“I’m a good old rebel.”

hundred thousand Yankees
Is stiff in Southern dust;
We got three hundred thousand
Before they conquered us;
They died of Southern fever,
And Southern steel and shot,
I wish they was three million,
Instead of what we got.
I followed old mas’ Robert
For four year near about,
Got wounded in three places,
And starved at Pint Lookout;
I cotched the roomatism,
A campin’ in the snow,
But I killed a chance o’ Yankees,
I’d like to kill some mo’.
I can’t take up my musket
And fight ’em now no more,
But I ain’t a-going to love ’em,
Now that is sartin’ sure;
And I don’t want no pardon,
For what I was and am,
I won’t be reconstructed,
And I don’t care a damn.

TRUE TO THE GRAY.

By Pearl Rivers.

I cannot listen to your words, the land is long and wide;
Go seek some happy Northern girl to be your loving bride;
My brothers they were soldiers—the youngest of the three
Was slain while fighting by the side of gallant Fitzhugh Lee!
They left his body on the field (your side the day had won),
A soldier spurned him with his foot—you might have been the one;
My lover was a soldier—he belonged to Gordon’s band;
A sabre pierced his gallant heart—your’s might have been the hand.
He reel’d and fell, but was not dead, a horseman spurr’d his steed
And trampled on the dying brain—you may have done the deed;
I hold no hatred in my heart, no cold, unrighteous pride,
For many a gallant soldier fought upon the other side.
But still I cannot kiss the hand that smote my country sore,
Nor love the foes that trampled down the colors that she bore;
Between my heart and yours there rolls a deep and crimson tide—
My brother’s and my lover’s blood forbid me be your bride.
The girls who lov’d the boys in gray—the girls to country true,
May ne’er in wedlock give their hands to those who wore the blue.

WE KNOW THAT WE WERE REBELS; OR, WHY CAN WE NOT BE BROTHERS?