The invaders rush down from the North, Our borders are black with their hordes; Like wolves for their victims they flock, While whetting their knives and their swords. Their watchword is "Booty and Beauty," Their aim is to steal as they go; But Southrons act up to your duty, And lay the foul miscreants low. Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc. The God of our fathers looks down And blesses the cause of the just; His smile will the patriot crown Who tramples his chains in the dust. March, march Southrons! shoulder to shoulder, One heart-throb, one shout for the cause; Remember--the world's a beholder, And your bayonets are fixed at your doors! Then, hail to the land of the pine! The home of the noble and free; A palmetto wreath we'll entwine Round the altar of young Liberty. J. H. H. THERE'S NOTHING GOING WRONG. _Dedicated to "Old Abe."_ There's a general alarm, The South's begun to arm, And every hill and glen Pours forth its warrior men; Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song. Six States already out, Beckon others on the route; And the cry is "Still they come!" From the Southern sunny home; Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song. There's a wail in the land, From a want-stricken band; And "Food! Food!" is the cry: "Give us work or we die!" Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song. The sturdy farmer doth complain Of low prices for his grain; And the miller, with his flour, Murmurs the dullness of the hour. Yet, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song. The burly butcher in the mart, He, too, also takes his part; And the merchant in his store Hears no creaking of his door. But, "There's nothing going wrong," Is the burden of my song. Stagnation is everywhere; On the water, in the air, In the shop, in the forge, On the mount, in the gorge; With the anvil, with the loom, In the store and counting-room; In the city, in the town, With Mr. Smith, with Mr. Brown! And "yet there's nothing wrong," Is the burden of my song. A. M. W. NEW ORLEANS, _March 4, 1861_. MARYLAND. BY JAMES R. RANDALL. The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland! Hark to thy wand'ring son's appeal, Maryland! My mother State! to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! My Maryland!