Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Flaming sparks, instead of seed, Shall be sown in death and terror To the mongrel Yankee breed; And the _crowns_ who nod attendance On the treacherous Federal's lure, Feel too late the want and ruin, Unjust favor can not cure. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Let the record boldly stand; Not a bale for "filthy lucre"-- _All_ for Freedom to our land. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! From its ashes there shall spring Heralds of a new-born nation, Claiming still that "Cotton's King!" MEMPHIS, TENN., _May 16, 1862_. THE PRINTERS OF VIRGINIA TO "OLD ABE." BY HARRY C. TREAKLE. Though we're exempt, we're not the _metal_ To keep in when duty calls; But onward we will _press_, to settle This knotty _case_, with leaden _balls_; For our dear old mother State, the _fount_ From which we each our life did _take_, Is _locked up_ by a Vandal horde, And the honor of the _craft_'s at stake. For _lean-faced_ Lincoln's after us-- His slim _shanks_ moving like a scout; But long before his _job_ is done, He'll find that all his _quads_ are _out_. For with Lee our _headline_--worthy _guide_-- We, _galley_-slaves will never be, But still _press_ onward by his side, For that _fat take_, sweet liberty! Soon Abe will find what he's about Will cost him such a pile of rocks, Before his cherished _work_ is _out_, He'll have no _sorts_ in any _box_! For his _bank_ is now so very low, He scarce can _chase_ up _quoins_ to pay The hired scum, the foreign foe, Who comes to steal our rights away. And his _chums_ now see, by his _foul matter_, To set _clean proof_ he ne'er was _cast_, And fears are felt that the gaunt old _ratter_ Will go _broadside_ to _hell_ at last, Where his friend, the _devil_, will welcome him, With _accents_ sweet--to his bosom fly, _Revise_ his _foul proof-sheets_ once more, And _knock_ his naked _form_ in _pi_. And so to rush the base old _monk_ along, And bring the quiet soon about, We'll swell our _lines_ to _columns_ strong, And give no quarters till he's _out_; For Southern _jours._ now take a _stand_, Their _foremen_ marshaled at their _head_, And each with _shooting-stick_ in hand, Resolved they will his _matter lead_. And while a foe is in the field, Our _hands_ still steady, our _leaders_ cool, Death we'll _em-brace_ before we'll yield; But, by God's help, we'll _stick_ and _rule_, And when, in after years to come, Our history's read by youth and sage, They'll make a _side-note_ of "well done," On this our _volume's_ brightest _page_. NORFOLK, VA., _April 4, 1862_. THE MARSEILLES HYMN. _Translated and adapted as an ode_, BY B. F. PORTER, OF ALABAMA.