Songs and Ballads of the Southern People Part 15

THE WAR CHRISTIAN'S THANKSGIVING.

_Respectfully dedicated to the War Clergy of the United States._

BY GEORGE H. MILES, OF BALTIMORE.

Oh, G.o.d of battles! once again, With banner, trump and drum, And garments in thy wine-press dyed, To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded, Unto Thine altars go; With brother's blood, by brothers shed, Our glad libations flow.

From pest-house and from dungeon foul, Where, maimed and torn, they die, From gory trench and charnel-house, Where, heap on heap, they lie.

In every groan that yields a soul, Each shriek a heart that rends, With every breath of tainted air, Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank Thee for the saber's gash, The cannon's havoc wild; We bless Thee for the widow's tears, The want that starves her child!

We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit The torch and fanned the flame; That l.u.s.t and rapine hunt their prey, Kind Father, in Thy name!

That for the songs of idle joy False angels sang of yore, Thou sendest war on earth--ill-will To men for evermore!

We know that wisdom, truth and right To us and ours are given; That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath, To do the work of heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste Are pleasant in Thine eyes-- Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate, Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.

Let not our weakness fall below The measure of Thy will, And while the press hath wine to bleed, Oh, tread it with us still!

Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught Fond fools, of yore, to love; Give us Thy vengeance as our own-- Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands, The pages of Thy word, And learn the blessed curses there, On them that sheathe the sword.

Where'er we tread may deserts spring, Till none are left to slay; And when the last red-drop is shed, We'll kneel again--and pray!

UP! UP! LET THE STARS OF OUR BANNER.

BY M. F. BIGNEY.

_Respectfully dedicated to the Soldiers of the South._

Up! up! Let the stars of our banner Flash out like the brilliants above!

Beneath them we'll s.h.i.+eld from dishonor The homes and the dear ones we love.

With "G.o.d and our Right!"

Our cry in the fight, We'll drive the invader afar, And we'll carve out a name In the temple of Fame With the weapons of glorious war.

Arise with an earnest endeavor-- A nation shall hallow the deed; The foe must be silenced forever, Though millions in battle may bleed.

With "G.o.d and our Right!" etc.

Strong arms and a conquerless spirit We bring as our glory and guard: If courage a triumph can merit, Then Freedom shall be our reward.

With "G.o.d and our Right!" etc.

Beneath the high sanction of Heaven, We'll fight as our forefathers fought; Then pray that to us may be given Such guerdon as fell to their lot.

With "G.o.d and our Right!" etc.

THE SOLDIER BOY.

BY H. M. L.

I give my soldier boy a blade, In fair Damascus fas.h.i.+oned well; Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not: but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling, base or low, I give my soldier boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood, In which its tempering work was done; As calm, as clear, as clear of mood Be thou whene'er it sees the sun; For country's claim, at honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise; And still the gleaming sword remains.

So when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heartfelt strains, I give my soldier boy a blade.

LYNCHBURG, VA., _May 18, 1861_.

A SOUTHERN GATHERING SONG.

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH.

AIR--"_Hail Columbia_."[9]

Sons of the South, beware the foe!

Hark to the murmur deep and low, Rolling up like the coming storm, Swelling up like sounding storm, Hoa.r.s.e as the hurricanes that brood In s.p.a.ce's far infinitude!

Minute guns of omen boom Through the future's folded gloom; Sounds prophetic fill the air, Heed the warning--and prepare!

Watch! be wary--every hour Mark the foeman's gathering power-- Keep watch and ward upon his track And crush the rash invader back!

Sons of the brave!--a barrier stanch Breasting the alien avalanche-- Manning the battlements of RIGHT; Up, for your _Country_, "_G.o.d, and right!_"

Form your battalions steadily, And strike for death or victory!

Surging onward sweeps the wave, Serried columns of the brave, Banded 'neath the benison Of Freedom's G.o.dlike Was.h.i.+ngton!

Stand! but should the invading foe Aspire to lay your altars low, Charge on the tyrant ere he gain Your iron arteried domain!

Sons of the brave! when tumult trod The tide of revolution--G.o.d Looked from His throne on "the things of time,"

And two new stars in the reign of time He bade to burn in the azure dome-- The freeman's LOVE and the freeman's HOME!

Holy of Holies! guard them well, Baffle the despot's secret spell, And let the chords of life be riven Ere you yield those gifts of Heaven!

_Io paean!_ trumpet notes Shake the air where our banner floats; _Io triumphe!_ still we see _The land of the South is the home of the free!_