Part 11

Brave Beauregard, God bless him! Led legions in his stead, While Johnson seized the colors, And waved them o'er his head. So rising generations, With pleasure we will tell, How bravely our Fisher, And gallant Johnson fell. CHORUS.

_Raleigh Register._

THE BAND IN THE PINES.

By JOHN ESTEN COOKE.

O 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 in the martial summons, 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-- And the soul is faint with longing For the hands we clasp no more!

O band in the pine wood, cease! Or the heart will melt in tears, For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, And the voices of old years!

_Southern Illustrated News._

MY WARRIOR BOY.

_Metropolitan Record._

Music by A. E. A. MUSE.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

Thou hast gone forth, my darling one, To battle with the brave, To strike in Freedom's sacred cause, Or win an early grave; With vet'rans grim, and stalwart men, Thy pathway lieth now, Though fifteen summers scarce have shed Their blossoms on thy brow.

My babe in years, my warrior boy! O! if a mother's tears Could call thee back to be my joy, And still these anxious fears, I'd dash the traitor drops away, That would unnerve thy hand, Now raised to strike in Freedom's cause, For thy dear native land.

God speed thee on thy course, my boy, Where'er thy pathway lie, And guard thee when the leaden hail, Shall thick around thee fly; But when our sacred cause is won, And peace again shall reign, Come back to me, my darling son, And light my life again.

THE REBEL BAND.

Old Eve she did the apple eat, Old Eve she did the apple eat, Old Eve she did the apple eat, And smacked her lips and called it sweet.

CHORUS.--Do you belong to the rebel band, Fighting for your home.

There was a time, the poets say, There was a time, the poets say, There was a time, the poets say, When this world was washed away. CHORUS.

How old Noah built him an ark, How old Noah built him an ark, How old Noah built him an ark, Of gopher wood and hickory bark. CHORUS.

The ark rested on Mount Ararat, The ark rested on Mount Ararat, The ark rested on Mount Ararat, A mile and a half from Manassas' Gap. CHORUS.

The animals came in two by two, The animals came in two by two, The animals came in two by two, The camamile and the kangaroo. CHORUS.

Now old Noah got very drunk, Now old Noah got very drunk, Now old Noah got very drunk, And old Ham pulled him out of his bunk. CHORUS.

Old Noah got mad as he could be, Old Noah got mad as he could be, Old Noah got mad as he could be, And sent old Ham to Afrikee. CHORUS.

THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY.

Words by FATHER RYAN.

Music by W. LUDDEN.

Young as the youngest who donned the gray, True as the truest who wore it, Brave as the bravest he marched away, (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay); Triumphant waved our flag one day, He fell in the front before it.

CHORUS.--A grave in the wood with the grass o'ergrown, A grave in the heart of his mother, His clay in the one, lifeless and lone, But his memory lives in the other.

Firm as the firmest where duty led, He hurried without a falter; Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won--but the field was red; And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed, On his country's hallowed altar. CHORUS.

On the trampled breast of the battle plain, Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, The fairest form 'mid all the slain, Like a child asleep he nestled.

In the solemn of the woods that swept The field where his comrades found him, They buried him there--and strong men wept, As in silence they gathered 'round him. CHORUS.

THE CAVALIER'S GLEE.

By CAPT. BLACKFORD, of General Stuart's Staff.

_Air--"The Pirate's Glee."_

Spur on! spur on! we love the bounding Of barbs that bear us to the fray; "The charge" our bugles now are sounding, And our bold Stuart leads the way.

CHORUS.--The path to honor lies before us Our hated foeman gather fast; At home bright eyes are sparkling for us, And we'll defend them to the last.

Spur on! spur on! we love the rushing Of steeds that spurn the turf they tread; We'll through the Northern ranks go crushing, With our proud battle-flag o'erhead. CHORUS.

Spur on! spur on! we love the flashing Of blades that battle to be free; 'Tis for our sunny South they're clashing, For household gods and liberty. CHORUS.

SONG.

_Air--"Faintly Flows the Falling River."_

Here we bring a fragrant tribute, To the bed where valor sleeps, Though they missed the victor's triumph, O'er their tomb a nation weeps, Honor through all time be rendered, To their proud, heroic names, Fondly be their mem'ry cherished, Bright their never-dying fame.

Glowing in young manhood's beauty, Sprang they at their country's call, Made before the foeman's legions 'Round our homes a living wall. By disease's foul breath withered, Ere had dawned the battle-day, On the fever couch of anguish, Thousands passed from earth away.

Thousands, after deeds whose daring, With their glory filled the land, Fell before the flying foeman, On the fields won by their hand. Mourning o'er the fruitless struggle, Bowed beneath the hand of God, Come we weeping and yet proudly, Now to deck this sacred sod.

WE CONQUER OR DIE.

By JAMES PIERPONT, 1861.

Permission of HENRI WEHRMAN.

The war drum is beating; prepare for the fight, The stern bigot Northman exults in his might, Gird on your bright weapons, your foeman is nigh, And this be your watchword, "We conquer or die."

The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore, Your swords and your lances must slumber no more. Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high, Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die."

March on to the battlefield, there do or dare, With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share, And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky, Till the blue arch re-echoes, "We conquer or die."

Press forward undaunted, no thought of retreat, The enemy's host on the threshold to meet, Strike firm, 'til the foemen before you shall fly, Appalled by the watchword, "We conquer or die."

Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod; We too fight for freedom, our Captain is God, Their blood in our veins, with their honor we vie; Their's too was the watchword, "We conquer or die."

We strike for the South: mountains, valley and plain, For the South we will conquer, again and again, Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh, Our's then be the watchword, "We conquer or die."

GOD WILL DEFEND THE RIGHT.

Words and Music by a Lady of Richmond.

[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

Sons of the South arise, Rise in your matchless might, Your war-cry echo to the skies, "God will defend the right." Let-haughty tyrants know, Our sunny land shall be In spite of every foe, Home of the brave and free.

CHORUS.--Sons of the South arise, Rise in your matchless might, Your war-cry echo to the skies, "God will defend the right."

Our flag shall proudly stream, Defiant of assault, Bars of rainbows brightest beam, And stars from Heaven's blue vault. Thousands of true and brave, Their hero lives may end, O'er thousands that flag shall wave, Thousands its folds defend. CHORUS.

No wrongs our breasts alarm, No fears our hearts appal, Unswerving justice nerves our arm, We cannot conquered fall. Think on our noble sires, Immortal in renown, Think on our altar-fires, And strike the oppressor down! CHORUS.

With threats of horror dire, The fierce invader comes; We scorn his boasts, we scorn his ire, Striking for hearths and homes. Strike for our mothers now, For daughters, sisters, wives, Truly would each bestow, Were it ten thousand lives. CHORUS.

RICHMOND ON THE JAMES;

OR, THE DYING TEXAS SOLDIER BOY.

A Parody by ANNIE MARIE NEEBY.

A soldier boy from Texas lay gasping on the field, When the battle's shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield; He fell, a youthful hero, before the foeman'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 in boyhood's happy day; And side by side had struggled on fields of blood and flames, To part that eve at Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

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

"Bear to my brother this sword, 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 the mother still that dreams Of her soldier boy near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

"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 hearthlight gleams, For her soldier boy's safe return from Richmond on the James.

"And on my heart, dear comrade, lay close these auburn braids, Of one that is 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.

"O, 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 tho' I know, dear comrade, thou'lt miss me for a while, When their faces--all left to love 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."

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

RICHMOND IS A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL.

Dedicated to GEN'L A. E. BURNSIDE.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

Would you like to hear my song, I'm afraid it's rather long, Of the famous "on to Richmond" double trouble; Of the half a dozen trips, and half a dozen slips, And the very latest bursting of the bubble? 'Tis pretty hard to sing, and like a round, round ring, 'Tis a dreadful knotty puzzle to unravel, Though all the papers swore, when we touched Virginia's shore, That Richmond was a hard road to travel.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For Richmond is a hard road to travel; Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

First, McDowell, bold and gay, set forth the shortest way, By Manassas, in the pleasant Summer weather, But unfortunately ran on a Stonewall, foolish man, And had a "rocky journey" altogether; And he found it rather hard to ride o'er Beauregard, And Johnston proved a deuce of a bother, And 'twas clear, beyond a doubt, that he didn't like the route, And a second time would have to try another.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For Manassas is a hard road to travel, Manassas gave us fits, and Bull Run made us grieve, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

Next came the Woolly-Horse,[12] with an overwhelming force, To march down to Richmond by the Valley, But he couldn't find the road, and his "onward movement" showed His campaigning was a mere shilly-shally. Then Commissary Banks, with his motley, foreign ranks, Kicking up a great noise, fuss and flurry, Lost the whole of his supplies, and with tears in his eyes, From the Stonewall ran away in a hurry.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For the Valley is a hard road to travel, The Valley wouldn't do, and we had all to leave, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

Then the great Galena came, with her port-holes all aflame, And the Monitor, that famous naval wonder, But the guns at Drury's Bluff gave them speedily enough, The loudest sort of reg'lar Rebel thunder. The Galena was astonished and the Monitor admonished, Our patent shot and shell were mocked at, While the dreadful Naugatuck, by the hardest kind of luck, Was knocked into an ugly cocked hat.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For James River is a hard road to travel, The gun-boats gave it up in terror and despair, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I declare!

Then McClellan followed soon, both with spade and balloon, To try the Peninsular approaches, But one and all agreed that his best rate of speed, Was no faster than the slowest of "slow coaches." Instead of easy ground, at Williamsburg he found A Longstreet indeed, and nothing shorter, And it put him in the dumps, that spades wasn't trumps, And the Hills he couldn't level "as he orter."

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For Longstreet is a hard road to travel, Lay down the shovel and throw away the spade, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I'm afraid.

Then said Lincoln unto Pope, "You can make the trip, I hope;" "I will save the universal Yankee nation, To make sure of no defeat, I'll leave no lines of retreat, And issue a famous proclamation." But that same dreaded Jackson, this fellow laid his whacks on, And made him by compulsion, a seceder.[13] And Pope took rapid flight from Manassas' second fight, 'Twas his very last appearance as a leader.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For Stonewall is a hard road to travel, Pope did his very best, but was evidently sold, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I'm told!

Last of all the _brave_ Burnside, with his pontoon bridge, tried A road no one had thought of before him, With two hundred thousand men for the Rebel slaughter pen, And the blessed Union flag waving o'er him, But he met a fire like hell, of canister and shell, That mowed his men down with great slaughter, 'Twas a shocking sight to view, that second Waterloo, And the river ran with more blood than water.

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, Rappahannock is a hard road to travel, Burnside got in a trap, which caused him for to grieve, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

We are very much perplexed to know who is the next To command the new Richmond expedition, For the Capital _must blaze_, and that in ninety days, And Jeff and his men be sent to perdition. We'll take the cursed town, and then we'll burn it down, And plunder and hang each cursed rebel; Yet the contraband was right when he told us they would fight, "Oh! yes, massa, they fight like the devil."

CHORUS.--Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For Richmond is a hard road to travel; Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, For Richmond is a hard road to travel, I believe!

THE SOUTHRON'S WATCHWORD.

In Imitation of an English Song of the Crimean War.

By M. F. BIGNEY, 1861.

Music from S. GLOVER.

What shall the Southron's watchword be, Fighting for us on land and sea? Bearing our flag o'er the billow's foam, Shedding his blood for his Southern home? To bleed and conquer he's bravely gone; Freedom and glory still urge him on. Then shall the Southron's watchword be, "The grave of the hero or victory!"

What shall the Southron's watchword be, Bearing the banner that proves him free? Bravely he dashes amid the strife, For home and country, for child and wife; His aims are bright and his hopes are high; His brave resolve is to do or die; Then shall the Southron's watchword be, "The grave of the hero or victory!"

What shall the Southron's watchword be, Fighting the battles of liberty? Holy the light on his manly brow, The victor's wreath or the cypress bough! Such are the thoughts which the brave inspire, Filling their souls with the soldier's fire; Then shall the Southron's watchword be, "The grave of the hero or victory!"

THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET.

Words by JAMES B. RANDALL.

Music by EDWARD O. EATON.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

By blue Patapsco's billowy dash, The tyrant's war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal's fitful clash, And the roll 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, We 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' 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!"

_New Orleans Delta_, Sept., 1861.

YOU ARE GOING TO THE WARS, WILLIE BOY!

Words and Music by JOHN H. HEWITT.

You are going to the wars, Willie boy, Willie boy, You are going to the wars far away, To protect our rights and laws, Willie boy, Willie boy, And the banner in the sun's golden ray; With your uniform all new, And your shining buttons, too, You'll win the hearts of pretty girls, But none like me so true. Oh, won't you think of me, Willie boy, Willie boy; Oh, won't you think of me when far away? I'll often think of ye, Willie boy, Willie boy, And ever for your life and glory pray.

You'll be fighting for the right, Willie boy, Willie boy, You'll be fighting for the right, and your home; And you'll strike the blow with might, Willie boy, Willie boy, 'Mid the thundering of cannon and of drum; With an arm as true as steel, You'll make the foeman feel, The vengeance of a Southerner, Too proud to cringe or kneel; Oh, should you fall in strife, Willie boy, Willie boy, Oh, should you fall in strife on the plain, I'll pine away my life, Willie boy, Willie boy, And never, never smile again.

MY MARYLAND.

Written at Pointe Coupee, La., April 26, 1861. First published in the _New Orleans Delta_.

By JAMES R. RANDALL.

[The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

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 an exiled son's appeal, Maryland! My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life or 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 ring thy dauntless slogan-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! For 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 shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!

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

REBEL TOASTS; OR, DRINK IT DOWN!

Oh, here's to South Carolina! drink it down, Here's to South Carolina, drink it down, Here's to South Carolina, the first to open up the fray.