Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder-hum, Maryland! The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum-- She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come! Maryland, my Maryland! REBELS. First published in the Atlanta _Confederacy_. The author is unknown. Rebels! 'tis a holy name! The name our fathers bore When battling in the cause of Right, Against the tyrant in his might, In the dark days of yore. Rebels! 'tis our family name! Our father, Washington, Was the arch-rebel in the fight, And gave the name to us--a right Of father unto son. Rebels! 'tis our given name! Our mother, Liberty, Received the title with her fame, In days of grief, of fear, and shame, When at her breast were we. Rebels! 'tis our sealed name! A baptism of blood! The war--ay, and the din of strife-- The fearful contest, life for life-- The mingled crimson flood. Rebels! 'tis a patriot's name! In struggles it was given; We bore it then when tyrants raved, And through their curses 'twas engraved On the doomsday-book of heaven. Rebels! 'tis our fighting name! For peace rules o'er the land Until they speak of craven woe, Until our rights receive a blow From foe's or brother's hand. Rebels! 'tis our dying name! For although life is dear, Yet, freemen born and freemen bred, We'd rather live as freemen dead, Than live in slavish fear. Then call us rebels, if you will-- We glory in the name; For bending under unjust laws, And swearing faith to an unjust cause, We count a greater shame. CALL ALL. This Southern war song, which was first published in the Rockingham, Va., _Register_ in 1861, became quite popular with the boys in gray. It is published here because of its peculiarities rather than on account of its literary merit. Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose, Roaring round like the very deuce! Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack-- After 'em, boys, and drive 'em back. Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice, Back to the beggarly land of ice; Worry 'em, bite 'em, scratch and tear Everybody and everywhere. Old Kentucky is caved from under, Tennessee is split asunder, Alabama awaits attack, And Georgia bristles up her back. Old John Brown is dead and gone! Still his spirit is marching on-- Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys, Long as an ape's from Illinois! Want a weapon? Gather a brick, Club or cudgel, or stone or stick; Anything with a blade or butt, Anything that can cleave or cut;