Follow, brave boys, follow!
’Tis the roll-call of the drum,
And the bright steel’s ringing music,
With its spirit-stirring hum—
’Tis the tramp of armèd columns,
Brazen fronted, drawing near,
And the rattle of the sabers
In the scabbards, that ye hear;
Follow, follow, ’tis the van, boys,
So bravely leading on;
Follow, follow, to a man, boys,
There’s glory to be won!
Follow, follow, saith the mother—
Follow, follow, saith the wife—
Though ye’re dear as our hearts’ blood,
More precious, far than life;
But we would not have ye linger
While the hated foeman stands
Beside our sacred hearth-stones,
And desecrates our lands!
We’ll forgive the starting tear, boys,
’Tis the jewel of the heart,
That ye may not blush to wear, boys,
When from loved ones thus ye part.
There’s not a Southern matron
But in her bosom wears
The iron Key of Firmness
That locketh up her fears;
While ye buckle on your armor,
She will bid ye safe “God-speed,”
And bear her cross all bravely
For her precious country’s need!
When our women have such souls, boys,
Ye must never flinch or quail—
While the storm of battle rolls, boys,
Ne’er strike the straining sail!
Our lives are dearly purchased,
When bondage is the price;
And what is home, where freedom
Withers ’neath the tyrant’s vice?
Better the earthy pillow,
Better the gory bier,
Where the true-hearted ever
Will drop the burning tear;
For think, if ye should fall, boys,
Ye have not lived in vain—
On the brave soldier’s pall, boys,
None ever put a stain!
Fling out our glorious banner
Upon the golden air—
Swear by its stars, Dishonor
Shall leave no footprint there!
That ye’ll plant its broad bars firmly,
As a barrier to the foe,
From the blue Gulf to the Border,
From the Sea to Mexico!
The Southern sky’s a-flame, boys,
Where our stately cities burn,
But, as monuments of fame, boys,
Their ashes we’ll in-urn!
Oh! inch by inch, repel him,
The foul invading foe!
Let the sharp saber tell him
How despots are laid low!
And history’s burning pencil
Will, on her golden page,
Your hero name enamel
An honor to the age!
One blow, and we are free, boys,
Strike firmly, and ’tis done!
On, on, to Tennessee, boys,
Oh! follow bravely on!

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE.

BY FATHER A. J. RYAN.

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright,
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o’er the brave in the cause of Right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light,
Led us to victory.
Out of its scabbard, where, full long,
It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle’s song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee.
Forth from its scabbard, high in air,
Beneath Virginia’s sky—
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare
To follow—and to die!
Out of its scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!
Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed
That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee.

Forth from its scabbard all in vain
Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
’Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully.

BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.

Dedicated with respect and admiration to Major-General Earl Van Dorn.

For sixty days and upwards
A storm of shell and shot
Rained round as in a flaming shower,
But still we faltered not!
“If the noble city perish,”
Our grand young leader said,
“Let the only walls the foe shall scale
Be ramparts of the dead!”
For sixty days and upwards
The eye of heaven waxed dim,
And even throughout God’s holy morn,
O’er Christian’s prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult,
As if the fiends of air
Strove to engulf the voice of faith
In the shrieks of their despair.
There was wailing in the houses,
There was trembling on the marts,
While the tempest raged and thundered,
’Mid the silent thrill of hearts;
But the Lord, our shield, was with us,
And ere a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets,
With scarce one throb of dread.
And the little children gamboled—
Their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment,
As the huge bombs whirled and blazed!
Then turning with silvery laughter
To the sports which children love,
Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought,
That the good God watched above.[17]

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster
From scores of flame-clad ships,
And above us denser, darker,
Grew the conflict’s wild eclipse,
Till a solid cloud closed o’er us,
Like a type of doom and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues
Of forked and vengeful fire.
But the unseen hands of angels
These death-shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy
Ruled o’er the battle tide;
In the houses ceased the wailing,
And through the war-scarred marts
The people strode with the step of hope
To the music in their hearts.
Columbia, S. C., August 6, 1862.