Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;
In the very midst was a pause, to tell
That his comrades asked, "Who is he, pray?"
"The only son of the widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply
Of his Captain nigh.
What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear!
"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!
Oh, God! but my heart is sorrow sick!
Is he wounded?" "No! he fell," they say,
"Killed outright on that fatal day!"
But see, the woman has swooned away!
[Illustration: "Only a list of the wounded and dead."]
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light,
Slowly recalled the events of the fight;
Faintly she murmured, "Killed outright!
It has cost me the life of my only son,
But the battle is fought and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
God pity the cheerless widow Gray,
And send from the halls of Eternal Day
The light of His peace to illume her way!
THE BARS AND STARS.
By W. A. HAYNES.
_Air--"Star Spangled Banner."_
Oh, the tocsin of war still resounds o'er the land,
And legions of braves are now rushing to battle,
Our lint-stocks are lighted, our guns are all manned,
Loud thunders the cannon, and musketry rattle,
Our hosts there are led
By the blue, white and red,
While the battle fiend flaps his pale wing o'er the dead.
CHORUS.--Let the bars and stars of our banner ever wave
O'er the land of the South, the home of the brave.
O, say, can you see through the mist and the gloom,
Through the clouds of the battle our stars brightly shining,
'Tis a beacon of hope, 'tis a signal of doom
To the hordes of the vandals our borders now lining;
Proud defiance we hurl
And our flag we unfurl,
Let it float, proudly float, in the gaze of the world.
CHORUS.
For thirty years or more, we have waited and prayed
That the chains of oppression and wrongs might be sundered,
But the black fiends of the North, with their plans foully laid,
Have raised up a whirlwind and the old ship's now foundered.
We shouted the alarm,
We spoke of our wrongs,
Now the argument's exhausted, we'll stand by our arms.
CHORUS.
Oh! Manassas has been fought, and the field has been won,
And the brag guns of Sherman our brave boys have taken;
Our foes have retreated back to old Washington,
But the ranks of our Dixie still remain there unshaken;
And over the graves
Of the New York Zouaves
The bars and the stars now triumphantly waves.
CHORUS.
WAR SONG.
_Charleston Mercury._
Respectfully inscribed to the companies mentioned.
_Air--"March, march, Ettrick and Toviotdale."_
March, march on, brave "Palmetto" boys,
"Sumpter" and "Lafayettes" forward in order;
March, march "Calhoun" and "Rifle" boys,
All the base Yankees are crossing the border,
Banners are round ye spread,
Floating above your head,
Soon shall the Lone Star be famous in story,
On, on, my gallant men,
Vict'ry be thine again;
Fight for your rights till the green sod is gory.
Young wives and sisters have buckled your armor on;
Maidens ye love bid ye go to the battle-field;
Strong arms and stout hearts have many a vict'ry won,
Courage shall strengthen the weapons ye wield;
Wild passions are storming,
Dark schemes are forming,
Deep snares are laid, but they shall not enthrall ye;
Justice your cause shall greet,
Laurels lay at your feet,
If each brave band be but watchful and wary.
Let fear and unmanliness vanish before ye;
Trust in the Rock who will shelter the righteous;
Plant firmly each step on the soil of the free,--
A heritage left by the sires who bled for us,
May each heart be bounding,
When trumpets are sounding,
And the dark traitors shall strive to surround ye;
The great God of battle
Can still the war-rattle,
And brighten the land with a sunset of glory.
THE SOUTHERN FLAG.
_Tune_--"_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea._"
Three cheers for the Southern flag,
That floats upon the gale,
Once more fling out its flapping folds,
And make its foeman quail.
And make each foeman quail, my boys,
While, like an earthquake roar,
Goes forth our war cry through the land,
For liberty once more.
CHORUS.--Three cheers for the Southern flag,
That floats above the gale,
Once more fling out its flapping folds,
And make its foeman quail.
Oh, for an Abolition crowd,
I hear old Abe cry out,
Affrighted by the march of foes,
The freeman's mighty shout.
That shouting welcomes to our heart,
The freeman's chosen man--
Jeff Davis--who now heads our hosts,
And leads the glorious van.
CHORUS.
Full brightly waves our flag in air,
O'er Sumpter's fort just won.
And soon o'er Pickens' towering heights
It will glitter in the sun.
It will glitter in the sun, my boys,
And fan the battle cloud,
The struggling freeman's sigh of hope,
The fallen heroes' shroud.
CHORUS.
And now three cheers for the glorious flag,
That victory has won,
And may it soon be towering o'er
The Dome at Washington.
The Dome at Washington, my boys,
While Abolition hosts
Shall quail and shake before the flag--
The freeman's glorious boast.
CHORUS.
THE STARS AND THE BARS.
O, the South is the queen of all nations,
The home of the brave and the true--
She makes no vain demonstration;
But shows what her brave sons can do;
Her freedom and advancement they cherish--
"Our rights, our liberties," they cry,
"To the rescue, we'll win the fight or perish,
For the Southern boys never fear to die."
CHORUS.--Then hurrah for the "Stars and Bars,"
No stain on its folds ever be--
Its glory dishonor never mars,
And 'twill yet grace the land of the free.
Bring forward the tankard and fill it,
Ye sons that are loyal and brave,
Our blood--O, how freely we'll spill it,
We are fighting for freedom or the grave;
Our armies may be scattered and disbanded,
Yet the wild-woods we still will infest--
Yet shall fear the brave foe tho' single-handed,
When the death rattle burst from his breast.
CHORUS.
Though black clouds sometimes may darken,
And shadow the bright sunny sky;
To the rumbling of cannon we'll hearken,
Which tells of the foe as they fly.
Tho' thousands may fall stark and gory,
Their requiem from gun and cannon mouth,
They'll win fame, freedom and glory;
And all for the loved "Sunny South."
CHORUS.
CONFEDERATE SONG.
_Air--"Bruce's Address."_
Written for and dedicated to the Kirk's Ferry Rangers, by their Captain,
E. LLOYD WAILES. Sung by the Glee Club on 4th July, 1861, at the Kirk's
Ferry Barbecue (Catahoula, La.), after the presentation of a flag, by the
ladies, to the Kirk's Ferry Rangers.
Rally round our country's flag!
Rally, boys, nor do not lag;
Come from every vale and crag,
Sons of Liberty!
Northern Vandals tread our soil,
Forth they come for blood and spoil,
To the homes we've gained with toil,
Shouting, "Slavery."
Traitorous Lincoln's bloody band
Now invades the freeman's land,
Arm'd with sword and firebrand,
'Gainst the brave and free.
Arm ye, then, for fray and fight,
March ye forth both day and night,
Stop not till the foe's in sight,
Sons of chivalry.
In your veins the blood still flows
Of brave men who once arose--
Burst the shackles of their foes;
Honest men and free
Rise, then, in your power and might,
Seek the spoiler, brave the fight;
Strike for God, for Truth, for Right:
Strike for Liberty!
LEE AT THE WILDERNESS.
By MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE.
'Twas a terrible moment!
The blood and the rout!
His great bosom shook
With an awful doubt.
Confusion in front,
And a pause in the cries:
And a darkness like night
Passed over our skies:
There were tears in the eyes
Of General Lee.
As the blue-clad lines
Swept fearfully near,
There was wavering yonder,
And a break in the cheer
Of our columns unsteady:
But "WE ARE HERE! _We_ are ready
With rifle and blade!"
Cried the Texas Brigade
To General Lee.
He smiled--it meant death,
That wonderful smile;
It leaped like a flame
Down each close set file;
And we stormed to the front
With a long, loud cry--
We had long ago learned
How to charge and to die:
There was faith in the eye
Of General Lee.
But a sudden pause came,
As we dashed on the foe,
And our scathing columns
Swayed to and fro;
Cold grew our blood,
Glowing like wine,
And a quick, sharp whisper
Shot over our line,
As our ranks opened wide--
_And there by our side
Rode General Lee._
How grandly he rode!
With his eyes on fire,
And his great bosom shook
With an awful desire!
But, "Back to the rear!
'Till you ride to the rear
We will not do battle
With gun or with blade!"
Cried the Texas Brigade
To General Lee.
[Illustration: Gen. Robert E. Lee.]
And so he rode back;
And our terrible yell
Stormed up to the front;
And the fierce, wild swell,
And the roar and the rattle,
Swept into the battle
From General Lee.
I felt my foot slip
In the gathering fray--
I looked, and my brother
Lay dead in my way.
I paused but one moment
To draw him aside;
Ah! the gash in his bosom
Was bloody and wide!
But he smiled, for he died
For General Lee.
Christ! 'twas maddening work;
But the work was done,
And a few came back
When the hour was won.
Let it glow in the peerless
Records of the fearless--
The charge that was made
By the Texas Brigade
For General Lee.
A SOUTHERN SONG.
By "L. M.," in _Louisville Courier_.
If ever I consent to be married,
And who would refuse a good mate?
The man whom I give my hand to,
Must believe in the rights of the State.
To a husband who quietly submits
To negro-equality sway,
The true Southern girl will not barter
Her heart and affections away.
The heart I may choose to preside o'er,
True, warm, and devoted must be,
And have true love for a Union
Under the Southern Liberty Tree.
Should Lincoln attempt to coerce him
To share with the negro his right,
Then, smiling, I'd gird on his armor,
And bid him God-speed in the fight.
And if he should fall in the conflict,
His memory with tears I will grace;
Better weep o'er a patriot fallen,
Than blush in a Tory embrace.
We girls are all for a Union,
Where a marked distinction is laid
Between the rights of the mistress
And those of the kinky-haired maid.
THE TEXAN MARSEILLAISE.
By JAMES HAINES, of Texas.
Sons of the South, arouse to battle!
Gird on your armor for the fight!
The Northern Thugs, with dread "war's rattle,"
Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;
Meet them as ocean meets in madness
The frail bark on the rocky shore,
When crested billows roam and roar,
And the wrecked crew go down in sadness:
CHORUS.--Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!
Scatter yon vandal hordes!
Despots and bandits, fitting food
For vultures and your swords.
Shall dastard tyrants march their legions
To crush the land of Jackson--Lee?
Shall freedom fly to other regions,
And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?
Or shall their "footprints' base pollution"
Of Southern soil in blood be purged,
And every flying slave be scourged
Back to his snows in wild confusion.
CHORUS.
Vile despots, with their minions knavish,
Would drag us back to their embrace;
Will freemen brook a chain so slavish?
Will brave men take so low a place?
O, Heaven! for words--the loathing, scorning
We feel for such a Union's bands:
To paint with more than mortal hands,
And sound our loudest notes of warning.
CHORUS.
What! Union with a race ignoring
The charter of our Nation's birth?
Union with bastard slaves adoring
The fiend that chains them to the earth?
No! we reply in tones of thunder,
No! our staunch hills fling back the sound--
No! our hoarse cannon echo round--
No! evermore remain asunder!
CHORUS.
[Illustration: Stonewall Jackson's Cadet Button.]
THE BATTLE OF THE MISSISSIPPI.
The tyrant's broad pennant is floating
In the South, o'er our waters so blue:
On our homes now his foul eye is gloating;
The homes of the brave and the true.
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!
[Illustration: "The hero-boy lay dying."]
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_.