and their sons to the sword; While a child shall be born in the South, let its cry Be, "Death to the Northmen, and vengeance for aye!"

_Greenville, Ala., Observer._

THE BAND IN THE PINES.

BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE.[15]

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease! Cease with your splendid call; The living are brave and noble, But the dead were bravest of all!

They throng to the martial summons, To the loud, triumphant strain; And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends Come to the heart again!

They come with the ringing bugle, And the deep drum's mellow roar; Till the soul is faint with longing For the hands we clasp no more!

Oh, band in the pine-woods, cease! Or the heart will melt in tears, For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, And the voices of old years.

SONG OF OUR GLORIOUS SOUTHLAND.

BY MRS. MARY WARE.

I.

Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, The pride of the golden sun! 'Tis the fairest land of flowers The eye e'er looked upon.

Sing of her orange and myrtle, That glitter like gems above; Sing of her dark-eyed maidens As fair as a dream of love.

Sing of her flowing rivers-- How musical their sound! Sing of her dark-green forests, The Indian hunting-ground.

Sing of the noble nation, Fierce struggling to be free; Sing of the brave who barter Their lives for liberty!

II.

Weep for the maid and matron Who mourn their loved ones slain; Sigh for the light departed, Never to shine again.

'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping, That never will comfort know; 'Tis the wail of desolation, The breaking of hearts in woe!

III.

Ah! the blood of Abel crieth For vengeance from the sod! 'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted In the face of an angry God!

Oh! brother of the Northland, We plead from our father's grave; We strike for our homes and altars, He fought to build and save!

A smoldering fire is burning, The Southern heart is steeled-- Perhaps 'twill break in dying, But never will it yield.

OLD BETSY.

BY JOHN KILLUM.

Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking Than live with arms folded the slave of the North.

Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.

Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you, When the fierce bear was cut down in his track-- If at that moment she never deceived you, Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.

Then come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking Than live with arms folded the slave of the North.

NO SURRENDER.

Ever constant, ever true, Let the word be, No Surrender. Boldly dare and greatly do! They shall bring us safely through, No Surrender; No Surrender. And though Fortune's smiles be few, Hope is always springing new, Still inspiring me and you, With a magic No Surrender.

Nail the colors to the mast, Shouting gladly, No Surrender; Troubles near are all but past, Serve them as you did the last. No Surrender, No Surrender; Though the skies be overcast, And upon the sleety blast Disappointment gathers fast, Beat them off with No Surrender!

Constant and courageous still, Mind, the word is, No Surrender; Battle, though it be up hill, Stagger not at seeming ill, No Surrender, No Surrender. Hope, and thus your hope fulfill; There's a way where there's a will, And the way all cares to kill Is to give them No Surrender.

N. P. W.

ARM FOR THE SOUTHERN LAND.

BY GEN. MIRABEAU B. LAMAR.

Arm for the Southern Land, All fear of death disdaining; Low lay the tyrant band, Our sacred rights profaning! Each hero draws in Freedom's cause, And meets the foe with bravery; The servile race, and Tory base, May safety seek in slavery. Chains for the dastard knave-- Recreant limbs should wear them; But blessings on the brave Whose valor will not bear them!

Stand by your injured State, And let no feuds divide you; On tyrants pour your hate, And common vengeance guide you. Our foes should feel proud freemen's steel, For freemen's rights contending; Where'er they die, there let them lie, To dust in scorn descending. Thus may each traitor fall Who dare as foe invade us; Eternal fame to all Who shall in battle aid us!

Proud land! shall she invoke Another's hand to right her? No! her own avenging stroke Shall backward roll the smiter. Ye tyrant band, with ropes of sand Go bind the rushing river; More weak and vain your cursed chain, While God is freedom's giver. Then welcome to the day We meet the proud oppressor, For God will be our stay, Our right hand and redresser.

THINKING OF THE SOLDIERS.

We were sitting around the table, Just a night or two ago, In the little cozy parlor, With the lamp-light burning low, And the window-blinds half opened, For the summer air to come, And the painted curtains moving Like a busy pendulum.

Oh! the cushions on the sofa, And the pictures on the wall, And the gathering of comforts, In the old familiar hall; And the wagging of the pointer, Lounging idly by the door, And the flitting of the shadows From the ceiling to the floor.

Oh! they wakened in my spirit, Like the beautiful in art, Such a busy, busy thinking-- Such a dreaminess of heart, That I sat among the shadows, With my spirit all astray; Thinking only--thinking only Of the soldiers far away;

Of the tents beneath the moonlight, Of the stirring tattoo's sound, Of the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the ground; Of the icy winter coming, Of the cold bleak winds that blow, And the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the snow.

Of the blight upon the heather, And the frost upon the hill, And the whistling, whistling ever, And the never, never still; Of the little leaflets falling, With the sweetest, saddest sound-- And the soldier--oh! the soldier, In his blanket on the ground.

Thus I lingered in my dreaming, In my dreaming far away, Till the spirit's picture-painting Seemed as vivid as the day; And the moonlight faded softly From the window opened wide, And the faithful, faithful pointer Nestled closer by my side.

And I knew that 'neath the starlight, Though the chilly frosts may fall, That the soldier will be dreaming, Dreaming often of us all. So I gave my spirit's painting Just the breathing of a sound, For the dreaming, dreaming soldier, In his slumber on the ground.

_November 24, 1861._

THE DYING SOLDIER.

BY JAMES A. MECKLIN.

Gather round him where he's lying, Hush your footsteps, whisper low, For a soldier here is dying, In the sunset's radiant glow.

Beating, beating, slowly beating, Runs the life-blood through his frame; Swift the soldier's breath is fleeting, And he calls his mother's name:

"Mother, mother, come and kiss me, Ere my spirit fades away, For I know you oft will miss me, When you watch the sinking day.

"Brother, sister, nearer, nearer! Place, oh, place your hands in mine, You whose love than life was dearer, Let your arms around me twine.

"Father, see the sun is fading From the hill-tops of the west, And the valley night is shading-- Farewell, loved ones, I'm at rest."

Dying, dying! yes, he's dying! Close the eyelids, let him rest; No more sorrow, no more sighing, E'er again shall heave his breast.

Sleeping, sleeping, calmly sleeping, In the church-yard cold and drear, And the wintry winds are heaping O'er him leaflets brown and sear.

And he's resting, where forever Clang of trumpet, roll of drum, Roar of cannon, never, never, Never more to him shall come.

PENSACOLA: TO MY SON.

BY M. S.

Beautiful the land may be, Its groves of palm, its laurel-trees, And o'er the smiling, murm'ring sea, Soft may blow the Southern breeze-- And land, and sea, and balmy air, May make a home of beauty there.

And bright beneath Floridian sky, The world to thy young fancy seems: I see the light that fills thine eye, I know what spirit rules thy dreams; But flower-gemmed shore and rippling sea Are darker than the grave to me;

For storms are lowering in that sky, And sad may be that fair land's doom; Full soon, perhaps, the battle-cry May wake the cannon's fearful boom, And shot and shell from o'er the waves May plow the rose's bed for graves.

And we, whose dear ones cluster there, We, mothers, who have let them go-- Our all, perhaps--how shall we bear That which another week may show? The love which made our lives, all gone, Our hearts left desolate and lone!

Country! what to _me_ that name, Should I in vain demand my son? Glory! what a nation's fame? Home! home, without thee, I have none; Ah! stay--this Southern land not _mine_? The land that e'en in death is thine!

A country's laurel-wreath for thee, A _hero's grave_--my own! my own! And neither land nor home for _me_, Because a _mother's_ hope is gone? Traitor I am! God's laws command That, NEXT TO HEAVEN, OUR NATIVE LAND!

And I will not retract--ah! no-- What, in my pride of home, I said, That, "_I would give my son to go Where'er our_ HERO RULER _led_!" The mother's heart may burst--but still, Make it, O God, to know Thy will.

NEW ORLEANS, LA.

THE VOLUNTEERS TO THE "MELISH."

BY WM. C. ESTRES.

Come forth, ye gallant heroes, Rub up each rusty gun, And face these hireling Yankees, Who live by tap of drum. We Volunteers are wearied, By a twelve months' "sojourn"; We want to rest a little, And then we'll fight "again."

We've won some five pitched battles, But will yield you our "posish"; And if you want some glory, Why pitch in now, "Melish." Don't refuse to leave your spouses; Our own are just as dear, And each lonely little woman Longs for her Volunteer.

Don't mind your sobbing sweethearts; For though 'tis hard to part, We'll volunteer to cheer 'em, And console each troubled heart. For the sake of old Virginia, Come and fight! _that's if you can_, And let your prattling babies Know their daddy was a man.

For you _we've_ fought and struggled; Had "no furloughs"--nary one-- We want a little resting, And so we're coming home. Then _forward_, bold Militia! "If you're coming, come along," Or, by the gods! we'll force you out To your duty--right or wrong.

THE TURTLE.

Caesar, afloat with his fortunes! And all the world agog, Straining its eyes At a thing that lies In the water, like a log! It's a weasel! a whale! I see its tail! It's a porpoise! a polywog!

Tarnation! it's a _turtle_! And blast my bones and skin, My hearties, sink her, Or else you'll think her A regular terror--pin!

The frigate poured a broadside! The bombs they whistled well, But--hit old Nick With a sugar stick! It didn't phase her shell!

_Piff_, from the creature's larboard-- And dipping along the water A bullet hissed From a wreath of mist Into a Doodle's quarter!

_Raff_, from the creature's starboard-- _Rip_, from his ugly snorter, And the Congress and The Cumberland Sunk, and nothing--shorter.

Now, here's to you, Virginia, And you are bound to win! By your rate of bobbing round And your way of pitchin' in-- For you are a cross Of the old sea-horse And a regular terror--pin.

JACKSON.

BY HENRY L. FLASH.

Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the Great Leader low.

_His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke, In the full sunshine of a peaceful town_; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause, went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recording all his grand, heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the Nation's Promised Land At the red belching of the cannon's mouth; But broke the House of Bondage with his hand-- The Moses of the South!

O gracious God! not gainless is the loss: A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; _And while his country staggers with the cross, He rises with the crown!_

SONG OF THE PRIVATEER.

BY ALEX H. CUMMINS.

Fearlessly the seas we roam, Tossed by each briny wave; Its boundless surface is our home, Its bosom deep our grave. No foreign mandate fills with awe Our gallant-hearted band; We know no home, we know no law, But that of Dixie's land.

The bright star is our compass true, Our chart the ocean wide; Our only hope the noble few That's standing side by side. We do not fear the stormy gale That sweeps old ocean's strand; We scorn our enemy's clumsy sail, And all for Dixie's land.

We love to hoist to the topmost peak _Our Southern Stars and Stripes_; And woe to him who dares to seek To trample on their rights! It is the aegis of the free, And by it we will stand, And watch it waving o'er the sea, And over Dixie's land.

We love to roam the deep, deep sea, And hear the cannon's boom, And give the war-cry wild and free Amid the battle's gloom. We do not fight alone for gain, So far from native strand; But our country's freedom and its fame, And the fair of Dixie's land.

NO UNION MEN.

BY MILLIE MAYFIELD.

"On the 21st, five of the enemy's steamers approached Washington, N. C., and landed a hundred Yankees, who marched through the town, playing 'Yankee Doodle,' hoisted their flag on the court-house, and destroyed gun-carriages and an unfinished gun-boat in the ship-yard. The people preserved a sullen and unresisting silence. The Yankees then left, saying they were disappointed in not finding Union men."--_Telegram from Charleston, March 29, 1862._

"Union men!" O thrice-fooled fools! As well might ye hope to bind The desert sands with a silken thread, When tossed by the whistling wind, Or to blend the shattered waves that lash The feet of the cleaving rock, When the tempest walks the face of the deep, And the water-spirits mock, As the severed chain to reunite In a peaceful link again; On our burning homesteads ye may write, "We found no Union men."

Aye, hoist your old dishonored flag, And pipe your worn-out tune; The hills of the South have caught the strain, And will answer it full soon; Not with the sycophantic tone, And the cringing knee bent low-- The deep-mouthed cannon shall bear the tale, Where the sword deals blow for blow; Our braying trumpets in your ears, Shall defiant shout again, "Back, wolves and foxes, to your lairs, Here are no Union men!"

_Union_, with tastes dissimilar? Such Union is the worst And direst form of bondage that Nations or men have cursed! _Union with traitors?_ Hear ye not That cry for vengeance, deep, Where hand to hand, and foot to foot, Our glittering columns sweep? Our iron-tongued artillery Shouts through the bristling glen, To the war-drum echoing reveille, "Here are no Union men!"

Oh, deep have sunken the burning seeds That the winged winds have borne, That for all your future years must yield The thistle and prison-thorn; Our soil was genial--ye might have sown A harvest rich. 'Tis too late! To our children's children we leave for you But a heritage of Hate! Ye have opened the wild flood-gates of war, And we may not the torrent pen; But ye seek in vain on our storm-beat shore For the myth called "Union Men."

HARP OF THE SOUTH.

A SONNET. BY "CORA."

Harp of the South, awake! A loftier strain Than ever yet thy tuneful strings has stirred, Awaits thee now. The Eastern world has heard The thunder of the battle 'cross the main-- Has seen the young South burst the tyrant's chain, And rise to being at a single word-- The watchword, Liberty--so long transferred To the oppressor's mouth. Moons wax and wane, And still the nations stand with listening ear, And still o'er ocean floats the battle-cry. Harp of the South, awake, and bid them hear The name of Jackson; loud, and clear, and high, Strike notes exultant, o'er the hero's bier, Who, though he sleeps in dust, can never die.

WHAT THE SPIRITS OF THE FATHERS OF THE FIRST REVOLUTION SAY TO THEIR SONS NOW ENGAGED IN THE SECOND.

BY HENRY LOMAS.

We are watching that land where Liberty woke-- Like beams of the morning through darkness it broke-- Then up from the mountain the bold eagle sprung, And wide to the breeze his broad pinions flung. Rise! rise! ye sons of the South and be free!

The mighty have fallen, yet death can not chill, Those noble emotions the soul ever thrill; The grave hath no confines the spirit to hold, While back to its kindred it flies to unfold Truth! Truth! safeguard of the South and the free.

Shall Washington rest, while a wail of discord Reminds him the North is forgetting the Lord? Will hero and statesman--the country's bright light-- Look down without pity from yonder far height, On this Land of Hope, for the brave and the free?

That same noble spirit now watches above, With thousands of others, to guide and guard you with love; For here, true, earnest, and brave men are found, With hearts uncorrupted, to their native land bound. Awake! awake! O ye sons of the South, and be free!

Down with the hireling that seeks now to rend The homes which your ancestors fought to defend; Rekindle the beacon ere the last spark is fled, And light up the camp-fires round Liberty's bed! Ye sons of the sunny South, strike to be free!

Fear not the Northern despot, or his feeble frown, Who seeks, through his minions, the South to put down; Look to your God, from whence comes all power, And seek His aid and protection in each darkened hour. Strike again and again, O ye sons of the free!

Carolina's sons to this platform have come-- Protection to Liberty, to fireside, and home-- Their watch-word to-day, as their Fathers' of old, Truth, Justice, and Freedom, before Northern gold. Ye are the sons of the Fathers who bled to be free!

Then loud ring the anvil, the hammer, and bell; The South her new anthem, say what does it tell? Cotton, Grain, and Sugar, have proved threefold cord-- Columbia, the envied, the blest of the Lord! Sun of the sunny land, shine still o'er the free!

On heaven's fair arches, see graven the names Of patriot and soldier, who drained life's pure veins; Then down with the Northern despot, let him hide his head, Who by heartless oppression would sever one thread Of this Southern Confederacy, the hope of the free!

Once again at the altar, brothers, gather and kneel; Our pledge, the South--one family, in woe or in weal; One God and one Country--in peace or in war; The South, Free, United, and Truth the pole-star Of this sunny land, which for ye must be free!

HEART-VICTORIES.

BY A SOLDIER'S WIFE.

There's not a stately hall, There's not a cottage fair, That proudly stands on Southern soil, Or softly nestles there, But in its peaceful walls, With wealth or comfort blest, A stormy battle fierce hath raged In gentle woman's breast.

There Love, the true, the brave, The beautiful, the strong, Wrestles with Duty, gaunt and stern, Wrestles and struggles long; He falls--no more again His giant foe to meet; Bleeding at every opening vein, Love falls at Duty's feet.

Oh! daughter of the South! No victor's crown be thine; Not thine, upon the tented field, In martial pomp to shine; But, with unfaltering trust In Him who rules on high, To deck thy loved ones for the fray, And send them forth to die.

With wildly throbbing heart-- With faint and trembling breath-- The maiden speeds her lover on, To victory or death; Forth from caressing arms, The mother sends her son, And bids him nobly battle on, Till the last field is won.

While she, the tried, the true, The loving wife of years, Chokes down the rising agony, Drives back the starting tears: "I yield thee up," she cries, "In the country's cause to fight; Strike for our own, our children's home, And God defend the right."

Oh! daughter of the South, When our fair land is free, When peace her lovely mantle throws Softly o'er land and sea, History shall tell, how thou Hast nobly borne thy part, And won the proudest triumphs yet-- The victories of the heart.

SEVENTY-SIX AND SIXTY-ONE.

BY JOHN W. OVERALL.

Ye spirits of the glorious dead! Ye watchers in the sky! Who sought the patriot's crimson bed, With holy trust and high-- Come, lend your inspiration now, Come, fire each Southern son, Who nobly fights for freemen's rights, And shouts for sixty-one.

Come, teach them how on hill, on glade, Quick leaping from your side, The lightning flash of sabers made A red and flowing tide; How well ye fought, how bravely fell, Beneath our burning sun, And let the lyre, in strains of fire, So speak of sixty-one.

There's many a grave in all the land, And many a crucifix, Which tells how that heroic band Stood firm in seventy-six-- Ye heroes of the deathless past, Your glorious race is run, But from your dust springs freemen's trust, And blows for sixty-one.

We build our altars where you lie, On many a verdant sod, With sabers pointing to the sky, And sanctified of God; The smoke shall rise from every pile, Till Freedom's cause is won, And every mouth throughout the South Shall shout for sixty-one!

KENTUCKY.

BY ESTELLE.

"Just send for us Kentucky boys, And we'll protect you, ladies."--_Old Song._

Then, leave us not, Kentucky boys, Though thick upon thy border, The vulture flaps his restless wing, And scowls the dark marauder.

Kentucky blood is just as proud, Kentucky powder ready, Kentucky hearts are just as brave, Kentucky nerve as steady,

As when the flag we once revered, Unfolded o'er her proudly, And for the South, Kentucky's voice, Undaunted, echoed loudly.

The lion-hearted hero then, Who led that gallant number, Must surely feel a sad unrest Disturb his death-cold slumber.

And one whose sire, on history's page, Is blent in proudest story, Fell on a Southern field, and bathed His dying brow in glory.

Fell, overcome by savage foes, Yet still their rage defying; "_These_, give my father," cried the son, "And tell him how I'm dying."

But now that flag is vilely stained, Its sacred rights invaded-- Wrong and dishonor wield the staff; Its glory's sadly shaded.

And when we would its dying spark Snatch from the blackening ashes, And worship once again its light, As through the world it flashes,

Kentucky leans upon her arms, And coldly looks about her, Till hirelings, at her very door, Dare threaten, and to flout her.

Desert us now, Kentucky boys, And on the future dawning, Thy faded glory scarce will streak The first gray light of morning.