It vas in Ni Orleans city,
I first heard der drums und fife,
Und I vas so full mit lager,
Dot I care nix for my life.
Mit a schicken tail stuck in mine hat,
I marched up midout fear,
Und joined der Southern Army,
Like a Dutche—a volunteer.
Ven ve vent apoard der steampote,
Ve told um all good-by,
Ter vimins wafed der handkerchief,
Und I pegun to gry.
Vhen we got to vere de var vas,
Dey stood us in a row,
Und learned us ven dey hollered out,
Vich vay ve have to go.
Dey loads our guns mit noding,
Und learn to shoot um right,
Und charge upon der Yankee,
Ven no Yankee vas in sight.
My name is Yacob Schneider,
Und I yust come here to-night
From Hood’s Army up in Georgia,
Ver all de times dey fight.

“I marched up midout fear.”

But, ven I see der Yankee coming,
So mad it makes me feel,
Dot I jumped apoard der steamer cars,
Und come down to Mopeel.
Now, all young folks vot goes out dere,
To fight your country’s foes,
Take my adfice, brepare yourself
Pefore out dere you goes.
Take a couble parrels of sauer-kraut,
Und lots of schweitzer kase,
Also, some perloona sausage,
Und everyting else you please.

Und ven der pattle commence,
Kill all der Yankees you can,
Und schump perhind some pig oak-tree,
For dot ish der officer’s blan.
Ven der pattle gits vide open,
Und dem palls dey comes so tick,
Oh! you tink you must go somewhere,
Pecause you vas so sick.
Yust lower your knapsack down yer back,
Und cover up your rear,
Den you von’t get vounded,
Like dis Dutcher Volunteer.

SOUTHERN SONG OF FREEDOM.

Air—“The Minstrel’s Return.”

A nation has sprung into life
Beneath the bright Cross of the South;
And now a loud call to the strife
Rings out from the shrill bugle’s mouth.
They gather from morass and mountain,
They gather from prairie and mart,
To drink, at young Liberty’s fountain,
The Nectar that kindles the heart.
Chorus—Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty!

Our flag, with its cluster of stars,
Firm fixed in a field of pure blue,
All shining through red and white bars,
Now gallantly flutters in view.
The stalwart and brave round it rally,
They press to their lips every fold,
While the hymn swells from hill and from valley,
“Be God with our Volunteers bold.”
Chorus.
Th’ invaders rush down from the North,
Our borders are black with their hordes;
Like wolves for their victims they flock,
While whetting their knives and their swords.
Their watchword is “Booty and Beauty,”
Their aim is to steal as they go;
But, Southrons, act up to your duty,
And lay the foul miscreants low.
Chorus.
The God of our fathers looks down
And blesses the cause of the just;
His smile will the patriot crown
Who tramples his chains in the dust.
March, March, Southrons! Shoulder to shoulder,
One heart-throb, one shout for the cause;
Remember—the world’s a beholder,
And your bayonets are fixed at your doors!
Chorus.
J. J. H.