I'll sing you a song of the South's sunny clime, Chivalrous C. S. A.! Which went to house-keeping once on a time; Bully for C. S. A.! Like heroes and princes they lived for awhile, Chivalrous C. S. A.! And routed the Hessians in most gallant style; Bully for C. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they! Chivalrous, chivalrous people are they! In C. S. A.! In C. S. A.! Aye, in chivalrous C. S. A.! They have a bold leader--Jeff. Davis his name-- Chivalrous C. S. A.! Good generals and soldiers, all anxious for fame; Bully for C. S. A.! At Manassas they met the North in its pride, Chivalrous C. S. A.! But they easily put McDowell aside; Bully for C. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc. Ministers to England and France, it appears, Have gone from the C. S. A.! Who've given the North many fleas in its ears; Bully for C. S. A.! Reminders are being to Washington sent, By the chivalrous C. S. A.! That'll force Uncle Abe full soon to repent; Bully for C. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc. Oh, they have the finest of musical ears, Chivalrous C. S. A.! Yankee Doodle's too vulgar for them, it appears; Bully for C. S. A.! The North may sing it and whistle it still, Miserable U. S. A.! Three cheers for the South!--now, boys, with a will! And groans for the U. S. A.! _Chorus_--Chivalrous, chivalrous people, etc. THE BATTLE-FIELD OF MANASSAS. BY M. F. BIGNEY. Fill, fill the trump of fame With the name-- MANASSAS--the battle-field of pride; Where Freedom's heroes fought with their spirits all aflame, Where the Gospel of Liberty was sounded with acclaim, Where heroes for Liberty have died! Come, Fancy, once again Fill the plain with armed men; Let us see the struggling hosts of Wrong and Right; Let the tide of battle pour, Fight and conquer o'er and o'er, Till we glow with inspiration at the sight. There's glory in the air: Everywhere Glory rises from the ground, All around. A hundred thousand men, Gather in from hill and glen, And for battle fierce and bloody they are bound. See, see the cohorts come, To the sound of fife and drum; They're the foemen of the North Coming forth, In the pride of conscious might; They would trample down the Right, As forth they come, those foemen of the North. The flag which they bear Is a snare: Its Stripes writhe as snakes upon the air; And its Stars, no longer bright, Tell of chaos and of night, And of how they yet Will set In despair.