Part 5

CHORUS.--But our flag at the "head of the Passes," Is borne by men brave and true; We will teach them to fear our "Manassas;"[2] Three cheers for _our_ Red, White, and Blue.

We will give his proud fleet such a greeting As the storm-cloud's shaft to the tree; As the rock to the wave in their meeting-- Is the stroke of the brave and the free. CHORUS.

Though his minions may come as the locust, And outnumber the sands of the sea, Their numbers will serve to provoke us, To dare, to die, or live free. CHORUS.

Every breeze from the "Crescent" is laden With defiance to the despot on our shore; Strong men, the child, and each maiden, Join in chorus with the cannon's loud roar. CHORUS.

SONG FOR THE SOUTH.

Of all the mighty nations, in the East or in the West, Our glorious Southern nation is the greatest and the best; We have room for all true Southrons, with our Stars and Bars unfurled, And a general invitation to the people of the world.

CHORUS.--Then, to arms, boys! to arms, boys! make no delay, Come from every Southern State, come from every way, Our army isn't large enough, Jeff Davis calls for more, To hurl the vile invader from off our Southern shore.

Ohio is our northern line, far as her waters flow, And on the south is the Rio Grande and the Gulf of Mexico; While between the Atlantic Ocean, where the sun begins to rise, Westward to Arizona, the land of promise lies. CHORUS.

While the Gulf States raise the cotton, the others grain and pork, North and South Carolina's factories will do the finer work; For the deep and flowing waterfalls that course along our hills, Are "just the things" for washing sheep and driving cotton mills. CHORUS.

Our Southern boys are brave and true, and joining heart and hand And are flocking to the "Stars and Bars" as they are floating o'er the land. And all are standing ready, with their rifles in their hands, And invite the North to open graves down South in Dixie's land. CHORUS.

SONG OF THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER.

By "P. E. C.," in _Richmond Examiner_.

_Tune_--"_Barclay and Perkins' Drayman._"

These lines were written Jan. 8, 1861, for a friend, who expected to sing them in the theatre, but thought at the time to be too much in the secession spirit.

I'm a soldier, you see, that oppression has made! I don't fight for pay or for booty; But I wear in my hat a blue cockade, Placed there by the fingers of Beauty. The South is my home, where a black man is black, And a white man there is a white man; Now I am tired of listening to Northern clack,-- Let us see what they will do in a fight, man.

The Yankees are cute; they have managed, somehow, Their business and ours to settle; They make all we want, from a pin to a plough, Now we'll show them some Southern mettle. We have had just enough of their Northern law, That robbed us so long of our right, man, And too much of their cursed abolition jaw,-- Now we'll see what they'll do in a fight, man!

Their parsons will open their sanctified jaws, And cant of our slave-growing sin, sir; They pocket the _profits_, while preaching the laws, And manage our cotton to spin, sir. Their incomes are nice, on our sugar and rice, Though against it the hypocrites write, sir; Now our dander is up, and they'll soon smell a mice, If we once get them into a fight, sir.

Our cotton bales once made a good barricade, And can still do the State a good service; With them and the boys of the blue cockade, There is power enough to preserve us. So shoulder your rifles, my boys, for defense, In the cause of our freedom and right, man; If there's no other way for to learn them sense, We may teach them a lesson in fight, man.

The stars that are growing so fast on our flags, We treasure as Liberty's pearls, And stainless we'll bear them, though shot into rags; They were fixed by the hands of our girls, And fixed stars they shall be in our national sky, To guide through the future aright, man, And your Cousin Sam, with their gleam in his eye, May dare the whole world to fight, man.

THE DYING SOLDIER BOY.

By A. B. CUNNINGHAM, of Louisiana.

_Air--"Maid of Monterey."_

Upon Manassas' bloody plain a soldier boy lay dying! The gentle winds above his form in softest tones were sighing; The god of day had slowly sank beneath the verge of day, And the silver moon was gliding above the milky way.

The stars were shining brightly, and the sky was calm and blue, Oh, what a beautiful scene was this for human eyes to view! The river roll'd in splendor, and the wavelets danc'd around, But the banks were strew'd with dead men, and gory was the ground.

But the hero-boy lay dying, and his thoughts were very deep, For the death-wound in his young side was wafting him to sleep; The thought of home and kindred away on a distant shore, All of whom he must relinquish, and never see them more.

And as the night-breeze passed by, in whispers o'er the dead, Sweet memories of olden days came rushing to his head; But his mind was weak and deaden'd, so he turned from where he lay, As the Death-angel flitted by, and call'd his soul away!

THE SOUTHERN BANNER.

By COL. W. S. HAWKINS, C. S. A., Camp Chase, Ohio.

Sing-ho! for the Southerner's meteor flag As 'tis flung in its pride to the breeze, From the happy glen and the beetling crag, 'Tis the pride of the land and the seas.

Hurrah! for the scintillant Cross of Red, As it waves and glances in light, Beneath it our brothers grandly tread, To battle for God and right.

The flag for which Southrons had gladly died Is the badge of the tyrant now, And for it no blush of joy or pride Suffuseth the cheek or brow.

* * * * *

Sing ho! for the Southerner's flag for aye, And ho! for its beautiful Cross; It shall be the signal of bold array Where the windy surges toss.

On a traitor's heart be the curses of night, And palsied the craven hand That fails in the hazard of furious fight For God and our Native Land.

Hurrah! as over the hills it waves, Or is borne on the ocean's breast, Hurrah! as it leads our valorous braves, Or is drooped o'er the hero's rest.

Whether it greets the uprising sun Or is bathed in the western light, Beneath it shall all our hopes be won For "God will defend the right."

O, JOHNNY BULL, MY JO JOHN.

_Air--"John Anderson, my Jo."_

In December, 1861, eighty-seven British ships-of-war were lying in the waters of the West Indies. This fact gave rise to the following imitation of an old song.

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! I wonder what you mean, By sending all these frigates out, commissioned by the Queen; You'll frighten off the Yankees, John, and why should you do so? But catch and sink, or burn them all, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Yankee hands profane, Were laid in wanton insult upon the lion's mane, He roared so loud and long, John, they quickly let him go, And sank upon their trembling knees, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Lincoln first began To try his hand at war, John, you were a peaceful man; But now your blood is up, John, and well the Yankees know, You play the ---- when you start, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O, Johnny Bull, my Jo John! let's take the field together, And hunt the Yankee Doodles home, in spite of wind and weather, And ere a twelve-month roll around, to Boston we will go, And eat our Christmas dinner there, O, Johnny Bull, my Jo!

MORGAN'S WAR-SONG.

By GEN. BASIL DUKE, of Kentucky.

_Air--A combination of the "Marseillaise" and the "Old Granite State."_

Ye sons of the South, take your weapons in hand, For the foot of the foe hath insulted your land: Sound! sound the loud alarm! Arise! arise and arm! Let the hand of each foeman grasp the sword to maintain Those rights which, once lost, he can never regain.

CHORUS.--Gather fast 'neath our flag, For 'tis God's own decree, That its folds shall still float O'er a land that is free!

See ye not those dark clouds which now threaten the sky? Hear ye not that stern thunder now bursting so nigh? Shout! shout your battle-cry! Win! win this fight or die! What our fathers achieved our own valor can keep, And we'll save our fair land or we'll sleep our last sleep! CHORUS.

On our hearts and our arms and our God we rely, And a nation shall rise, or a people shall die. Form! form the serried line! Advance! advance our proud ensign: To your country devote every life that she gave, Let the land they invade give their army its grave. CHORUS.

Though their plunder-paid hordes come to ravage our land, Give our fields to the spoiler, our homes to the brand, Our souls are all aglow, To face the hireling foe. Give the robbers to know that we _never_ will yield, While the arm of one Southron a weapon can wield. CHORUS.

From our far Southern shore now arises a prayer, While the cry of our women fills with anguish the air. O! list that pleading voice, Each youth now make his choice; Now tamely submit like a coward or slave, Or rise and resist like the free and the brave. CHORUS.

Kentucky! Kentucky! can you suffer the sight Of your sisters insulted, your friends in the fight? Awake! be free again! O! break the tyrant's chain: Let each hand seize the sword it drew for the right, From the homes of your fathers drive the dastard in flight. CHORUS.

KNOXVILLE, TENN., July 4, 1862.

FOR BALES.

_Air--"Johnny, fill up the bowl."_

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

We all went down to New Orleans, For Bales, for Bales; We all went down to New Orleans, For Bales, says I; We all went down to New Orleans To get a peep behind the scenes, "And we'll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl."

We thought when we got in the "ring," For Bales, for Bales; We thought when we got in the "ring," For Bales, says I; We thought when we got in the "ring," Greenbacks would be a dead sure thing, "And we'll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl."

The "ring" went up with bagging and rope, For Bales, for Bales; Upon the "Black Hawk" with bagging and rope, For Bales, says I; Went up "Red River" with bagging and rope, Expecting to make a pile of "soap," "And we'll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl."

But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks, For Bales, for Bales; But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks, For Bales, says I; But Taylor and Smith, with ragged ranks, Burned up the cotton and whipped old Banks, "And we'll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl."

Our "ring" came back and cursed and swore, For Bales, for Bales; Our "ring" came back and cursed and swore, For Bales, says I; Our "ring" came back and cursed and swore, For we got no cotton at Grand Ecore, "And we'll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl."

Now let us all give praise and thanks, For Bales, for Bales; Now let us all give praise and thanks, For Bales, says I; Now let us all give praise and thanks For the victory (?) gained by General Banks, "And we'll all drink stone blind, Johnny, fill up the bowl."

THE SONG OF THE SOUTH.

Hurrah for the South, the glorious South! the land of song and story-- Her name shall ring, and the world shall sing her honor, fame, and glory; For the skies above, which smiled in love, are dark with hearth-fires burning; She rises in might to defend the right, on her treacherous brethren turning.

CHORUS.--Sons of the South, arise! arise! For never shall fall upon her-- The land we love all the earth above, One stain of dark dishonor.

Hurrah for the South, the gallant South, with her great heart proudly beating; She takes her stand at Freedom's hand, and dreams not of retreating; Oh! Southern boys, for fireside joys, with their hearts so brave and tender, Will relentlessly fight, and to death's dark night alone will they surrender. CHORUS.

No Northern band shall rule this land--to the breeze give Freedom's banner, As its glowing folds o'er our land unroll, from mountain and savannah; O'er river and lake the sound shall break, and swell with thundering glory; Hurrah for the South! the noble South! the land of war and story! CHORUS.

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.

* * * * *

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.

LADIES, TO THE HOSPITAL!

By "PERSONNE," Correspondent of the _Charleston Courier_.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wreath of your tendril-like tresses, Braid back in a serious way: No more delicate gloves, no more laces; No more trifling in boudoir or bower; But come with your souls in your faces, To meet the stern wants of the hour.

Look around! By the torch-light unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one; What? trembling and paling already, Before your mission's begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Time presses her lips to each scar, While she chants of that glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by this bedside. How mellow The light showers down on that brow; Such a brave, brawny visage! Poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now; Some wife shaded her eyes in the clearing; Some mother sits moaning, distressed; While the lov'd one lies faint but unfearing, With the enemy's ball in his breast.

Here's another; a lad--a mere stripling-- Picked up on the fields almost dead, With the blood through the sunny hair rippling, From a horrible gash in the head! They say he was first in the action, Gay-hearted, quick-handed and witty; He fought till he dropped with exhaustion, In front of our fair Southern city.

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years; Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And wet his pale lips with your tears: Touch him gently; most sacred that duty Of dressing that poor shatter'd hand; God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for his land!

Who groan'd? What a passionate murmur: "In Thy mercy, oh God! let me die! Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer," That musket ball's entered his thigh: Turn the light on those poor furrow'd features, Gray-haired and unknown, bless thee, brother! Oh Heaven! that one of Thy creatures Should e'er work such woe on another.

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your 'kerchief Let the tatter'd old collar go wide! See! he stretches out blindly to see if The surgeon still stands by his side: "My son's over yonder--he's wounded-- O this ball has entered my thigh!" And again he burst out all a tremble, "In Thy mercy, O God, let me die!"

Pass on: It is useless to linger While other are claiming your care; There is need for your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy there: There are sick ones athirst for caressing; There are dying ones raving of home There are wounds to be bound with a blessing And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest Of death in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the farthest Is here with the traitor and true; And crown'd with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart; You must balsam the wounds of a nation, Nor falter nor shrink from your part.

Up and down through the wards where the fever Stalks noisome and gaunt and impure, You must go with your steadfast endeavor To comfort, to counsel, to cure! I grant you the task is superhuman, But strength will be given to you To do for those lov'd ones, what woman Alone in her pity can do.

And the lips of the mothers will bless you, As angels sweet visaged and pale; And the little ones run to caress you, And the wives and the sisters cry Hail! But e'en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God's ways are the best! You have pour'd out your life where 'twas needed, And He will take care of the rest.

TO THE DAVIS GUARD.

By LIEUT. W. P. CUNNINGHAM.

Soldiers! raise your banner proudly, Let it pierce our Texan sky-- Hurrah! it was shouted loudly-- "We will do it or we'll die!"

Thus spoke the heroic Dowling! To his Irish gallant band: "Let us send the foes a howling, From our lovely Texas land!"

Nobly answer'd those brave men all, To his soul-stirring appeal; "Aye, we'll drive them away or fall; We'll fight them with lead and steel."

The Irishmen desert never The people that treat them well; Their friends they love forever; Their foes may "go to ----!"

"Steady, steady, keep cool, my boys, Now they are near--ready--fire!" Thus their noble chieftain cries, And they fire and never tire.

Hear the heavy, thundering sound, The men of war they cry; The dull earth itself resounds As the foemen fight and die.

But hurrah! the white flag's flying-- See, they spare the fallen foe! They attend the wounded--dying-- The brave will have it so.

O, Davis Guards! ye men of war, You've made a glorious name! Thus always guard our Texas Star, And preserve, for aye, your fame.

And when around the social glass In years to come, you meet, O ne'er forget the Sabine Pass! But its mem'ries fondly greet.

WAR SONG.

By J. H. WOODCOCK.

_Tune_--"_Bonnie Blue Flag._"

Huzza! huzza! let's raise the battle cry, And whip the Yankees from our land, Or with them fall and die; Rush on our Southern columns, And make the brigands feel That all the booty they will get, Will be our Southern steel.

CHORUS.--Huzza! huzza! let's raise our banner high, And nobly drive the Yankees out, Or with them fall and die.

We are fighting for our mothers, our sisters and our wives; For these, and our country's rights, We'll sacrifice our lives. Then trusting still to Heaven, We'll charge th' invading host, Till liberty and independence Shall be the Nation's boast. CHORUS.

Then on with our columns--slay the vandal foe-- Beat them from our sunny soil, And lay their colors low. To the great God of Nations Our sacred cause confide, For we are fighting for our liberty And He is on our side. CHORUS.

THE SOUTH FOR ME.

The South for me! The sunny clime, Where earth is clothed in beauty's hue, And Nature vies in scenes sublime, With all the old world ever knew; I love thy soil where'er I roam, Sweet land! and when afar from thee, My fond heart throbs with thoughts of home, And echoes back "The South for me."

CHORUS.--The South for me, the South for me, The golden clime, the heart's desires, The only land where men are free, And worthy of their free-born sires.

The South for me! the patriot's heart Beats ever to that slogan cry; And heroes, armed and ready, start For their loved land to do or die; But leave the Southron's valor free, Let Southern heroes meet the foe, And when rings out "the South for me," Their strong right arms will deal the blow. CHORUS.

The South for me! its bright-eyed maids, Its clime, its stars, its silvery skies, Its streamlets, with their lovely naiads, Its vales, where varying beauties rise, Its cotton fields, where dusky slaves, Are happy in protection kind, The stranger's home, though Yankee knaves May never there a welcome find. CHORUS.

CAROLINA.

By MRS. C. A. B.

Music by A. E. B.

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

'Mid her ruins proudly stands, Our Carolina! Fetters are upon her hands, Dear Carolina! Yet she feels no sense of shame, For upon the scroll of Fame, She hath writ a deathless name, Brave Carolina!

She was first our wrongs to feel, Our Carolina! First to draw the glittering steel, Dear Carolina! Ready first to strike the blow, At th' oppressor and the foe, And to lay their standard low, Brave Carolina!

Nobly now she bears her wrongs, Our Carolina! In her might she still hath songs, Dear Carolina! In the dust her sons lie low, Yet though stricken by the foe, Pride is mingled with her woe-- Brave Carolina!

On her brow there is no stain, Our Carolina! She hath poured out blood like rain, Dear Carolina! Vain her sufferings and her pains, On her limbs are clanking chains, But her glory yet remains, Brave Carolina!

Bitterly we mourn her fate, Our Carolina! Cherished old Palmetto State; Dear Carolina! Yet while man's brave soul is free, Honored proudly she shall be, Mother of true chivalry! Brave Carolina!

VICKSBURG SONG.[3]

By CAPT. J. W. A. WRIGHT.

_Air--"A Life on the Ocean Wave."_

A life on the Vicksburg bluff, A home in the trenches deep, Where we dodge "Yank" shells enough-- And our old "pea-bread" won't keep. On "Old Logan's" beef I pine, For there's fat on his bones no more; Oh! give me some pork in brine, And "truck" from a sutler's store.

CHORUS.--A life on the Vicksburg bluff, A home in the trenches deep, Where we dodge "Yank" shells enough-- And our old "pea-bread" won't keep, Pea-bread, pea-bread, pea-bread; Our old pea-bread won't keep.