Oh, there’s trouble in the South, poor Jeff. Davis, And your prestige is going to decay; You had better get your duds ready shortly, And push forward, an exile, this way, We’ll _feed_ you and _lodge_ you, Jeff. Davis-- Our kindness you ne’er will forget-- We’ll take you out a sailing, poor Jeff. Davis, And then land you at Fort Lafayette. 53 Volunteer’s Song. AIR--_Free and Easy._ Onward! onward! is the cry now, Treason stalks throughout the land; To guard our honor each one try now, March together, heart and hand. CHORUS. So let the Southerners do as they will, We will fight for the Union still! Fight for the Union! Fight for the Union! We will fight for the Union still! Though Revolution, dark as night, Enshrouds the Banner of the Free, There are none so base that will not fight For this great land of Liberty! The traitors would the Union sever Our fathers worked so hard to form; Yet we are for the Union ever, Through sunshine, peace, or storm! Then hear! Oh hear! our country’s call, Raise our glorious banner high; Come, rally! rally! one and all! To save the Union or to die! 54 A Mother’s Hymn in Time of War. BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. Oh Lord of hosts! his country called, And nobly to her voice he sprung, While o’er his brow our banner flashed, Where chargers neighed and trumpets rung. There were no tremors in his eye, When putting on his warrior-crest; And but a tear--it was when he Was clasped unto his mother’s breast! Oh Father! shield him from the shot; But if it is his doom to die, May he, with shouts of triumph round, Bend on our flag his closing eye-- And feeling that his mother’s soul Is watching on the field of death; Where, though it weeps, yet gives a smile Unto her brave boy’s last wild breath. Oh, proudly will his mother see Her Country wreathe his hero-tomb, And many a Spring nurse tenderly, With nature’s tears, the garland’s bloom! How sweet will be the song of praise, Where his dear relics peaceful lie! How grand--away exultant thoughts! Oh God! he must not, _must not_ die! 55 Away to the Fray. AIR--_The Sea--the Sea._ Oh, away! away! to the mighty fray, To the strife for all most dear; There is naught on earth of a rarer worth, Than a patriot’s faith sincere! And the cause that calls us all this day, Is the holiest cause that e’er Invoked the aid of a brave man’s blade, Or the power of a good man’s prayer. CHORUS.