THE RIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG.
BY JOHN W OVERALL.
| In other days our fathers’ love was loyal, full, and free, For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea; They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song, For them the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong. But when the King’s weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea, The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea; And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might, That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right. The King sent over hireling hosts—Briton, Hessian, Scot— And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot; While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng, And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place give to the Wrong. But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon’s sword was out, With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman’s thunder-shout; And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight, But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right! And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea, To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free, Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long, And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong. And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew, But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue; For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight, And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right! The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South, To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon’s mouth; For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song, Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong. But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool, Shall ever win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule; We’ll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night, And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right. New Orleans True Delta. |
TO MY SOLDIER BROTHER.
BY SALLIE E. BALLARD.
| When softly gathering shades of ev’n Creep o’er the prairies broad and green, And countless stars bespangle heav’n, And fringe the clouds with silv’ry sheen, My fondest sigh to thee is giv’n, My lonely wand’ring soldier-boy; And thoughts of thee Steal over me Like ev’ning shades, my soldier boy. My brother, though thou’rt far away, And dangers hurtle round thy path, And battle lightnings o’er thee play, And thunders peal in awful wrath, Think, whilst thou’rt in the hot affray, Thy sister prays for thee, my boy. If fondest prayer Can shield thee there, Sweet angels guard my soldier boy. Thy proud young heart is beating high To clash of arms and cannons’ roar; That firm set lip and flashing eye Tell how thy heart is brimming o’er. Be free and live, be free or die! Be that thy motto now, my boy; And though thy name’s Unknown to fame’s ’Tis graven on my heart, my boy. |
THE SOUTH IN ARMS.
BY REV. J. H. MARTIN.
| Oh! see ye not the sight sublime, Unequaled in all previous time, Presented in this Southern clime, The home of chivalry? A warlike race of freemen stand, With martial front and sword in hand, Defenders of their native land,— The sons of Liberty. Unawed by numbers, they defy The tyrant North, nor will they fly, Resolved to conquer or to die, And win a glorious name. Sprung from renowned heroic sires, Inflamed with patriotic fires, Their bosoms burn with fierce desires, They thirst for victory. ’Tis not the love of bloody strife, The horrid sacrifice of life, But thoughts of mother, sister, wife, That stir their manly hearts. A sense of honor bids them go, To meet a hireling, ruthless foe, And deal in wrath the deadly blow Which vengeance loud demands. In freedom’s sacred cause they fight, For Independence, Justice, Right, And to resist a desperate might. And by Manassas’ glorious name, And by Missouri’s fields of fame, We hear them swear, with one acclaim, We’ll triumph or we’ll die! |
MELT THE BELLS.
BY F. Y. ROCKETT.
| Melt the bells, melt the bells, Still the tinkling on the plain, And transmute the evening chimes Into war’s resounding rhymes, That the invaders may be slain By the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, That for years have called to prayer, And, instead, the cannon’s roar Shall resound the valleys o’er, That the foe may catch despair From the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, Though it cost a tear to part With the music they have made, Where the friends we love are laid, With pale cheek and silent heart, ’Neath the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, Into cannon, vast and grim, And the foe shall feel the ire From the heaving lungs of fire, And we’ll put our trust in Him, And the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, And when foes no more attack, And the lightning cloud of war Shall roll thunderless and far, We will melt the cannon back Into bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, And they’ll peal a sweeter chime, And remind of all the brave Who have sunk to glory’s grave, And will sleep through coming time ’Neath the bells.[3] |
TO THE TORIES OF VIRGINIA.
“I speak this unto your shame.”
| In the ages gone by, when Virginia arose Her honor and truth to maintain, Her sons round her banner would rally with pride, Determined to save it from stain. No heart in those days was so false or so cold, That it did not exquisitely thrill With a love and devotion that none would withhold, Until death the proud bosom should chill. Was Virginia in danger? Fast, fast at her call, From the mountains e’en unto the sea, Came up her brave children their mother to shield, And to die that she still might be free. And a coward was he, who, when danger’s dark cloud Overshadowed Virginia’s fair sky, Turned a deaf, careless ear, when her summons was heard, Or refused for her honor to die. Oh! proud are the mem’ries of days that are past, And richly the heart thrills whene’er We think of the brave who, their mother to save, Have died, as they lived, without fear. But now, can it be that Virginia’s name Fails to waken the homage and love Of e’en one of her sons? Oh! cold, cold must be The heart that her name will not move. When she rallies for freedom, for justice, and right, Will her sons, with a withering sneer, Revile her, and taunt her with treason and shame, Or say she is moved by foul fear? Will they tell her her glories have fled or grown pale? That she bends to a tyrant in shame? Will they trample her glorious flag in the dust, Or load with reproaches her name? Will they fly from her shores, or desert her in need? Will Virginians their backs ever turn On their mother, and fly when the danger is nigh, And her claim to their fealty spurn? False, false is the heart that refuses to yield The love that Virginia doth claim; And base is the tongue that could utter the lie, That charges his mother with shame. A blot on her ’scutcheon! a stain on her name! Our heart’s blood should wipe it away; We should die for her honor, and count it a boon Her mandates to heed and obey. But never, oh, never, let human tongue say She is false to her honor or fame! She is true to her past—to her future she’s true— And Virginia has never known shame. Then shame on the dastard, the recreant fool, That would strike, in the dark, at her now; That would coldly refuse her fair fame to uphold, That would basely prove false to his vow. But no! it can not—it can never be true, That Virginia claims one single child, That would ever prove false to his home or his God, Or be with foul treason defiled. And the man that could succor her enemies now, Even though on her soil he were born, Is so base, so inhuman, so false and so vile, That Virginia disowns him with scorn! Richmond Examiner. |
WAR SONG.
BY