A SOUTHERN SONG.

By “L. M.,” in Louisville Courier.

If ever I consent to be married,
And who would refuse a good mate?
The man whom I give my hand to,
Must believe in the rights of the State.
To a husband who quietly submits
To negro-equality sway,
The true Southern girl will not barter
Her heart and affections away.
The heart I may choose to preside o’er,
True, warm, and devoted must be,
And have true love for a Union
Under the Southern Liberty Tree.
Should Lincoln attempt to coerce him
To share with the negro his right,
Then, smiling, I’d gird on his armor,
And bid him God-speed in the fight.
And if he should fall in the conflict,
His memory with tears I will grace;
Better weep o’er a patriot fallen,
Than blush in a Tory embrace.
We girls are all for a Union,
Where a marked distinction is laid
Between the rights of the mistress
And those of the kinky-haired maid.

THE TEXAN MARSEILLAISE.

By James Haines, of Texas.

Sons of the South, arouse to battle!
Gird on your armor for the fight!
The Northern Thugs, with dread “war’s rattle,”
Pour on each vale, and glen, and height;
Meet them as ocean meets in madness
The frail bark on the rocky shore,
When crested billows roam and roar,
And the wrecked crew go down in sadness:
Chorus.—Arm! Arm! ye Southern braves!
Scatter yon vandal hordes!
Despots and bandits, fitting food
For vultures and your swords.
Shall dastard tyrants march their legions
To crush the land of Jackson—Lee?
Shall freedom fly to other regions,
And sons of Yorktown bend the knee?
Or shall their “footprints’ base pollution”
Of Southern soil in blood be purged,
And every flying slave be scourged
Back to his snows in wild confusion.
Chorus.
Vile despots, with their minions knavish,
Would drag us back to their embrace;
Will freemen brook a chain so slavish?
Will brave men take so low a place?
O, Heaven! for words—the loathing, scorning
We feel for such a Union’s bands:
To paint with more than mortal hands,
And sound our loudest notes of warning.
Chorus.
What! Union with a race ignoring
The charter of our Nation’s birth?
Union with bastard slaves adoring
The fiend that chains them to the earth?
No! we reply in tones of thunder,
No! our staunch hills fling back the sound—
No! our hoarse cannon echo round—
No! evermore remain asunder!
Chorus.

Jackson’s Cadet Button.