Raise now the sable flag! high let it wave O'er all Secessia's hills and flowery vales, And on its sable folds the motto trace, "For victory or death!" The hated foe Have gathered in our lovely land, and trod, With desecrating steps, our State's proud Capital. They've pillaged in our cities, burned our homes, Exiled our stanch, true-hearted patriots, Arrested loyal citizens, and sent Them to those hungry bastiles of the North, The ignominious "Chase" and "Johnson's Isle." Our clergy--God's anointed--who refused To take a black, obnoxious oath, to perjure Their own souls, they placed in "durance vile." The noble daughters of the "sunny South," Whose hearts were with their country's cause, they forced To yield obedience to their hated laws, Nor heeded cries of pity; whether from Matron staid, beseeching them to leave her, For her little ones, her own meat and bread; Or from the bright-eyed boy, with manly grace, Who brooks, with sorrowing looks, the insults she Is forced to bear, and dares not to resent; Or from the gray-haired sire, whose cord of life Is nearly loosed, who, in enfeebled tones, Prays them to cease their vexing raids, and let An old man die in peace. Nor will they list To maiden fair, whose virtue is their goal. They've desolated every home where once Abundance bloomed, and with the weapons of A warrior (?)--fire and theft--have laid our homes In ashes, plundered their effects, and sworn Th' extermination of Secessia's sons. Then raise the ebon flag! with Spring's warm breath Let it unfurl its night-like folds, and wave Where noble "Freeman" fills a martyr's grave. Then strike! but not for booty, soldiers brave; Fight to defend your liberties and homes-- The joy it gives to see the Vandals fall, And catch the music of their dying groans. Go! burn their cities, scourge their fertile lands; Teach them retaliation; plow their fields, And slay by thousands with your iron hail; Scorn every treaty, every Yankee clan. Defy with Spartan courage. _Vengeance_ stamp Upon your bayonets; and let the hills and Vales resound with _Blood_--your battle-cry. SINGULAR. Civilians are often puzzled, in reading reports of battles, to understand how it is that a thousand troops in a body can "stand the galling fire of the enemy" for an hour or more, and come out with but two or three killed and half a dozen wounded; or how they can "mow down the enemy at every shot" for a long time, and yet not kill over a dozen or so of them. Every thing that is done now-a-days is a complete "rout;" all the enemy's camp equipage, guns, ammunition, etc., are taken. Will somebody wiser than I am please explain? THE MODERN TROUBADOUR. A Camp Song. Gaily the bully boy smoked his cigar, As he was hastening off for the war; Singing--"To Secesh land, thither I go: Rebuels! rebuels! fight all you know!"