Songs and Ballads of the Southern People Part 36

From Moscow's ashes spring the Russ; In Warsaw Poland lives again; Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus, Strikes Liberty's electric chain!

Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss; Vainly the invader ever strives; He finds "Sic Semper Tyrannis"

In San Jacinto's bowie-knives!

Than these--than all--a holier fire Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son!

Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire; Strike for the grave of Was.h.i.+ngton!

The Northern rabble aims for greed; The hireling parson goads the train-- In that foul crop from bigot seed, Old "Praise G.o.d Barebones" howls again!

We welcome them to "Southern lands"-- We welcome them to "Southern slaves"-- We welcome them "with b.l.o.o.d.y hands To hospitable Southern graves!"

SONG FOR THE MARYLAND LINE.

BY J. D. M'CABE, JR.

By old Potomac's rus.h.i.+ng tide Our bayonets are gleaming; And o'er the bounding waters wide We gaze while tears are streaming.

The distant hills of Maryland Rise sadly up before us, And tyrant bands have chained our land-- Our mother, proud, that bore us.

Our proud old mother's queenly head Is bowed in subjugation; With her children's blood her soil is red, And fiends in exultation Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, While her heart is torn with anguish; Old mother, on famed Mana.s.sas's plains Our vengeance did not languis.h.!.+

We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, 'Mid shot and sh.e.l.l appalling; We heard your voice as it upward gushed From the Maryland life-blood falling.

No pity we knew! Did they mercy show When they bound the mother that bore us?

But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe, Till they, shrieking, fled before us!

We mourn for our brothers brave, that fell On that field, so stern and gory; But their spirits rose with our triumph-yell To the heavenly realms of glory.

And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-- By their love so true and tender; We'll keep the prize they would not yield, We'll die, but we'll not surrender.

And, mother, we wait but the signal-blast, To rush to redeem thy glory; We may fall, but our conquering dust shall rest On thy soil, so famed in story.

The tyrant's flag shall no longer s.h.i.+ne, Thy liberty to smother, When the word is pa.s.sed to the Maryland Line, To strike for their loved old mother.

CONFEDERATE LAND.

BY H. H. STRAWBRIDGE.

States of the South! Confederate land!

Our foe has come--the hour is nigh; His bale-fires rise on every hand-- Rise as one man, to do or die!

From mountain, vale, and prairie wide, From forest vast, and field, and glen, And crowded city, pour thy tide, Oh! fervid South! of patriot men.

Up! old and young; the weak, be strong!

Rise for the right--hurl back the wrong, And foot to foot, and hand to hand, Strike for our own Confederate land!

Make every house, and rock, and tree, And hill, your forts; and fen and flood Yield not! our soil shall rather be One waste of flame, one sea of blood!

Fear not their steel, but fear their gold-- Not Yankee force, but Yankee fraud; Trust not the race--as false as cold-- Whose very prayers are lies to G.o.d.

Up! old and young, etc.

Armed, or unarmed, stand fearless forth, Sons of the South! stand, wife and maid!

Against the foul insidious North, Our _babes_ shall wield the battle-blade!

On! though perennial be the strife, For honor dear, for hearth-stone fire; Give blow for blow! take life for life!

"Strike! till the last armed foe expire!"

Up! old and young, etc.

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 unfeeling wandered, And we strip from our flag every recusant star.

They have forced us to stand by our own Const.i.tution, 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 blow for its lov'd Tennessee.

THE SOUTHERN HOMES IN RUINS.

BY R. B. VANCE.

Many a gray-haired sire has died, As falls the oak, to rise no more, Because his son, his prop, his pride, Breathed out his last all red with gore.

No more on earth, at morn, at eve, Shall age and youth, entwined as one-- Nor father, son, for either grieve-- Life's work, alas, for both is done!

Many a mother's heart has bled While gazing on her darling child, As in its tiny eyes she read The father's image, kind and mild; For ne'er again his voice will cheer The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, Fast falling on the orphan's head!

Many a little form will stray Adown the glen and o'er the hill, And watch with wistful looks the way For him whose step is missing still; And when the twilight steals apace O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home, And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face-- The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"

And many a home's in ashes now, Where joy was once a constant guest, And mournful groups there are, I trow, With neither house nor place of rest; And blood is on the broken _sill_,[21]

Where happy feet went to and fro, And everywhere, by field and hill, Are sickening sights and sounds of woe;

There is a G.o.d who rules on high, The widow's and the orphan's friend, Who sees each tear and hears each sigh That these lone hearts to Him may send!

And when in wrath He tears away The reasons vain which men indite, The record-book will plainest say Who's in the wrong, and who is right.