War Poetry of the South

by Unknown

Thy clean white hand is opened wide
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers--
Still at thy feet the old oak towers;
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,
And things of beauty, love, and flowers
Are smiling o'er this land of ours,
My sunny home, Savannah!

There is no film before thy sight--
Thou seest woe, and death, and night--
And blood upon thy banner bright;
But in thy full wrath's kindled might,
What carest thou for woe, or night?
My rebel home, Savannah!

Come--for the crown is on thy head!
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed,
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Oh! come unto thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

"Old Betsy."

By John Killum.

Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping,
Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth;
Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,
Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.

Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding,
Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South;
Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding
Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.

Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you,
When the fierce bear was cut down in his track--
If at that moment she never deceived you,
Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.

Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping,
Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth;
Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking,
Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.