The foe has hemmed us round: we stand at bay, Here we will perish, or be free to-day! To drum and bugle sternly sounding, The Southern soldier's heart is bounding; But stay--oh stay! Virginia is not here! Hush your strains of martial cheer; O bugle, peace! O war-drum, cease! Virginia is not here! Suspend, O chief, your word of fight! She will be soon in sight! Her children never called in vain! She comes not--comes not: the disgrace Were bitterer than the tyrant's chain! Oh, death! we dare thee face to face! A gun! the foe's defiant shot--be still! Hurrah! an answering gun behind the hill; And o'er its summit wildly streaming The squadrons of Virginia gleaming![5] Hurrah! hurrah! the Old Dominion comes! Blow your bugles! beat your drums! O doubt accurst! The last is first-- The Old Dominion comes! She grasps her thunderbolts of war; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Now loose, O chief! your battle storm! We hang impatient on your breath; Here in the flashing front we form! Virginia!--victory or death! SOUTHERN SENTIMENT. BY REV. A. M. BOX. The North may think that the South will yield, And seek for a place in the Union again; But never will Southrons abandon the field And place themselves under _tyrannical reign_. Sooner by far would we yield to the grave, Than form an alliance with so hated a foe; To join the "old Union" would be to enslave Ourselves, our children, in want and in woe! What! sons of the South! submit to be ruled By the minions of Abraham Lincoln, the fool? Our fair ones insulted--our wealth all controlled By Yankees, free negroes, and every such tool! Heaven forbid it! and arm us with might, To drive back our foes, and grind them to dust! In every conflict may we put them to flight, Aided by thee, thou God of the just! Our bosoms we'll bare to the glorious strife, And our oath is recorded on high, To prevail in the cause is dearer than life, Or crushed in its ruins to die! The battle is not to the strong we know, But to the just, the true, and the brave-- With faith in our GOD, right onward we'll go, Our country, our loved ones, to save. THE SOUTHRON'S WAR-SONG. BY J. A. WAGENER. Arise! arise! with main and might, Sons of the sunny clime! Gird on the sword; the sacred fight The holy hour doth chime. Arise! the craven host draws nigh, In thundering array; Arise, ye brave! let cowards fly-- The hero bides the fray. Strike hard, strike hard, thou noble band; Strike hard, with arm of fire! Strike hard, for God and fatherland, For mother, wife, and sire! Let thunders roar, the lightning flash; Bold Southron, never fear! The bayonet's point, the saber's clash, True Southrons do and dare!