By Alex. A. Cummins.

Fearlessly the seas we roam,
Tossed by each briny wave;
Its boundless surface is our home,
Its bosom deep our graves.
No foreign mandate fills with awe
Our gallant hearted band;
We know no home, we know no law,
But that of Dixie’s land.
The bright star is our compass true,
Our chart the ocean wide;
Our only hope the noble few
That’s standing side by side;
We do not fear the stormy gale
That sweeps old ocean’s strand;
We scorn our enemy’s clumsy sail,
And all for Dixie’s land.
We love to hoist to the topmost peak,
Our Southern Stars and Stripes;
And woe to him who dares to seek
To trample on their rights!
It is the ægis of the free,
And by it we will stand,
And watch it waving o’er the sea,
And over Dixie’s land.

We love to roam the deep, deep sea,
And hear the cannon’s boom,
And give the war-cry, wild and free,
Amid the battle’s gloom,
We do not fight alone for gain,
So far from native strand;
But our country’s freedom and its fame,
And the fair of Dixie’s land.

HOOD’S TEXAS BRIGADE.

Down by the valley, ’mid thunder and lightning,
Down by the valley, ’mid shadows of night,
Down by the deep crimson’d valley of Richmond,
Twenty-five hundred mov’d on to the fight;
Onward, still onward, to the portals of glory,
To the sepulchral chambers, yet never dismayed;
Down by the deep crimson’d valley of Richmond,
March’d the bold warriors of Hood’s Texas Brigade!
See ye the fires and flashes still leaping?
See ye the tempest and jettings of storm?
See ye the banners of proud Texan heroes,
In front of her column, move steadily on?
Hear ye the music that gladdens each comrade,
Riding on wings through torrents of sounds?
Hear ye the booming adown the red valley?
Riley unbuckles his swarthy old hounds![10]

Valiant Fifth Texas! I saw your brave column
Rush through the channels of living and dead;
Sturdy Fourth Texas! Why weep, your old warhorse?
He died as he wish’d, in the gear, at your head:
West Point! ye will tell, on the pages of glory,
How the blood of the South ebb’d away near your shade,
And how sons of Texas fought in the red valley,
And fell in the columns of Hood’s Texas Brigade.
Fathers and mothers, ye weep for your jewels;
Sisters, ye weep for your brothers in vain;
Maidens, ye weep for your sunny-eyed lovers—
Weep, for you’ll never behold them again!
But know ye that vict’ry, the shrine of the noble,
Encircles the house of death newly made!
And know ye that Freedom, the shrine of the mighty,
Shines forth on the banners of Hood’s Texas Brigade!
Daughters of Southland, come bring ye bright flowers,
Weave ye a chaplet for the brow of the brave;
Bring ye the emblems of freedom and victory;
Bring ye the emblems of death and the grave;
Bring ye some motto befitting a hero;
Bring ye exotics that never will fade;
Come to the deep crimson’d valley of Richmond,
And crown our young Chief of the Texas Brigade!

SWEETHEARTS AND THE WAR.

Oh, dear! its shameful, I declare,
To make the men all go
And leave so many sweethearts here
Without a single beau.
We like to see them brave, ’tis true,
And would not urge them stay;
But what are we, poor girls, to do
When they are all away?
We told them we could spare them there,
Before they had to go;
But, bless their hearts, we weren’t aware
That we should miss them so.
We miss them all in many ways,
But truth will ever out,
The greatest thing we miss them for
Is seeing us about.
On Sunday, when we go to church,
We look in vain for some
To meet us, smiling, on the porch,
And ask to see us home.
And then we can’t enjoy a walk
Since all the beaux have gone;
For what’s the good (to use plain talk),
If we must trudge alone?

But what’s the use of talking thus?
We’ll try to be content;
And if they cannot come to us
A message may be sent.
And that’s one comfort, anyway;
For though we are apart,
There is no reason why we may
Not open heart to heart.
We trust it may soon come
To a final test;
We want to see our Southern homes
Secured in peaceful rest.
But if the blood of those we love
In freedom’s cause must flow,
With fervent trust in God above,
We bid them onward go.
And we will watch them as they go,
And cheer them on their way:
Our arms shall be their resting-place
When wounded sore they lay.
Oh! if the sons of Southern soil
For freedom’s cause must die,
Her daughters ask no dearer boon
Than by their side to lie.