Part 8

A Texan's name, who would not wear it? Well the foe has learned to fear it! Green the laurels for you springing, Bright the halo 'round you clinging. CHORUS.

Chosen by the gallant Morgan! The North has heard the Texan slogan; Rangers, ask not, give not quarter! Be your pathway marked with slaughter! CHORUS.

THE HORSE MARINES AT GALVESTON.

_Air--"Barring of the Door."_

It was on a New Year's morn so soon, Before the break of day, Oh! General Magruder had laid his plan To catch the Yankees in the Bay, Oh!

CHORUS.--Skedaddle, skedaddle, leave horse, spur and saddle, Charge! Horse Marines, with a hoo-way! Skedaddle, skedaddle, the Yankees will toddle; Rush on them with pistol and bowie-- O, skedaddle!

Magruder march'd down through Galveston town, And placed his men on the shore, Oh! And the fight then began when he fired the first gun, And the fleet replied with a roar, Oh! CHORUS.

The Yankees' big shot flew fast, thick and hot, They thought they'd gain'd the day, Oh! When Bagby and Green, with the new Horse Marine, Came rushing down the Bay, Oh! CHORUS.

The two bayou boats went to butting like goats, The big steamer's deck to gain, Oh! Then L'on Smith, that trump, he made the first jump, Right abroad of the Harriet Lane, Oh! CHORUS.

Let it not be forgotten, that Jim Dowlan, the Briton, Pitch'd in through flood and through flame, Oh! From the sinking boat swam to the Bayou City ram, And boarded the Harriet Lane, Oh! CHORUS.

Then flew the white flag o'er the Federal rag; The Yankees cried stop! just at light, Oh! By cunning and lies, to get off with the prize We had fairly won in the fight, Oh! CHORUS.

But General Bill Scurry, was in too great a hurry, To wait for a three hours' truce, Oh! He bagged all ashore, and would have bagged more, Had any been lying around loose, Oh! CHORUS.

Old General Magruder will let no intruder Our soil with his footsteps pollute, Oh! The Arizona Brigade, with L'on Smith as aid, Will send them to--Butler, the brute, Oh! CHORUS.

Then rejoice, O rejoice, ye Texans, rejoice; Charge! Horse Marines, with a hoo-way! The invaders are dead, ta'en pris'ner, or fled-- They can't stand the pistol and bowie. CHORUS.

I'M THINKING OF THE SOLDIER.

By MARY E. SMITH, of Austin, Texas.

O, I'm thinking of the soldier as the evening shadows fall, As the twilight fairy sketches her sad picture on the wall; As the trees are resting sadly on the waveless silence deep, Like the barks upon the ocean when the winds are hush'd to sleep.

All my soul is with the absent, as the evening shadows fall; While the ghosts of night are spreading o'er the dying light a pall; As the robes of day are trailing in the halls of eventide, And yon radiant star is wooing blushing eve to be his bride.

I have shunn'd the cosy parlor--for a silence lingers there, Since our lov'd one went to battle, and we find a vacant chair; And a sigh is stealing upward, as the evening spirits come, With the zephyrs, to the bowers of this sadly deserted home.

For when soft "good nights" are ended there's a room not like the rest, Since a soldier left that chamber and that pillow is unprest; O, my soul is in a shadow, and my heart cannot be gay, As the eve with low refraining comes to shroud the dying day.

For I'm dreaming of the soldier, on his pallet bed of straw; As the leaves are growing yellow and November winds are raw-- And a vision comes before me of aching, fever'd brow; And a proud form blighted, blasted, strangely, strangely alter'd now.

And I feel that strong heart beating fainter, fainter with each breath, Fluttering softly in its prison, fluttering thro' the gate of death; And a voice of sad despairing stirs my heart's deep fountain now,-- As my hand is slowly wandering o'er that strangely altered brow.

And a sigh, soul full of longing, fills the chambers of my soul-- While the quivering heart-strings whisper "Life's a tale that soon is told;" God of Love, receive the soldier on that dim mysterious shore, Where the weary are at rest and souls are sad, ah! nevermore.

Still the dusky sybil, "Future," on her dim, prophetic leaves, Writes that death will claim the soldier, when he gathers up his sheaves; This is why I'm ever sighing, and my heart cannot be gay, As the eve with low refraining comes to shroud the dying day.

That is why I still am sighing as the deep gray shadows fall, As the twilight spirit settles down her shadows in the hall, And I'm praying for the soldier from a soul with sorrow sore, For our soldier boys have left us--gone, perchance, to come no more.

THE BATTLE OF GALVESTON.

By MRS. L. E. CAPLEN, Galveston.

_Air--"The Harp that once thro' Tara's Halls."_

'Twas on that dark and fearful morn, That anxious hearts beat high! And many from their friends were torn Beneath the wintry sky.

But hark! what cannon roar is that? Terrific--but sublime-- Wafting some mortals to their graves, Far from their Northern clime.

As the battle rag'd, voices high Echoed along the shore, For death or victory was nigh Amid the battle's roar.

The Yanks appeared to gain the ground, Their hopes were sure and high, Our little boats then hove in sight, Which caused their men to cry.

Magruder, for example sake, The cannon first did fire, When soon their boats were made to quake-- When one embrac'd his sire.

But death hath taken for his own Their Captain, Lee, Monroe-- And many more they lost that day, Whose death they'll long deplore.

But were we favored? Sure we were, For victory was ours! But death had stolen our gallant Wier; Our tears did fall in showers.

Another one, deserving most, The brave and noble son! Sherman! thy country's pride! is lost-- A death most nobly won.

Come, all ye people, far and near, Example you must take, For Texas men and women are Heroes for country's sake!

DEATH OF GEN. ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON.

By GEORGE B. MILROR, of Harrisburg.

The sun was sinking o'er the battle plain, Where the night winds were already sighing, While, with smiling lips, near his war-horse slain, Lay a valiant chieftain dying!

And as he sank to his long, last rest, The banner--once o'er him streaming-- He folded 'round his most gallant breast, On the couch that knows no dreaming.

Proudly he lay on the battle-field, On the banks of the noble river; And the crimson stream from his veins did yield, Without a pang or quiver!

There were hands that came to bind his wounds, There were eyes o'er the warrior streaming, As he rais'd his head from the bloody ground, Where many a brave was sleeping.

"Now, away," he cried--"your aid is vain! My soul will not brook recalling! I have seen the tyrant enemy slain, And like Autumn vine-leaves falling!

"I have seen our glorious banner wave O'er the tents of the enemy vanquish'd-- I have drawn a sword for my country brave, And in her cause now perish!

"Leave me to die with the free and the brave, On the banks of my own noble river-- Ye can give me naught but a soldier's grave, And a place in your hearts forever!"

GOD BLESS OUR SOUTHERN LAND.

Respectfully inscribed to Major-General J. B. Magruder, and sung on the occasion of his public reception in the city of Houston, Texas, Jan. 20, 1863.

God bless our Southern land, God save our sea-girt land, And make us free; With justice for our shield, May we on battle field Never to foemen yield Our liberty.

O Lord! protect the Chief Who to our prompt relief From threaten'd woe, Hasten'd to lead the way; Nor faltered in the fray, When from our beauteous Bay He drove the foe.

And may the gallant band Worthy in his command Ever to be, Have of Thy watchful care Ever a plenteous share, Inspiring each to dare For home and thee.

"O Lord our God! arise, Scatter our enemies, And make them fall!" And when, with peace restored, Each man lays by the sword, May he with joy record Thy mercies all.

SOUTHERN BATTLE SONG.

_Air--"Bruce's Address."_

Raise the Southern flag on high! Shout aloud the battle cry! Let its echoes reach the sky-- "God and Southern Rights."

Sons of wealth, and sons of toil, Will ye yield your land for spoil, Drive the foe from Southern soil! Glory now invites.

Rally round our banner bright Let its stars of quenchless light Dim the base invader's sight, On the battle field.

When the death clouds darkly lower, When the cannons blaze and roar, Though its folds be drenched in gore, We will never yield.

By our sires who fought and bled! By Virginia's honored dead! By the blood so lately shed! We will make them know--

Southern hearts are true as steel, Wrongs like ours are slow to heal, Sooner will we die than kneel To a Northern foe.

BOMBARDMENT AND BATTLES OF GALVESTON.

FROM JUNE 1, 1862, TO JANUARY 1, 1863.

By S. R. EZZELL, of Capt. Daly's Company.

_Air--"Auld Lang Syne."_

The Yankees hate the Lone Star State, because she did secede; At Galveston they've now begun to make her soldiers bleed. The "Old Blockade" her threats have made, that she will burn our town; But Col. Cook, with piercing look, declares he'll stand his ground.

High in the breeze he soon did raise the flag with single star, Saying, "Let them come, we'll give them some, before they are aware." Along the coast he soon did post his batteries, well mann'd By men of might, prepared to fight, behind breast-works of sand.

Like lions brave, their land to save, the cavalry do stand Ready to charge the Yankee barge that first attempts to land; Infantry, too, like soldiers true, who never yet did fail, They long to greet the Yankee fleet with musketry like hail.

We wait to see the "Old Santee" come sailing into shore; And then we'll fight for Southern rights, and make the cannon roar; But if a fleet we have to meet, of gunboats large and strong, We'll cross the bridge without a siege, and think it nothing wrong.

When on mainland, we'll take our stand, and all their hosts defy; There we will fight for Southern rights--we'll fight them till we die.

* * * * *

Two months passed by, they came not nigh, but only cruis'd around, As if to find the channel's wind, for which they oft did sound; But this was all, the Eagle bald, did not attempt to land; His courage fail'd, away he sailed, and made no more demand.

But Harriet Lane, she did remain, with quite a heavy fleet, She came up nigher and open'd fire in order quite complete; 'Twas at Fort Point she did dismount our best and largest gun; 'Twas now in vain here to remain, so we for life did run.

'Mid bomb and grape we did escape, and not a life was lost; Fearing the town they would burn down over the bridge we crossed; Then on mainland we took our stand, determined not to yield, Tho' bomb and ball should thickly fall, and we die on the field.

Gen. Herbert he came not near, but strangely stood aloof; From San Antone he did look on, where was good old "4th proof."

* * * * *

Magruder came, a man of fame, the Texas boys to lead; From Rio Grande he did command, to come with rapid speed; "My plan is laid," he quickly said, "Galveston to retake; Brave boys!" said he, "come, follow me; we'll make the Yankees quake."

Three bayou crafts, of shallow draught, with cotton breastworks neat; Three hundred men, and three small guns, composed our Texas fleet; Now ready quite, the Feds to fight, our land force did repair, Along Strand Street, the Yanks to greet, just as our boats came near.

The Lone Star State must seal her fate, in ruin, shame and woe, Or bravely fight for Southern rights, and triumph o'er the foe; On New Year's morn, before day dawn, the year of sixty-three, The New Year's gifts came flying swift, both from the land and sea.

The lightning glare, both far and near, the darkness did dispel; Grape, bomb and ball did thickly fall, our forces to repel; Magruder then said to his men, "Your country you must save, And still maintain your glorious name, _the bravest of the brave_."

We fear'd them not, but bravely fought, our homesteads to maintain; By break of day we had the Bay at our command again; The Yankee fleet we did defeat, and captur'd all their crews, Except a few who were untrue, and sail'd off under truce.

GENERAL TOM GREEN.

By MRS. WM. BARNES, of Galveston.

A warrior has fallen! a chieftain has gone! A hero of heroes has sunk to his rest! Those hands that wielded the sword and the sabre, Now lie pulseless and cold o'er his motionless breast; That voice that has gladden'd valiant comrades in arms, And driven away their deep shadows of gloom, Is seemingly hush'd to those seared-stricken hearts, But loudly will speak from its still, hollow tomb!

Aye, seemingly hush'd, like the black, death-like waters, As they mirror the face of the threatening sky; But see ye the ripple that waves in the distance, Warning the mariner that danger is nigh? Aye, seemingly hush'd, like the dead, sullen calm, As it heralds Vesuvius' virulent ire, Ere she, out of her bosom, malignantly pours Her dull molten lava, her columns of fire.

Aye, seemingly hush'd, but the words he has spoken Lie deeply incased in the breasts of his men, And tho' to the "echoless shore" he is wafted, His voice will be heard yet again and again; How oft-seated by the bivouac's bright fires, While his men have stood 'round, wrapt in wondrous delight, Has he spurred them to noble and chivalric deeds, As he vividly pictured a forthcoming fight.

Full many a time has the rough, sunburnt hand Dash'd the unbidden tear from the veteran's cheek, As of home--that lov'd spot to each memory so dear-- With heartfelt emotion his chieftain would speak; Aye, seemingly hush'd is the tongue of the warrior, In their bosom its echo is lingering still; Long as their pulse beats, its prompting they yield to-- Yes, long as their noble hearts have power to feel.

The hero of Valverde--the hero of Mansfield,-- Now sleeps the calm sleep of the happy and blest; Those eyes once so lustrous are now sightless and dim, Those limbs once so active have sunk to their rest; O there let him lie where the first beams of morning Shall shed o'er his tomb a soft halo of light, And the moon's gentle rays that dear spot shall enliven, As she glides on her course through the still, solemn night.

Plant the wild-tendriled vine and flowers of the prairie O'er the grave of the chieftain that slumbereth there-- How sweetly they'll mingle their gentle perfumes with The orphans' and widows' sweet incense of prayer; Let the song of the whippoorwill, pensive and sad, As he flits on the sprays of the green willow tree, And the deep azure waves of the fair Colorado, By day and by night his mournful requiems be!

HARD TIMES!

By M. B. SMITH, Co. C, Second Texas Volunteer Infantry.

Just listen awhile, and give ear to my song Concerning this war, which will not take me long; Old Lincoln, the blower, swore the Rebels he'd whip, But thanks to my stars, he has not done it yet, For it's hard times.

Manassa's the spot, if I recollect right, Where Yankees and Southerners had their first fight; We whipped them so badly, our boys thought it fun, And ever since then they have called it Bull Run, Those were grand times.

Old Lincoln had put in his very best man-- It was old General Scott who led in his clan-- But in facing Jeff Davis he couldn't shine, For we captured his cakes, his brandies and wine, Then we'd fine times.

Old Abe and the "Gen'ral" soon got at "out," Which caused the "Old Gen'ral" to complain of gout; So he told Marse Abe that he would resign, And he laid all the blame to the very hard times, O, it was hard times.

McClellan was the next man put in the field, With brass-hilted sword and a sole-leather shield; He boasted quite loudly the Rebels he'd whip-- But you see, my dear friends, he's not done it yet, For it's hard times.

Yet there was another, Gen. Buell, the great, That followed our Beauregard clean thro' one State, But at Tennessee River he got all his fill-- I'm certain he remembered the Shiloh Hill!

There were Banks, Shields and Fremont, big generals all, While skirmishing 'round ran afoul of "Stonewall!" With Longstreet and Hill, very near by his side, Who said: "Wo-ee, Yankees, let's all have a ride!"

Old Jackson he then got around to their rear, So the day was ours you can see very clear; Then he sent a dispatch to brave General Lee, "Drive all the Yankees into eternity?"

But at Gainesville station they made a bold stand, Where they collected a formidable band, And swore to their fill that the Rebels they'd whip, But the Texans made them everlastingly "git!"

Now the last I've heard of McClellan, the third; He was down on James River bogg'd up in the mud, In a bend of the river, near a big pond, The want of more news puts an end to my song.

AUGUST 13, 1862.

THE FLAG OF THE SOUTHLAND

By MAJOR E. W. CAVE, of Houston.

_Air--"I'm Afloat."_

Flag of the Southland! Flag of the free! 'Ere thy sons will be slaves, they will perish with thee! Thy new-risen star shall light Liberty on, 'Till the hosts of the tyrant are scatter'd and gone! Whether victory sits on the Southern plumes, Or disaster doth come in some hour of gloom, Freedom's hosts will still rally where'er thou shalt be, O flag of the Southland! flag of the free!

Flag of the Southland! thy glory has been To be baptized in blood 'midst the great battle's din, From Manassas' red plains, o'er the mountains steep, Thy stars kept their vigils, where Washington sleeps, And the breezes of Vernon have borne on the shout Of thy triumphant sons as the foes took the rout; Valor's trio of genius--Beauregard, Johnston and Lee! Guards the flag of the Southland--flag of the free!

The foe is upon us, but our flag it is there! We have borne it in triumph--its defeat we can share; Tho' our cities be burned, tho' our thousands be slain, 'Mid the flames of our altars we'll fight him again; And while there's a spot where a patriot band May show to the foe a desperate stand, Southern hearts will defy him, their flag will still be The flag of the Southland--the flag of the free!

In the hour of gloom now thy valorous sons show, That freemen can die, but ne'er yield to the foe! But our Shiloh has come--see the enemy flee! His sceptre has sunk 'neath the swift Tennessee-- And the Southern heart and the Southern hand, From classic Potomac to bold Rio Grande, Still push on to battle, when floating they see The flag of the Southland--the flag of the free!

ON TO GLORY.

Sons of freedom, on to glory, Go where brave men do or die; Let your names in future story Gladden every patriot's eye; 'Tis your country calls you hasten, Backward hurl the invading foe; Freemen, never think of danger, To the glorious battle go.

Oh, remember gallant Jackson, Single-handed in the fight, Death blows dealt the fierce marauder, For his liberty and right; Tho' he fell beneath their thousands, Who that covets not his fame? Grand and glorious, brave and noble, Henceforth shall be Jackson's name.

Sons of freedom, can you linger, When you hear the battle roar, Fondly dallying with your pleasures When the foe is at your door? Never, no, we fear no idlers, Death or Freedom's now the cry, 'Till the "Stars and Bars" triumphant Spread their folds to every eye.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY.

Found on the body of a sergeant of the Old Stonewall Brigade, Winchester, Va.

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

Come, stack arms, men! pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fire bright; No matter if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring night; Here Shenandoah brawls along, To swell the Brigade's rousing song Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."

We see him now!--the old slouched hat Cocked o'er his eye, askew-- The shrewd, dry smile--the speech as pat-- So calm, so blunt, so true. The "Blue Light Elder" knows o'er well-- Says he, "That's Banks--he's fond of shell-- Lord save his soul!--we'll give him"--well, That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! Old Blue Light's going to pray; Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! 'tis his way! Appealing from his native sod, _In forma pauperis_ to God-- "Lay bare thine arm; stretch forth thy rod; Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."

He's in the saddle now! Fall in! Steady--the whole Brigade! Hill's at the ford cut off! He'll win His way out, ball and blade; What matter if our shoes are worn! What matter if our feet are torn! "Quick step--we're with him before dawn!" That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and, by George, There's Longstreet struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge-- Pope and his Yankees whipped before-- "Bayonet and grape!" hear Stonewall roar, "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score In Stonewall Jackson's way."

Ah, maiden! wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall's band; Ah, widow! read with eyes that burn That ring upon thy hand; Ah, wife! sew on, pray on, hope on, Thy life shall not be all forlorn-- The foe had better ne'er been born, Than get in "Stonewall's way."

TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF MAJ.-GEN. TOM GREEN.

By CAPTAIN EDWIN HOBBY.

In the land of the orange-groves, sunshine and flowers, Is heard the funereal tread, And darkly above it, the war-cloud lowers, And a requiem swells thro' its orange bowers, For the brave and noble dead; Then trail'd be the banners in dust, And muffled the martial drum, His sword in its scabbard shall rust; With their coming no more will he come-- The earth has received to her bosom its trust-- Ashes to ashes--and dust unto dust.

In the sunniest realm of that beautiful land, Where spring-time her festival's keeping, Where the blossoms of summer in splendor expand, By the camp-fire light there's a sorrow bow'd band-- Their leader forever is sleeping: Then plumed be their banners in black, And softly the bugle be blown. No more shall he be welcomed back By hearts that were twined to his own, 'Till the voice from the King on his throne To the earth goeth forth, to give up his trust-- Ashes to ashes, and dust unto dust.