By C. D. Dasher. Music by F. Younker.

[The music of this Song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

Oh, don’t you remember old Stonewall, my boys,
Old Stonewall on charger so gray,
Whose memory is dear to the sons of the South,
The heroes that once wore the gray.
He was true to the cause of the men that he led,
Heroic in death as in life,
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife—
From heaven above he smiles on the brave,
Who have ceased from mad carnage and strife.
The harvest waves over the battlefield, boys,
And where bullets once pattered like rain,
The peach blooms are drifting like snow in the air,
And the hillocks are springing in grain,
Oh! green in our hearts may the memories be,
Of those heroes, in blue or in grey,
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array—
As new growing grain, for never again,
Can they meet in dread battle array.

THE SOUTH;

OR, I LOVE THEE THE MORE.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

My heart in its sadness turns fondly to thee,
Dear land where our lov’d ones fought hard to be free;
I loved thee when struggling, and bleeding and sore,
But now thou art conquered, I love thee the more!
Gallant South! when the noble, the gifted, the brave,
Dashed onward to battle, like wave after wave,
Determin’d to die for the land they adore,
Though vain were their efforts, I love thee the more.
Bright South! though the winter is closing around,
And dead leaves of autumn now carpet the ground,
Thy beauties of woodland, of river and shore,
Still charm the beholder, I love thee the more.
Dear South! though thy beautiful forests and hills,
Thy emerald valleys and silvery rills,
Are subject to strangers—not free as of yore—
Thus changed, and in sorrow, I love thee the more.
Sweet South! lovely land of beautiful flowers,
Though cool now the zephyrs, and faded thy bowers,
Oh, soon shall the springtime thy beauties restore,
And bloom o’er our lost ones—I love thee the more.

Darling South! when I think every forest and grove,
And valley have pillow’d the heads that we love,
Have echoed their war cry and drank of their gore,
I feel thou art sacred, and love thee the more.