By Capt. Sam Houston.

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

Softly comes the twilight stealing gently through my prison bars,
While from out the vault of heaven, faintly glimmering come the stars;
Well I know my mother’s weeping for her long-lost wandering boy—
Does she know that still I’m living? even that would give her joy.
No, they tell her that I’m sleeping ’neath the turf on Shiloh’s plain;
That she ne’er will see her wanderer—never on this earth again;
Oh, my poor heart sinks within me, as the months roll slowly by,
And it seems in this cold Northland a lone captive I must die!
Yes, far away from friends and kindred, without a hand to mark my grave—
And not upon a field of glory I’ll sleep amid the Southern brave;
Mother! yes, your boy is dying! soon he’ll pass through death’s dark wave,
And the wintry wind be sighing o’er a captive’s lonely grave.

THE VOLUNTEER; OR, IT IS MY COUNTRY’S CALL.

By Harry McCarthy.

I leave my home and thee, dear, with sorrow at my heart,
It is my country’s call, dear, to aid her, I depart;
And on the blood-red battle plain, we’ll conquer or we’ll die;
’Tis for our honor and our name, we raise the battle-cry.
Chorus.—Then weep not, dearest, weep not, if in the cause I fall;
Oh, weep not, dearest, weep not, it is my country’s call.

And yet, my heart is sore, love, to see thee weeping thus;
But mark me, there’s no fear, love, for in Heaven is our trust;
And if the heavy drooping tear swells in my mournful eye,
It is that Northmen of our land should cause the battle-cry.
Chorus.
Our rights have been usurp’d, dear, by Northmen of land;
Fanatics rais’d the cry, dear, politicians fired the brand;
The Southrons spurn the galling yoke, the tyrants’ threats defy;
They find we’ve sons like sturdy oaks to raise the battle-cry.
Chorus.
I knew you’d let me go, pet, I saw it in that tear,
To join the gallant men, pet, who never yet knew fear;
With Beauregard and Davis, we’ll gain our cause or die;
Win battles like Manassas, and raise the battle-cry.
Chorus.

DEAR MOTHER, I’VE COME HOME TO DIE.