Those bars of bright red show our firm resolution To die, if need be, shielding thee from pollution; For man in this hour must give all he holds dear, And woman her prayers and her words of high cheer, If they wish this fair banner in triumph to wave O'er the Southerner's home and the Southerner's grave. To the great God of battles we look with reliance; On our fierce Northern foe with contempt and defiance; For the South shall smile on in her fragrance and bloom When the North is fast sinking in silence and gloom; For the flag of our country in triumph must wave O'er the Southerner's home or the Southerner's grave. NEW ORLEANS, LA. THE SOUTH. BY CHARLIE WILDWOOD. The bright rose of beauty, unnurtured by art, And purity's lily doth thrive in thy heart, While honor hath crowned thee with glory's bright ray, And Flora hath decked thee with flowers of May. Oh, beautiful South! cherished home of my birth, Thou fairest, thou loveliest land of the earth! My heart, like the ivy, still clings unto thee, Oh, beautiful, beautiful land of the free! _Chorus_--The South! the South! my own beautiful South! Land of chivalry! home of liberty! Fondly I love thee, dear land of the South! Dear land of the South! dear land of the South! Dear liberty, virtue, and truth, most sublime, The flowers that bloom in that sun-smiling clime, And these the base tyrant would crush to the earth, And mangle and bruise on the soil of their birth. All crimson thy land, with the life-glowing flood, And dabble his hands in thy heart's reeking blood! But oh! by the God of the righteous and free, Bright region! it never! no, never! shall be. Like swarms of foul demons, his minions come down, And their war-rusted weapons insultingly frown, To fright thy fair fields with their bloody alarms, And rob thee, dear land, of all of thy charms. But thy free spirit still rides on the swift gale, Like the eagle that sweeps o'er the mountain and dale; And thy sons, they rush forth with the courage of men, To fight, and to bleed, and to conquer again. The tyrant, with shackles, would manacle thee-- Would strangle thy spirit, dear land of the free, Would trample the banner of right in the dust, And yoke thee with iron, proud queen of the just! But the hearts of thy sons, unappalled by a fear, As their swords leap up fiercely and flame in the air, Now swear that it never! no! never! shall be, Bright queen of the lovely! sweet home of the free! _Chorus_--The South! the South, etc. THE GIRLS OF THE MONUMENTAL CITY. WRITTEN BY A CONFEDERATE PRISONER. Daughters of the sunny South, Where Freedom loves to dwell, How rare your charms, how sweet your smiles, No mortal lips can tell; Your native hills, the rippling rills, The echo wild and free, Declare you born to hate and scorn All Northern tyranny.