Part 3

Make every house, and rock, and tree, And hill, your forts; and fen and flood Yield not! our soil shall rather be One waste of flame, one sea of blood! On! though perennial be the strife, For honor dear, for hearthstone fires; Give blow for blow! take life for life! "Strike! 'till the last armed foe expires!" CHORUS.

WE'LL BE FREE IN MARYLAND.

By R. E. HOLTZ.

_Air--"Gideon's Band."_

The boys down South in Dixie's land, The boys down South in Dixie's land, The boys down South in Dixie's land Will come and rescue Maryland.

CHORUS.--If you will join the Dixie band, Here's my heart and here's my hand, If you will join the Dixie band; We're fighting for a home.

The Northern foes have trod us down, The Northern foes have trod us down, The Northern foes have trod us down, But we will rise with true renown. CHORUS.

The tyrants they must leave our door, The tyrants they must leave our door, The tyrants they must leave our door, Then we'll be free in Baltimore. CHORUS.

These hirelings they'll never stand, These hirelings they'll never stand, These hirelings they'll never stand, Whenever they see the Southern band. CHORUS.

Old Abe has got into a trap, Old Abe has got into a trap, Old Abe has got into a trap, And he can't get out with his Scotch cap. CHORUS.

Nobody's hurt is easy spun, Nobody's hurt is easy spun, Nobody's hurt is easy spun, But the Yankees caught it at Bull Run. CHORUS.

We'll rally to Jeff Davis true, Beauregard and Johnston, too, Magruder, Price, and General Bragg, And give three cheers for the Southern Flag. CHORUS.

We'll drink this toast to one and all, Keep cocked and primed for the Southern call; The day will come, we'll make a stand, Then we'll be free in Maryland. CHORUS.

JANUARY 30, 1862.

THE SOUTHRON'S WAR-SONG.

By J. A. WAGINER. _Charleston Courier._

Arise! arise! with main and might, Sons of the sunny clime! Gird on the sword; the sacred fight The holy hour doth chime. Arise, the craven host draws nigh, In thundering array; Arise! ye braves! let cowards fly-- The hero bides the fray.

Strike hard, strike hard, thou noble band; Strike hard with arm of fire! Strike hard, for God and fatherland, For mother, wife, and sire! Let thunders roar, the lightning flash Bold Southrons never fear The bay'net's point, the sabre's crash-- True Southrons, do and dare!

Bright flow'rs spring from the hero's grave; The craven knows no rest! Thrice curs'd the traitor and the knave! The hero thrice is bless'd. Then let each noble Southron stand, With bold and manly eye: We'll do for God and fatherland; We'll do, we'll do, or die!

KNITTING FOR THE SOLDIERS.

By MARY J. UPSHUR.

Knitting for the soldiers. How the needles fly! Now with sounds of merriment-- Now with many a sigh!

Knitting for the soldiers! Panoply for feet-- Onward, bound to victory! Rushing in retreat!

Knitting for the soldiers! Wrinkled--aged crone, Plying flying needles By the ember stone.

Crooning ancient ballads, Rocking to and fro, In your sage divining, Say where these shall go?

Jaunty set of stockings, Neat from top to toe, March they with the victor? Lie with vanquished low?

Knitting for the soldiers! Matron--merry maid, Many and many a blessing, Many a prayer is said,

While the glittering needles Fly "around! around!" Like to Macbeth's witches On enchanted ground.

Knitting for the soldiers Still another pair! And the feet that wear them Speed thee onward--where?

To the silent city, On their trackless way? Homeward--bearing garlands? Who of us shall say?

Knitting for the soldiers! Heaven bless them all! Those who win the battle, Those who fighting fall.

Might our benedictions Speedily win reply, Early would they crown ye All with victory.

NORFOLK, VA., October 8, 1861.

PATRIOTIC SONG.

By DR. JOHN W. PAINE, Lexington, Va., June 30, 1862.

_Air--"Gathering of the Clans."_

Rise, rise, mountain and valley men, Bald sire and beardless son, each come in order, True loyal patriots, muster and rally, men; Drive the invader clear over the border; Down from the mountain steep, up from the valley deep, Come from the city, the town, and the village, Let every loyal heart in the strife take a part, Rescue our country from rapine and pillage. Rise, rise, etc.

Men of the valley, descendants of heroes-- Heroes whom Washington honored and trusted-- Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers, Men who have never been daunted or worsted; Long, like all true men, we cherished the Union, Long did we strive for our country's salvation; Now when our very existence is threatened, Rush to the rescue without hesitation. Rise, rise, etc.

Say, shall we suffer the ruthless invader O'er our fair valley to marshal his legions? Loud calls Virginia, let every man aid her-- Aid her, and thus show his truth and allegiance. Hark to the battle-cry, rush on to victory! Banished forever be party and faction; Let every loyal man rush to be in the van, Led by the dauntless, the conqueror, Jackson. Rise, rise, etc.

--_Richmond Dispatch._

OUR BRAVES IN VIRGINIA.

_Air--"Dixie Land."_

We have ridden from the brave Southwest, On fiery steeds, with throbbing breast; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! With sabre flash and rifle true,-- Hurrah! hurrah!-- The Northern ranks we will cut through, And charge for old Virginia, boys; Hurrah! hurrah!

We have come from the cloud-capp'd mountains, From the land of purest fountains; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our sweethearts and wives conjure us,-- Hurrah! hurrah! Not to leave a foe before us, And strike for old Virginia, boys; Hurrah! hurrah!

Then we'll rally to the bugle call; For Southern rights we'll fight and fall; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our grey-haired sires sternly say,-- Hurrah! hurrah! That we must die or win the day, Three cheers for old Virginia, boys, Hurrah! hurrah!

Then our silken banner wave on high; For Southern homes we'll fight and die; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our cause is right, our quarrel just,-- Hurrah! hurrah! We'll in the God of battles trust, And conquer for Virginia, boys, Hurrah! hurrah!

BATTLE SONG OF THE INVADED.

The foe! the foe! They come! they come! Light up the beacon pyre; Light every hill and mountain home, Give back the signal fire; And wave the red cross on the night, The blood-red cross of war-- What though we perish in the fight! Our fathers died before!

Hark! lo their shouts upon the breeze, Their banners in the sun, And like the thunder of the seas Their deep tread thunders on. We'll meet them here on each bold height, In every glen make head-- And give the battle to the right; We will be free or dead.

We stand on sacred, holy ground, Where thousand memories meet; Our fathers' homes are all around, Their graves beneath our feet; Our roofs are mouldering far and wide, That late smiled in the sun; Our brides are weeping at our sides; Gods! let them then come on!

Hurrah! hurrah! he gleams in sight; It fires the brain to see How the proud spoiler flashes bright In war's gay panoply; We'll show him that our fathers' brands Nor rust nor time can stay; With tramp and shouts, bold hearts and hands, Up, freemen, and away!

The work is done, the strife is o'er, The whirlwinds thundered by,-- There's not from hill to ocean shore A foeman left to die. Our brides are thronging every height, They wave us weeping home; God gives the battle to the right-- Back to our hearth-stones, come!

THE SONG OF THE SNOW.

By MRS. M. J. PRESTON, Lexington, Va.

Halt! the march is over; Day is almost done; Loose the cumbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun. Chilled, and worn, and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amidst the snow.

Round the camp-blaze gather, Heed not sleep nor cold; Ye are Spartan soldiers, Strong, and brave, and bold. Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe, Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow!

Shivering 'midst the darkness, Christian men are found There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground; Pleading for their country In its hour of woe, For its soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow!

Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife, Dreaming of their dear ones-- Home, and child, and wife; Tentless they are lying, While the fires burn low-- Lying in their blankets, 'Midst December's snow.

A NEW RED, WHITE AND BLUE.

Written for a Lady, by JEFF. THOMPSON.

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

Missouri is the pride of the Nation, The hope of the brave and the free; The Confederacy will furnish the rations, But the fighting is trusted to thee; For, brave boys, your soil has been noted, And your flag has been trusted to you; For freedom you have not yet voted, But you fight for the Red, White and Blue.

CHORUS.--Three cheers, etc.

The Stars shall shine bright in the heaven, But the Stripes should be trailed in the dust, For they are no longer the sign of the haven Of the brave, of the free, or the just; The Bars now in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the faithful and true; O'er the home of the Southern brave, Shall float the new Red, White and Blue. CHORUS.

WAR SONG.

Come! come! come! Come, brothers you are called; Come, each one unappalled; Come and defend your home!

Come! come! come! The cannon's belching roar, The musket's deadly pour-- Cry, men, defend your home!

Come! come! come! Let the invitation sound, Through town and country round, Come, men, defend your home!

Come! come! come! With a prayer to Him on high; God grant us victory, While fighting for our home.

Come! come! come! Wait not, lest you live to see Your loved ones crushed by tyranny, And desolate your home!

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC TO-NIGHT.

By LAMAR FONTAINE.

Music by J. H. HEWETT.

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

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" Except here and there a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of a battle; Not an officer lost! only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; And their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon, And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night wind Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping; While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender. As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"

The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then-- That night, when the love, yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling; And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, As if to keep down the heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree, And his footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: "Ha, Mary, good-by!" And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, And the picket's off duty forever!

"INDEPENDENCE DAY."

Oh, Freedom is a blessed thing! And men have marched in stricken fields, And fought, and bled, to nobly grasp The glorious fruit that freedom yields. Then let the banner float the air, The fairest ones of freedom's types-- The stars are fading one by one-- What matter? We have still the stripes! Oh! happy men of Maryland, Remember! we have still the stripes!

Why heed the cannon in your streets, The bayonets that block your way? Rejoice, for you were free men once, And this is, "Independence Day." Then let the banner float the air, The fairest one of freedom's types-- The stars are fading one by one-- What matter? we have still the stripes! Oh! happy men of Maryland, Remember! we have still the stripes!

FLIGHT OF DOODLES.

I come from old Manassas, with a pocket full of fun-- I killed forty Yankees with a single-barrelled gun; It don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Big Yankee, little Yankee, all run or die.

I saw all the Yankees at Bull Run, They fought like the devil when the battle first begun, But it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you or I They took to their heels, boys, and you ought to see 'em fly.

I saw old Fuss-and-Feathers Scott, twenty miles away, His horses stuck up their ears, and you ought to hear 'em neigh; But it don't make niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Old Scott fled like the devil, boys; root, hog, or die.

I then saw a "Tiger," from the old Crescent City, He cut down the Yankees without any pity: Oh! it don't make a diff-a-bitterence to neither you nor I, We whipped the Yankee boys, and made the boobies cry.

I saw South Carolina, the first in the cause, Shake the dirty Yankees till she broke all their jaws; Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, South Carolina give 'em--boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw old Virginia, standing firm and true, She fought mighty hard to whip the dirty crew; Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Old Virginia's blood and thunder, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw old Georgia, the next in the van, She cut down the Yankees almost to a man; Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Georgia's some in a fight, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw Alabama in the midst of the storm, She stood like a giant in the contest so warm; Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Alabama fought the Yankees, boys, till the last one did fly.

I saw Texas go in with a smile, But I tell you what it is, she made the Yankees bile; Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Texas is the devil, boys; root, hog, or die.

I saw North Carolina in the deepest of the battle, She knocked down the Yankees and made their bones rattle; Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, North Carolina's got the grit, boys; root, hog, or die.

Old Florida came in with a terrible shout, She frightened all the Yankees till their eyes stuck out; Oh! it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Florida's death on Yankees; root, hog, or die.

LAND OF KING COTTON.

By JO. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO.

_Air--"Red, White and Blue."_

(This was a favorite song of the Tennessee troops, but especially of the 13th and 154th Regiments. Memphis _Appeal_, Dec. 9, 1861.)

Oh! Dixie, the land of King Cotton, "The home of the brave and the free," A nation by freedom begotten, The terror of despots to be; Wherever thy banner is streaming, Base tyranny quails at thy feet, And liberty's sunlight is beaming, In splendor of majesty sweet.

CHORUS--Three cheers for our army so true, Three cheers for Price, Johnson, and Lee: Beauregard, and our Davis forever, The pride of the brave and the free!

When Liberty sounds her war-rattle, Demanding her right and her due, The first land that rallies to battle Is Dixie, the shrine of the true: Thick as leaves of the forest in Summer, Her brave sons will rise on each plain, And then strike, until each vandal comer Lies dead on the soil he would stain. CHORUS.

May the names of the dead that we cherish, Fill memory's cup to the brim; May the laurels they've won never perish, "Nor star of their glory grow dim;" May the States of the South never sever, But the champions of freedom e'er be; May they flourish Confed'rate forever, The boast of the brave and the free. CHORUS.

THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY.

As sung by MISS SALLIE PARTINGTON, in the "Virginia Cavalier," Richmond, Va., 1863. Composed by Captain G. W. ALEXANDER.

_Air--"The Boy with the Auburn Hair."_

The sentiments of this song pleased the Confederate Soldiers, and for more than a year, the New Richmond Theatre was nightly filled by "Blockade Rebels," who greeted with wild hurrahs, "Miss Sallie," the prima donna of the Confederacy.

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

Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart's name, He's off to the wars and gone, He's fighting for his Nannie dear, His sword is buckled on; He's fighting for his own true love, His foes he does defy; He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy.

CHORUS.--Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! He is my only joy, He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy.

When Bob comes home from war's alarms, We start anew in life, I'll give myself right up to him, A dutiful, loving wife. I'll try my best to please my dear For he is my only joy; He is the darling of my heart My Southern soldier boy.

CHORUS.--Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! He is my only joy, He is the darling of my heart, My Southern soldier boy.

Oh! if in battle he was slain, I am sure that I should die, But I am sure he'll come again And cheer my weeping eye; But should he fall in this our glorious cause, He still would be my joy For many a sweetheart mourns the loss, Of a Southern soldier boy.

CHORUS.--Yo! ho! yo! ho! yo! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! I'd grieve to lose my joy, But many a sweetheart mourns the loss Of a Southern soldier boy.

I hope for the best, and so do all Whose hopes are in the field; I know that we shall win the day, For Southrons never yield, And when we think of those that are away, We'll look above for joy, And I'm mighty glad that my Bobby is A Southern soldier boy. CHORUS.

REBEL IS A SACRED NAME.

Written by an inmate of the old Capitol Prison, Washington City.

Rebel is a sacred name; Traitor, too, is glorious; By such names our father's fought-- By them were victorious.

CHORUS--Gaily floats our rebel flag Over hill and valley-- Broad its bars, and bright its stars, Calling us to rally.

Washington a rebel was, Jefferson a traitor,-- But their treason won success, And made their glory greater. CHORUS.

O'er our southern sunny strand Vandal feet are treading; And the Hessians on our land Devastation spreading. CHORUS.

Can you then inactive be? Maidens fair are saying; And their bright eyes shame us out With this long delaying. CHORUS.

Rouse ye, children of the free, Rally to our streamer; The vandal flag floats o'er our land,-- Awaken, Southern dreamer! CHORUS.

Rebel arms shall win the fight, Rebel prayers defend us; Rebel maidens greet us home, When tyrants no more rend us. CHORUS.

THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER.

Words and Music by JOHN M. HEWETT.

Our flag is unfurl'd and our arms flash bright, As the sun rides up the sky; But ere I join the doubting fight, Lovely maid, I would say, "Good by." I'm a young volunteer, and my heart is true To the flag that woos the wind; Then, three cheers for that flag and our country, too, And the girls we leave behind.

CHORUS.--Then adieu! then adieu! 'tis the last bugle's strain That is falling on the ear; Should it so be decreed that we ne'er meet again, Oh! remember the young volunteer.

When over the desert, thro' burning rays, With a heavy heart I tread; Or when I breast the cannon's blaze, And bemoan my comrades dead, Then, then, I will think of my home and you, And our flag shall kiss the wind; With huzza for our cause and our country, too, And the girls we leave behind. CHORUS.

GOOBER PEAS.

Words by A. PENDER.

Music by P. NUTT.

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

One of the most widely known Confederate Songs. The melody suited a soldier, and in his gayest mood he rolled out: "Peas! Peas! Peas!" with a gusto that was charming.

Sitting by the roadside on a summer day, Chatting with my messmates, passing time away, Lying in the shadow underneath the trees, Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas!

CHORUS.--Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas! eating goober peas! Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas!

When a horseman passes, the soldiers have a rule, To cry out at their loudest, "Mister, here's your mule," But another pleasure enchantinger than these, Is wearing out your grinders, eating goober peas! CHORUS.

Just before the battle the General hears a row, He says "The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now," He turns around in wonder, and what do you think he sees? The Georgia militia eating goober peas! CHORUS.

I think my song has lasted almost long enough, The subject's interesting, but the rhymes are mighty rough, I wish this war was over, when free from rags and fleas, We'd kiss our wives and sweethearts and gobble goober peas! CHORUS.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

By H. WALTHER.

[Permission of Henri Wehrmann.]