HARP OF THE SOUTH, AWAKE!
BY J. M. KILGOUR.
| Harp of the South, awake! From every golden wire, Let the voice of thy power go forth, Like the rush of a prairie fire; With the rush and the rhythm of a power That dares a freeman’s grave, Rather than live to wear The chains of a truckling slave. Harp of the South, awake! Thy sons are aroused at last, And their legions are gathering now, To the sound of the trumpet blast; To the scream of the piercing fife, And the beat of the rolling drum, From mountain, and hill, and plain, And field, and town, they come. Harp of the South, awake! Their banners are on the breeze; Tell the world how vain the thought To subdue such men as these, With hero hearts that beat, To the throbs of the spirit-flame, Which will kindle their battle-fires In freedom’s holy name. Harp of the South, awake! But not to sing of love, In shady forest-bower, Or fragrant orange grove; Oh, no, but thy song must be The wrath of the battle crash, Inscribed on the cloud of war, With the pen of its lightning flash. Harp of the South, awake! And strike the strains once more, Which nerved thy heroes’ hearts In the glorious days of yore; Which gave a giant’s strength To the arm of Marion, Of Sumter, Morgan, Lee, And your own great Washington. Harp of the South, awake! Your freedom’s angel calls, In the laugh of the rippling rills, And the roar of the waterfalls. See how she bends to hear, As she walks the valleys through, And along the mountain tops, In robes of gold and blue. Harp of the South, awake! The proud, the full-soul’d South— With the dusk of her flashing eyes, And the lure of her rosy mouth— With love, or pride, or wrath, Thrilling her noble form, As she smiles like a summer sky, Or frowns like a summer storm! Harp of the South, awake! Though the soldier’s beaming tear May fall on thy trembling strings, As he breathes his farewell prayer; Yet, tell him how to die On the bloody battle-field, Rather than to her foes The gallant South should yield.[2] |
ARISE.
BY C. G. POYNAS.
| Carolinians! who inherit Blood which flowed in patriot veins! Rouse ye from lethargic slumber, Rouse and fling away your chains! From the mountain to the seaboard, Let the cry be—Up! Arise! Throw our pure Palmetto banner Proudly upward to the skies. Fling it out! its lone star beaming Brightly to the nation’s gaze; Lo! another star arises! Quickly, proudly it emblaze! Yet another! Bid it welcome With a hearty “three times three”; Send it forth, on boom of cannon, Southern men will dare be free. Faster than the cross of battle Summoned rude Clan Alpine’s host, Flash the news from sea to mountain— Back from mountain to the coast! On the lightning’s wing it fleeth, Scares the eagle in his flight, As his keen eye sees arising Glory, yet shall daze his sight! Cease the triumph—days of darkness Loom upon us from afar: Can a woman’s voice for battle Ring the fatal note of war? Yes—when we have borne aggression Till submission is disgrace— Southern women call for action; Ready would the danger face! Yes, in many a matron’s bosom Burns the Spartan spirit now; From the maiden’s eye it flashes, Glows upon her snowy brow; E’en our infants in their prattle Urge us on to risk our all— “Would we leave them, as a blessing. The oppressor’s hateful thrall?” No!—then up, true-hearted Southrons, Like bold “giants nerved by wine”; Never fear! The cause is holy— It is sacred—yea, divine! For the Lord of Hosts is with us, It is He has cast our lot; Blest our homes—from lordly mansion To the humblest negro cot. God of battles! hear our cry— Give us nerve to do or die! |
THE STAR OF THE WEST.
| I wish I was in de land o’ cotton, Old times dair ain’t not forgotten— Look away, etc. In Dixie land whar I was born in, Early on one frosty mornin’— Look away, etc. Chorus—Den I wish I was in Dixie. In Dixie land dat frosty mornin’, Jis ’bout de time de day was dawnin’, Look away, etc. De signal fire from de east bin roarin’, Rouse up, Dixie, no more snorin’— Look away, etc.— Den I wish I was in Dixie. Dat rocket high a blazing in de sky, ’Tis de sign dat de snobbies am comin’ up nigh— Look away, etc. Dey bin braggin’ long, if we dare to shoot a shot, Dey comin’ up strong and dey’ll send us all to pot. Fire away, fire away, lads in gray. Den I wish I was in Dixie. Charleston Mercury. |
FAREWELL TO BROTHER JONATHAN.
BY “CAROLINE.”
| Farewell! we must part; we have turned from the land Of our cold-hearted brother, with tyrannous hand, Who assumed all our rights as a favor to grant, And whose smile ever covered the sting of a taunt; Who breathed on the fame he was bound to defend— Still the craftiest foe, ’neath the guise of a friend; Who believed that our bosoms would bleed at a touch, Yet could never believe he could goad them too much; Whose conscience affects to be seared with our sin, Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in; The mote in our eye so enormous has grown, That he never perceives there’s a beam in his own. O Jonathan, Jonathan! vassal of pelf, Self-righteous, self-glorious, yes, every inch self, Your loyalty now is all bluster and boast, But was dumb when the foemen invaded our coast. In vain did your country appeal to you then, You coldly refused her your money and men; Your trade interrupted, you slunk from her wars, And preferred British gold to the Stripes and the Stars! Then our generous blood was as water poured forth, And the sons of the South were the shields of the North; Nor our patriot ardor one moment gave o’er, Till the foe you had fed we had driven from the shore! Long years we have suffered opprobrium and wrong, But we clung to your side with affection so strong, That at last, in mere wanton aggression, you broke All the ties of our hearts with one murderous stroke. We are tired of contest for what is our own, We are sick of a strife that could never be done; Thus our love has died out, and its altars are dark, Not Prometheus’s self could rekindle the spark. O Jonathan, Jonathan! deadly the sin Of your tigerish thirst for the blood of your kin; And shameful the spirit that gloats over wives And maidens despoiled of their honor and lives! Your palaces rise from the fruits of our toil, Your millions are fed from the wealth of our soil; The balm of our air brings the health to your cheek, And our hearts are aglow with the welcome we speak. O brother! beware how you seek us again, Lest you brand on your forehead the signet of Cain; That blood and that crime on your conscience must sit; We may fall—we may perish—but never submit! The pathway that leads to the Pharisee’s door We remember, indeed, but we tread it no more; Preferring to turn, with the Publican’s faith, To the path through the valley and shadow of death! |
THE UNIFORM OF GRAY.
BY EVAN ELBERT.
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The Briton boasts his coat of red, With lace and spangles decked; In garb of green the French are seen, With gaudy colors flecked; The Yankees strut in dingy blue, And epaulets display; Our Southern girls more proudly view The uniform of gray. That dress is worn by gallant hearts Who every foe defy, Who stalwart stand, with battle-brand, To conquer or to die! They fight for freedom, hope and home, And honor’s voice obey, And proudly wear
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