Nail the colors to the mast, Shouting gladly, No Surrender; Troubles near are all but past, Serve them as you did the last. No Surrender, No Surrender; Though the skies be overcast, And upon the sleety blast Disappointment gathers fast, Beat them off with No Surrender! Constant and courageous still, Mind, the word is, No Surrender; Battle, though it be up hill, Stagger not at seeming ill, No Surrender, No Surrender. Hope, and thus your hope fulfill; There's a way where there's a will, And the way all cares to kill Is to give them No Surrender. N. P. W. ARM FOR THE SOUTHERN LAND. BY GEN. MIRABEAU B. LAMAR. Arm for the Southern Land, All fear of death disdaining; Low lay the tyrant band, Our sacred rights profaning! Each hero draws in Freedom's cause, And meets the foe with bravery; The servile race, and Tory base, May safety seek in slavery. Chains for the dastard knave-- Recreant limbs should wear them; But blessings on the brave Whose valor will not bear them! Stand by your injured State, And let no feuds divide you; On tyrants pour your hate, And common vengeance guide you. Our foes should feel proud freemen's steel, For freemen's rights contending; Where'er they die, there let them lie, To dust in scorn descending. Thus may each traitor fall Who dare as foe invade us; Eternal fame to all Who shall in battle aid us! Proud land! shall she invoke Another's hand to right her? No! her own avenging stroke Shall backward roll the smiter. Ye tyrant band, with ropes of sand Go bind the rushing river; More weak and vain your cursed chain, While God is freedom's giver. Then welcome to the day We meet the proud oppressor, For God will be our stay, Our right hand and redresser. THINKING OF THE SOLDIERS. We were sitting around the table, Just a night or two ago, In the little cozy parlor, With the lamp-light burning low, And the window-blinds half opened, For the summer air to come, And the painted curtains moving Like a busy pendulum. Oh! the cushions on the sofa, And the pictures on the wall, And the gathering of comforts, In the old familiar hall; And the wagging of the pointer, Lounging idly by the door, And the flitting of the shadows From the ceiling to the floor. Oh! they wakened in my spirit, Like the beautiful in art, Such a busy, busy thinking-- Such a dreaminess of heart, That I sat among the shadows, With my spirit all astray; Thinking only--thinking only Of the soldiers far away; Of the tents beneath the moonlight, Of the stirring tattoo's sound, Of the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the ground; Of the icy winter coming, Of the cold bleak winds that blow, And the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the snow.