Songs and Ballads of the Southern People Part 37

'TIS MIDNIGHT IN THE SOUTHERN SKY.

BY MRS. M. J. YOUNG.

'Tis midnight in the Southern sky-- See the starry cross decline!

The watching flowers, all bath'd in tears, Creep o'er the mournful sign!

But that decline but serves to mark A bright and glorious hour, Whose gleaming splendors shall then crown With stars the simplest flower!

A day that in its turn shall tell Of the starry cross uprighted!

Then weep not--ev'ry change is well-- All wrongs shall be requited!

"STACK ARMS."

BY JOSEPH BLYTHE ALSTON.[22]

"Stack arms!" I've gladly heard the cry, When, weary with the dusty tread Of marching troops, as night grew nigh, And sank upon my soldier bed, And calmly slept; the starry dome Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, And mingled with my dreams of home, The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.

"Stack arms!" I've heard it, when the shout, Exulting, rang along our line, Of foes hurled back in b.l.o.o.d.y rout, Captured, dispersed; its tones divine Then came to mine enraptured ear, Guerdon of duty n.o.bly done, And glistened on my cheek the tear Of grateful joy for victory won.

"Stack arms!" In faltering accents, slow And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, A broken, murmuring wail of woe, From manly hearts by anguish wrung.

Like victims of a midnight dream, We move, we know not how nor why, For life and hope but phantoms seem, And it would be relief--to die.

THE INVOCATION.

BY B. W. W.

G.o.d bless the land of flowers, And turn its winter hours To bright summer time!

Be the brave soldier's friend, And from dangers defend, When Northern b.a.l.l.s descend On the Southern line!

Father, we implore Thee, Let Thy people go free From their foes once more!

And they will bend the knee, And Thine the praise shall be, On sunny land and sea, As in days of yore!

Lord, bid the carnage cease, Let the banner of peace Again be unfurled!

Two nations make from one, And when the work is done, Over both reign alone-- Saviour of the world!

DOFFING THE GRAY.

BY LIEUTENANT FALLIGANT.

Off with your gray suits, boys, Off with your rebel gear!

They smack too much of the cannon's peal, The lightning flash of your deadly steel, The terror of your spear.

Their color is like the smoke That curled o'er your battle-line; They call to mind the yell that woke When the dastard columns before you broke, And their dead were your fatal sign.

Off with the starry wreath, Ye who have led our van; To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death, When we followed you over the gory heath, Where we whipped them man to man.

Down with the cross of stars-- Too long hath it waved on high; 'Tis covered all over with battle-scars, But its gleam the Northern banner mars-- 'Tis time to lay it by.

Down with the vows we've made, Down with each memory-- Down with the thoughts of our n.o.ble dead-- Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid, And down with Liberty.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY FATHER A. J. RYAN.

Take that banner down, 'tis weary, Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, Furl it, hide it, let it rest; For there's not a man to wave it-- For there's not a soul to lave it In the blood that heroes gave it.

Furl it, hide it, let it rest.

Take that banner down, 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff, and shattered; And the valiant hearts are scattered Over whom it floated high.

Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it-- Hard to think there's none to hold it-- Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that banner, furl it sadly; Once six millions hailed it gladly, And three hundred thousand madly, Swore it should forever wave-- Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever-- That their flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that banner--it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe; For though conquered, they adore it, Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it-- Oh! how wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so!

Furl that banner; true 'tis gory, But 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust; For its fame, on brightest pages-- Sung by poets, penned by sages-- Shall go sounding down to ages-- Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that banner--softly, slowly; Furl it gently, it is holy, For it droops above the dead.

Touch it not, unfurl it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are fled.

FOLD IT UP CAREFULLY.

Gallant nation, foiled by numbers, Say not that your hopes are fled; Keep that glorious flag which slumbers, One day to avenge your dead.

Keep it till your children take it, Once again to hail and make it All their sires have bled and fought for, All their n.o.ble hearts have sought for, Bled and fought for all alone.

All alone! aye, shame the story, Millions here deplore the stain, Shame, alas! for England's glory, Freedom called, and called in vain.