Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold?
Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold
Your lives than your freedom more dear?
Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold,
Or basely take counsel of fear?
We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land
Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand
That disgraces the dastard, the slave:
The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand,
Her own sons her own honor shall save!
Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call,
When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal,
And the torrents their sources unseal;
And this be the watchword of one and of all--
"Remember the butcher, McNeil!"
Then once more to the breach for the land of the West;
Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best;
Follow on where your leader you see;
One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed,
And the land of the West shall be free!
[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, 1862.]
Over the River.
By Jane T. H. Cross.
Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861.
We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars,"
As one may hail a neighbor;
Now forward move! no fear of jars,
With nothing but free labor;
And we will mind our slaves and farm,
And never wish you any harm,
But greet you--over the river.
The self-same language do we speak,
The same dear words we utter;
Then let's not make each other weak,
Nor 'gainst each other mutter;
But let each go his separate way,
And each will doff his hat, and say:
"I greet you--over the river!"