The Yankees hate the Lone Star State, because she did secede;
At Galveston they’ve now begun to make her soldiers bleed.
The “Old Blockade” her threats have made, that she will burn our town;
But Col. Cook, with piercing look, declares he’ll stand his ground.
High in the breeze he soon did raise the flag with single star,
Saying, “Let them come, we’ll give them some, before they are aware.”
Along the coast he soon did post his batteries, well mann’d
By men of might, prepared to fight, behind breast-works of sand.
Like lions brave, their land to save, the cavalry do stand
Ready to charge the Yankee barge that first attempts to land;
Infantry, too, like soldiers true, who never yet did fail,
They long to greet the Yankee fleet with musketry like hail.

We wait to see the “Old Santee” come sailing into shore;
And then we’ll fight for Southern rights, and make the cannon roar;
But if a fleet we have to meet, of gunboats large and strong,
We’ll cross the bridge without a siege, and think it nothing wrong.
When on mainland, we’ll take our stand, and all their hosts defy;
There we will fight for Southern rights—we’ll fight them till we die.
********
Two months passed by, they came not nigh, but only cruis’d around,
As if to find the channel’s wind, for which they oft did sound;
But this was all, the Eagle bald, did not attempt to land;
His courage fail’d, away he sailed, and made no more demand.
But Harriet Lane, she did remain, with quite a heavy fleet,
She came up nigher and open’d fire in order quite complete;
’Twas at Fort Point she did dismount our best and largest gun;
’Twas now in vain here to remain, so we for life did run.
’Mid bomb and grape we did escape, and not a life was lost;
Fearing the town they would burn down over the bridge we crossed;
Then on mainland we took our stand, determined not to yield,
Tho’ bomb and ball should thickly fall, and we die on the field.

Gen. Herbert he came not near, but strangely stood aloof;
From San Antone he did look on, where was good old “4th proof.”
********
Magruder came, a man of fame, the Texas boys to lead;
From Rio Grande he did command, to come with rapid speed;
“My plan is laid,” he quickly said, “Galveston to retake;
Brave boys!” said he, “come, follow me; we’ll make the Yankees quake.”
Three bayou crafts, of shallow draught, with cotton breastworks neat;
Three hundred men, and three small guns, composed our Texas fleet;
Now ready quite, the Feds to fight, our land force did repair,
Along Strand Street, the Yanks to greet, just as our boats came near.
The Lone Star State must seal her fate, in ruin, shame and woe,
Or bravely fight for Southern rights, and triumph o’er the foe;
On New Year’s morn, before day dawn, the year of sixty-three,
The New Year’s gifts came flying swift, both from the land and sea.
The lightning glare, both far and near, the darkness did dispel;
Grape, bomb and ball did thickly fall, our forces to repel;
Magruder then said to his men, “Your country you must save,
And still maintain your glorious name, the bravest of the brave.”
We fear’d them not, but bravely fought, our homesteads to maintain;
By break of day we had the Bay at our command again;
The Yankee fleet we did defeat, and captur’d all their crews,
Except a few who were untrue, and sail’d off under truce.

GENERAL TOM GREEN.

By Mrs. Wm. Barnes, of Galveston.

A warrior has fallen! a chieftain has gone!
A hero of heroes has sunk to his rest!
Those hands that wielded the sword and the sabre,
Now lie pulseless and cold o’er his motionless breast;
That voice that has gladden’d valiant comrades in arms,
And driven away their deep shadows of gloom,
Is seemingly hush’d to those seared-stricken hearts,
But loudly will speak from its still, hollow tomb!
Aye, seemingly hush’d, like the black, death-like waters,
As they mirror the face of the threatening sky;
But see ye the ripple that waves in the distance,
Warning the mariner that danger is nigh?
Aye, seemingly hush’d, like the dead, sullen calm,
As it heralds Vesuvius’ virulent ire,
Ere she, out of her bosom, malignantly pours
Her dull molten lava, her columns of fire.

Aye, seemingly hush’d, but the words he has spoken
Lie deeply incased in the breasts of his men,
And tho’ to the “echoless shore” he is wafted,
His voice will be heard yet again and again;
How oft-seated by the bivouac’s bright fires,
While his men have stood ’round, wrapt in wondrous delight,
Has he spurred them to noble and chivalric deeds,
As he vividly pictured a forthcoming fight.
Full many a time has the rough, sunburnt hand
Dash’d the unbidden tear from the veteran’s cheek,
As of home—that lov’d spot to each memory so dear—
With heartfelt emotion his chieftain would speak;
Aye, seemingly hush’d is the tongue of the warrior,
In their bosom its echo is lingering still;
Long as their pulse beats, its prompting they yield to—
Yes, long as their noble hearts have power to feel.
The hero of Valverde—the hero of Mansfield,—
Now sleeps the calm sleep of the happy and blest;
Those eyes once so lustrous are now sightless and dim,
Those limbs once so active have sunk to their rest;
O there let him lie where the first beams of morning
Shall shed o’er his tomb a soft halo of light,
And the moon’s gentle rays that dear spot shall enliven,
As she glides on her course through the still, solemn night.
Plant the wild-tendriled vine and flowers of the prairie
O’er the grave of the chieftain that slumbereth there—
How sweetly they’ll mingle their gentle perfumes with
The orphans’ and widows’ sweet incense of prayer;
Let the song of the whippoorwill, pensive and sad,
As he flits on the sprays of the green willow tree,
And the deep azure waves of the fair Colorado,
By day and by night his mournful requiems be!

HARD TIMES!

By M. B. Smith, Co. C, Second Texas Volunteer Infantry.

Just listen awhile, and give ear to my song
Concerning this war, which will not take me long;
Old Lincoln, the blower, swore the Rebels he’d whip,
But thanks to my stars, he has not done it yet,
For it’s hard times.
Manassa’s the spot, if I recollect right,
Where Yankees and Southerners had their first fight;
We whipped them so badly, our boys thought it fun,
And ever since then they have called it Bull Run,
Those were grand times.
Old Lincoln had put in his very best man—
It was old General Scott who led in his clan—
But in facing Jeff Davis he couldn’t shine,
For we captured his cakes, his brandies and wine,
Then we’d fine times.
Old Abe and the “Gen’ral” soon got at “out,”
Which caused the “Old Gen’ral” to complain of gout;
So he told Marse Abe that he would resign,
And he laid all the blame to the very hard times,
O, it was hard times.
McClellan was the next man put in the field,
With brass-hilted sword and a sole-leather shield;
He boasted quite loudly the Rebels he’d whip—
But you see, my dear friends, he’s not done it yet,
For it’s hard times.
Yet there was another, Gen. Buell, the great,
That followed our Beauregard clean thro’ one State,
But at Tennessee River he got all his fill—
I’m certain he remembered the Shiloh Hill!
There were Banks, Shields and Fremont, big generals all,
While skirmishing ’round ran afoul of “Stonewall!”
With Longstreet and Hill, very near by his side,
Who said: “Wo-ee, Yankees, let’s all have a ride!”
Old Jackson he then got around to their rear,
So the day was ours you can see very clear;
Then he sent a dispatch to brave General Lee,
“Drive all the Yankees into eternity?”
But at Gainesville station they made a bold stand,
Where they collected a formidable band,
And swore to their fill that the Rebels they’d whip,
But the Texans made them everlastingly “git!”
Now the last I’ve heard of McClellan, the third;
He was down on James River bogg’d up in the mud,
In a bend of the river, near a big pond,
The want of more news puts an end to my song.
August 13, 1862.