On comes the lengthening line, As if eager for the wine Which from the press of battle freely flows; And from the Southern heart Such wine will freely start, As the pledge to each hecatomb of foes. On comes the lengthened line, And a "higher law" _divine_; The snakes on their banners seem to hiss; "Destruction to the South," Bursts in hate from every mouth, And the demon-words are held akin to bliss. A brave, heroic band, Hand to hand, To meet the shock of battle are prepared; For wife and child they stand-- For home and native land; Oh, pray that every hero may be spared! The drum and fife may sound, But their stirring notes are drowned In the roar and the thunder of the guns; The death-charged bullets fly, And the shells ascend the sky-- They are offerings to God's and Freedom's sons. Where Freedom nerves the arm, There's a charm; Where Freedom stirs the heart, Fears depart. Oh, sacred is the strife, And the sacrifice of life, Where Freedom's chosen heroes point the dart. God! how the freemen press! There's distress In each lead and iron shower that they send; Their countless columns pour, Like the waves in wild uproar, Beating on a rocky shore They would rend. But firm as rocks our band Grandly stand-- For home and native land Hand to hand. How the proud invaders reel, As with shot and shell and steel, Destruction wide we deal, Sternly grand! Again, and yet again, These wild, fanatic men-- Those foemen that invade our Southern homes-- Still rally to the cry: "We must conquer here, or die! The laurel, or the fate of hellish gnomes!" Again, and yet again, Southern men Force the fierce insulting foe to retire. Again the Northmen fall, And to Heaven vainly call, While they yell, "There is hell In Southern fire!" Speed, Beauregard the brave, onward speed! Speed, Davis unto Johnson, in his need! Hurrah! the foemen fly! Send the victor shout on high, For Heaven still rewards the daring deed. How fearfully they bleed-- Man and steed! Oh, how their dying prayer Rends the air! All this for Northern greed, All that strange, fanatic creed, Which so wickedly they heed. _Do not spare!_ "The Southron is accurst"-- So they say; "He's baser than the worst Beast of prey;" And the African is white, In those Northern foemen's sight, As the lily, when it greets the god of day.