SOUTHERN SONG OF FREEDOM.

Air—“The Minstrel’s Return.”

A nation has sprung into life
Beneath the bright Cross of the South;
And now a loud call to the strife
Rings out from the shrill bugle’s mouth.
They gather from morass and mountain,
They gather from prairie and mart,
To drink, at young Liberty’s fountain,
The nectar that kindles the heart.
Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty!
Our flag, with its cluster of stars,
Firm fixed in a field of pure blue,
All shining through red and white bars,
Now gallantly flutters in view.
The stalwart and brave round it rally,
They press to their lips every fold,
While the hymn swells from hill and from valley,
“Be, God, with our Volunteers bold.”
Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.

The invaders rush down from the North,
Our borders are black with their hordes;
Like wolves for their victims they flock,
While whetting their knives and their swords.
Their watchword is “Booty and Beauty,”
Their aim is to steal as they go;
But Southrons act up to your duty,
And lay the foul miscreants low.
Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.
The God of our fathers looks down
And blesses the cause of the just;
His smile will the patriot crown
Who tramples his chains in the dust.
March, march Southrons! shoulder to shoulder,
One heart-throb, one shout for the cause;
Remember—the world’s a beholder,
And your bayonets are fixed at your doors!
Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty.
J. H. H.

THERE’S NOTHING GOING WRONG.

Dedicated to “Old Abe.”

There’s a general alarm,
The South’s begun to arm,
And every hill and glen
Pours forth its warrior men;
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.
Six States already out,
Beckon others on the route;
And the cry is “Still they come!”
From the Southern sunny home;
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.
There’s a wail in the land,
From a want-stricken band;
And “Food! Food!” is the cry:
“Give us work or we die!”
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.
The sturdy farmer doth complain
Of low prices for his grain;
And the miller, with his flour,
Murmurs the dullness of the hour.
Yet, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.
The burly butcher in the mart,
He, too, also takes his part;
And the merchant in his store
Hears no creaking of his door.
But, “There’s nothing going wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.
Stagnation is everywhere;
On the water, in the air,
In the shop, in the forge,
On the mount, in the gorge;
With the anvil, with the loom,
In the store and counting-room;
In the city, in the town,
With Mr. Smith, with Mr. Brown!
And “yet there’s nothing wrong,”
Is the burden of my song.
A. M. W.
New Orleans, March 4, 1861.