Fair of the South! rare beauty's crown Ye wear with matchless grace; No classic fair of old renown Deserve a higher place. Your vestal robes alike become The palace and the cot; Wives, mothers, daughters! every home Ye make a cherished spot. Flag of the South! aye, fling its folds Upon the kindred breeze; Emblem of dread to tyrant holds-- Of freedom on the seas. Forever may its stars and stripes In cloudless glory wave; Red, white, and blue--eternal types Of nations free and brave! States of the South! the patriot's boast! Here equal laws have sway; Nor tyrant lord, nor despot host, Upon the weak may prey. Then let them rule from sea to sea, And crown the queenly isle-- Union of love and liberty, 'Neath Heaven's approving smile! God of the South! protect this land From false and open foes! Guided by Thine all-ruling hand, In vain will hate oppose. So mote the ship of State move on Upon the unfathomed sea; Gallantly o'er its surges borne, The bulwark of the free. THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET! BY JAS. R. RANDALL. By blue Patapsco's billowy dash, The tyrant's war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal's fitful clash, And the growl of his sullen drums. We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget; There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, There's life in the old land yet! Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred; We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph tread Of the peerless BEAUREGARD. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There's faith in the victor's stainless sword, There's life in the old land yet! Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind, With the clank of an iron chain, The spirit of freedom sings in the wind, O'er _Merryman_, _Thomas_, and _Kane_; And we, though we smite not, are not thralls, Are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry's dungeon-walls _There's life in the old land yet_! Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day, In their dear defiant hands. They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set; There's faith in their unrelenting woes, There's life in the old land yet! There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, 'Tis vocal without noise, It gushed o'er Manassas's solemn plains, From the blood of the MARYLAND BOYS! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat; By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies. _There's life in the old land yet!_ THE MEN. BY MAURICE BELL.