What! shall this groveling race, who cringe for gold, Make laws for Southern men, on Southern soil? Shall these degenerate hordes, to avarice sold, Crush freedom's sons, and Freedom's altars spoil? Great God! oh! by these iron-shackled hands, Ne'er shall our necks beneath their yokes be led. Of despots such as these, shall Southern bands Ne'er own the mastery, till every heart is dead. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
Tremble, O tyrants! and you, perfidious tools, Of every race and party long the scorn! Tremble, ye base, ye parricidal fools, The doom of treachery is already born. All Southern men are heroes in the fray; If fall they must, o'erpowered in the field, Long as the race endures, each child for aye Shall from his cradle strike the sounding shield. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
Sons of the South! magnanimous in war, Strike or withhold, as honor bids, your blows. Spare, if you will, those victims from afar, Who, ignorant of liberty, become your foes. But for these bastards of a free-born bed, These parasites, in Freedom's arms caressed, These beasts, by sin and spoil and rapine bred, Who dig for blood, deep in their mother's breast, To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
O sacred love of country! For the South, Come, brave avengers, rush to every field. Let cries of "Liberty" from every mouth Sound the alarm, till the base traitors yield. Under our glorious flag, let Victory Respond to Freedom's call. Wipe off the stain Of the invaders' feet. Dying, they will see Thy triumph, and the land redeemed again. To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON.
Aye, toll! toll! toll! Toll the funeral bell! And let its mournful echoes roll From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul That ever in battle fell.
Yes, weep! weep! weep! Weep for the hero fled! For death, the greatest of soldiers, at last Has over our leader his black pall cast, And from us his noble form hath passed To the home of the mighty dead.