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!"
[Illustration: "There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread."]
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.
[Illustration: "And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing."]
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.
[Illustration: "Lying in the shadow underneath the trees."]
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.]
To arms! Oh! men in all our Southern clime,
Do you not scent the battle from afar,
And hear the ringing clash of armor chime,
Where men have met all panoplied for war?
To arms! Let not your country call in vain
For willing hearts to shield her from the foe,
But let the ardor of a patriot's fame
Brightly within each manly bosom glow.
CHORUS.--But let the ardor of a patriot's fame
Brightly within each manly bosom glow.
To arms! in this, your country's hour of need!
Behold her beautiful and broad domain,
And say, if patriot hearts shall freely bleed
To keep it sacred from invasion's stain?
To arms! and don the panoply of war,
Stay not like cowards from the battle-field;
But with your armor on, march where the roar
Of cannon tells you that your brothers bleed!
CHORUS.
The trumpet and the clarion sound to arms,
The noisy drum in solemn echo beats,
And martial music, robed in all her charms,
The magic words, To arms! To arms! repeats.
To arms! The mortal combat has begun,
Rush on and fight amidst the deadly fray,
Nor pause until the work is nobly done,
And honor crowns us with her wreath of bay!
CANNON SONG.
Aha! a song for the trumpet's tongue!
For the bugle to sing before us,
When our gleaming guns, like clarions,
Shall thunder in battle chorus!
Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing,
Where the black bombs whistle o'er us,
With rolling wheel and rattling peal
They'll thunder in battle chorus!
CHORUS.--With the cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash,
With the cannon's roar and rattle,
Let Freedom's sons, with their shouting guns,
Go down to their country's battle!
Their brassy throats shall learn the notes
That make old tyrants quiver;
Till the war is done, or each TYRRELL gun
Grows cold with our hearts forever!
Where the laurel waves o'er our brothers graves,
Who have gone to their rest before us
Here's a requiem shall sound for them
And thunder in battle chorus!
CHORUS.
By the light that lies in our Southern skies,
By the spirits that watch above us;
By the gentle hands in our Summer lands,
And the gentle hearts that love us!
Our father's faith let us keep till death,
Their fame in its cloudless splendor--
As men who stand for their mother land,
And die--but never surrender!
CHORUS.
CHIVALROUS C. S. A.
_Air--"Vive la Compagnie."_
I'll sing you a song of the South's sunny clime,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Which went to housekeeping once on a time;
Bully for C. S. A.!
Like heroes and princes they lived for a while,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
And routed the Hessians in most gallant style;
Bully for C. S. A.!
CHORUS.--Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!
Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they!
In C. S. A.! In C. S. A.!
Aye, in chivalrous C. S. A.!
They have a bold leader--Jeff. Davis his name--
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Good generals and soldiers, all anxious for fame;
Bully for C. S. A.!
At Manassas they met the North in its pride,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
But they easily put McDowell aside;
Bully for C. S. A.!
CHORUS.
Ministers to England and France, it appears,
Have gone from the C. S. A.!
Who've given the North many fleas in its ears,
Bully for C. S. A.!
Reminders are being to Washington sent,
By the chivalrous C. S. A.!
That'll force Uncle Abe full soon to repent,
Bully for C. S. A.!
CHORUS.
Oh, they have the finest of musical ears,
Chivalrous C. S. A.!
Yankee Doodle's too vulgar for them, it appears;
Bully for C. S. A.!
The North may sing it and whistle it still,
Miserable U. S. A.!
Three cheers for the South!--now, boys, with a will!
And groans for the U. S. A.!
CHORUS.
NORTH CAROLINA'S WAR SONG.
_Air--"Annie Laurie."_
We leave our pleasant homesteads,
We leave our smiling farms,
At the first call of duty
We rush at once to arms;
We rush at once to arms,
To guard our coasts we fly,
For the land our mothers lived, on
Bravely to bleed or die.
Up, boys, and quit your pleasure,
Up, men, and quit your toil!
The invader's foot must never
Be pressed upon our soil;
Be pressed upon our soil,
In which our fathers sleep;
Their blessed graves our care, boys,
Most sacredly must keep.
'Twas in our brave old State, men,
That first of all was sung,
The thrilling song of freedom
That through the land hath rung;
That through the land hath rung,
And we'll sound its notes once more,
Till our men and children shout
From the mountain to the shore.
Sweet eyes are filled with tears, men,
Sweet tears of love and pride,
As our wives and sweethearts bid us
Go meet whate'er betide,
Go meet whate'er betide,
And God our guide shall be,
As we drive the foe before us,
And rush to victory.
THE HOMESPUN DRESS.
By CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR.
_Air--"Bonnie Blue Flag."_
Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl,
And glory in the name,
And boast it with far greater pride
Than glittering wealth or fame.
We envy not the Northern girl,
Her robes of beauty rare,
Though diamonds grace her snowy neck,
And pearls bedeck her hair.
CHORUS.--Hurrah! Hurrah!
For the sunny South so dear,
Three cheers for the homespun dress
The Southern ladies wear!
The homespun dress is plain, I know,
My hat's palmetto, too;
But then it shows what Southern girls
For Southern rights will do.
We send the bravest of our land,
To battle with the foe,
And we will lend a helping hand--
We love the South, you know.
CHORUS.
Now Northern goods are out of date;
And since old Abe's blockade,
We Southern girls can be content
With goods that's Southern made.
We send our sweethearts to the war;
But, dear girls; never mind--
Your soldier-love will ne'er forget
The girl he left behind.
CHORUS.
The soldier is the lad for me--
A brave heart I adore;
And when the sunny South is free,
And when fighting is no more,
I'll choose me then a lover brave,
From out that gallant band.
The soldier lad I love the best
Shall have my heart and hand.
CHORUS.
The Southern land's a glorious land,
And has a glorious cause;
Then cheer, three cheers for Southern rights,
And for the Southern boys!
We scorn to wear a bit of silk,
A bit of Northern lace,
But make our homespun dresses up,
And wear them with a grace.
CHORUS.
And now, young man, a word to you:
If you would win the fair,
Go to the field where honor calls,
And win your lady there.
Remember that our brightest smiles
Are for the true and brave,
And that our tears are all for those
Who fill a soldier's grave.
CHORUS.
THE BANNER SONG.
By JAMES B. MARSHALL.
Up, up with the banner, the foe is before us,
His bayonets bristle, his sword is unsheathed,
Charge, charge on his line with harmonious chorus,
For the prayers go with us that beauty has breathed.
He fights for the power of despot and plunder,
While we are defending our altars and homes;
He has riven the firmly knit Union asunder,
And to bind it with tyranny's fetters he comes,
Like the prophet Mokanna, whose veil so resplendent,
His monstrous deformity closely concealed;
Duplicity marks Lincoln's course, and dependent
On falsehood is every fair promise revealed.
When that veil shall be raised, Freedom's last feast be taken,
A banquet to which all his followers will crowd;
Oh, horror of horrors! who can view it unshaken?
Without sense they will sit all in suppliance bowed!
We do not forget that they once were our brothers,
That we sat in our boyhood around the same board,
That our heart's best idolatry blest the same mothers,
And to the same fathers libations we poured.
We rallied around the same star-spangled standard,
When called to the field by the tocsin of war,
But they from our side have unfeelingly wandered,
And we strip from our flag every recusant star.
They have forced us to stand by our own constitution,
To defend our lov'd homesteads, our altars and fires,
While they tamely submit to a tyrant's pollution,
Beneath whose foul tread their own freedom expires.
Then up with the banner, its broad stripes wide flowing,
'Tis the emblem of Liberty--flag of the free;
Let it wave us to triumph, and every heart glowing,
Nerve each arm's bravest blows for its lov'd Tennessee.
THE VOLUNTEER.
Permission of H. WEHRMAN.
Arranged by J. C. VIERECK.
[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston,
Mass., owners of the copyright.]
The hour was sad, I left the maid,
A lingering farewell taking;
Her sighs and tears my steps delayed,
I thought her heart was breaking.
In hurried words her name I blessed,
I breathed the vows that bind me,
And to my heart in anguish pressed
The girl I left behind me.
Then to the East we bore away
To win a name in story,
And, there, where dawns the sun of day,
There dawned our sun of glory.
Both blazed in noon on Manassas' plain,
Where, in the post assigned me,
I shared the glory of that fight--
Sweet girl I left behind me!
Full many a name our banners bore
Of former deeds of daring--
But they were of the days of yore,
In which we had no sharing;
But now, our laurels freshly won,
With the old ones shall entwin'd be,
Still worthy of our sires, each son,
Sweet girl I left behind me!
The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning,
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee,
And of my fond returning.
But should I ne'er return again,
Still worth thy love thou'lt find me,
Dishonor's breath shall never stain
The name I leave behind me.
READING THE LIST.
"Is there any news of the war?" she said;
"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
Was the man's reply,
Without lifting his eye
To the face of the woman standing by.
"'Tis the very thing I want," she said;
"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."