The South is up in stern array-- Chasseurs and Zouaves and Gallic Guard-- Types of their veteran fathers gray, Of war-marked visage, saber-scarred-- The children of Marengo's plains, Of Austerlitz and Waterloo, When tyrants dare to speak of chains We'll do as their brave sires would do. The sturdy German, hardy Pole, Who knows how Kosciusko fell-- The Tyrolean, who feels his soul Fired with that spark which gave them Tell. The South is up! Italia's sons-- A Garibaldi in each form-- Their hands are grasping freemen's guns, Their bosoms feel his valor warm; Their crimson shirts, in bloody fields, Like walls of flame shall front the foeman; In that dread hour whoever yields, 'Tis not the offspring of the Roman; No renegade, to scorn his brother While guarding their adopted mother-- One feeling, _nationale_ and grand, Still binds them to their native land. The South is up! those brawny hands That bless in peace or crush in war, Who fought on India's burning sands, At Egypt's Nile, and Trafalgar; That reckless mirth, that fiery joy, On field, or fort, or slippery deck, From Clontarf's plains to Fontenoy, At Quatre Bras or old Quebec; Magenta, Malakoff, Redan, Has heard their Celtic "Clear the way!" The slandered, exiled Irishman Stands for his Southern home to-day; And when, perchance, in Death's eclipse He grasps her flag with 'legiance due, The last breath lingering on his lips Might proudly say, I'm Irish, too! The South is up! her native sons, Whose spirit prompts them to be free, Spring forth to man their trophied guns, So bravely won at Monterey-- Surpassing Buena Vista's deeds, Or Palo Alto's feats again, Though wives be wreathed in widow's weeds And children weep for fathers slain. What! think to bind the South? 'Tis vain! Freedom's inheritors at birth, Not all the leagued infernal train, If they were mustered here on earth, Those flashing eyes, like gleaming steel, Those hero boys and veterans gray! Oh, yes! the throbbing heart can feel-- The South is up in stern array. Yet sad 'twill grieve the Southern heart To meet their brethren foot to foot, But cancers on a vital part Must now be severed branch and root; They share with us a blood-bought fame From foreign foe and savage grim; The memory of our George's name, Revered by us, is dear to them; Our ships in every clime have shown, Where jealous monarchies might see, What stars upon our flag have grown From old _thirteen_ to _thirty-three_; Soldier to lead, or sage to teach, Deep-scienced minds, of knowledge vast, The great one's fame, as in a niche, Lives in the history of the past. Now, pausing o'er our doubtful fate We _have been_, or we _shall be_, great. THE OLD RIFLEMAN. BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.