BY HARRY C. TREAKLE.

Though we’re exempt, we’re not the metal
To keep in when duty calls;
But onward we will press, to settle
This knotty case, with leaden balls;
For our dear old mother State, the fount
From which we each our life did take,
Is locked up by a Vandal horde,
And the honor of the craft’s at stake.
For lean-faced Lincoln’s after us—
His slim shanks moving like a scout;
But long before his job is done,
He’ll find that all his quads are out.
For with Lee our headline—worthy guide—
We, galley-slaves will never be,
But still press onward by his side,
For that fat take, sweet liberty!
Soon Abe will find what he’s about
Will cost him such a pile of rocks,
Before his cherished work is out,
He’ll have no sorts in any box!
For his bank is now so very low,
He scarce can chase up quoins to pay
The hired scum, the foreign foe,
Who comes to steal our rights away.
And his chums now see, by his foul matter,
To set clean proof he ne’er was cast,
And fears are felt that the gaunt old ratter
Will go broadside to hell at last,
Where his friend, the devil, will welcome him,
With accents sweet—to his bosom fly,
Revise his foul proof-sheets once more,
And knock his naked form in pi.
And so to rush the base old monk along,
And bring the quiet soon about,
We’ll swell our lines to columns strong,
And give no quarters till he’s out;
For Southern jours. now take a stand,
Their foremen marshaled at their head,
And each with shooting-stick in hand,
Resolved they will his matter lead.
And while a foe is in the field,
Our hands still steady, our leaders cool,
Death we’ll em-brace before we’ll yield;
But, by God’s help, we’ll stick and rule,
And when, in after years to come,
Our history’s read by youth and sage,
They’ll make a side-note of “well done,”
On this our volume’s brightest page.
Norfolk, Va., April 4, 1862.

THE MARSEILLES HYMN.

Translated and adapted as an ode,

BY B. F. PORTER, OF ALABAMA.

Sons of the South, arise! awake! be free!
Behold! the day of Southern glory comes.
See where the blood-stained flag of tyranny
Pollutes the air that breathes around your homes.
Rise! Southern men, from villages and farms,
Cry vengeance! Oh! shall worse than pirate slaves
Strangle your children in their mothers’ arms,
And spit on dust that fills your fathers’ graves?
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood.

What would these men, whose lives black treachery stains—
Conspirators, to plunder long endeared?
For whom these vile, these ignominious chains—
These fetters, for our brother’s hands prepared?
Sons of the South, for us! Oh! bitter thought!
What transports should our burning souls inspire!
Shall Southern men, by mercenaries bought,
Be sold to vassalage, from son to sire?
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o’erflow with the invaders’ blood.
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.
Nashville Gazette.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON.