Hurrah! hurrah! let Dixie cheer! What may not Charleston do! The devil's caught at last, we hear; A Yankee devil, too! The blackest, bluest from below, The prince of all is he, Who leads the Yankees where they go, On land, or on the sea. The news is true, all doubt dispel, All grief and fears be o'er! The chiefest from perdition's well Lies on a Southern shore. On South Carolina's beach he lies-- His majesty ashore! Ah! well we know that devil dies Who enters at that door. His name and hue, and shape and size, Identify the beast; 'Tis he--the father of all lies, Of devils not the least. Scow-like across the deep he came, Blood-red his iron sides; With beak, and claws, and fins of flame To plow the vernal tides. Like serpents which Minerva sent To crush the Trojan sire, So Northern devils come to vent On Charleston blood and fire. But Neptune ne'er decreed the fate Of Laocoon's dear sons, To gratify the Yankees' hate On Charleston's dearer ones. They'll never bear one fatal hour The Northern serpent's coil, Nor feel the Yankee devil's power Who come to crush and spoil. The "Nondescript," name chosen well; The "Northern Devil," aye! A fiend, a ghoul, a spirit fell! Who may describe it--say? Foul, artful, bloody, false, insane, This Northern ghote[18] of sin; The heathen hells could ne'er contain A darker power within. But now, hurrah, the devil's dead! High, dry upon the shore! Rebellion still may rear its head, The war will soon be o'er. Hold, not so fast, abate your cheer, The battle is not won; Another devil comes, we hear, Before the work is done. Alas! when will this warfare end? Not till all Yankee foes are dead; For nondescript is each--or fiend-- His soul with murder red. CAVE SPRINGS, GA., _April 11, 1863_. THE BOY-SOLDIER. BY A LADY OF SAVANNAH. He is acting o'er the battle, With his cap and feather gay, Singing out his soldier prattle, In a mockish, manly way-- With the boldest, bravest footstep, Treading firmly up and down, And his banner waving softly O'er his boyish locks of brown. And I sit beside him sewing, With a busy heart and hand, For the gallant soldiers going To the far-off battle-land; And I gaze upon my jewel, In his baby-spirit bold, My little blue-eyed soldier, Just a second summer old. Still a deep, deep well of feeling, In my mother's heart is stirred, And the tears come softly stealing At each imitative word. There's a struggle in my bosom, For I love my darling boy-- He's the gladness of my spirit, He's the sunlight of my joy! Yet I think upon my country, And my spirit groweth bold, Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier Were but twenty summers old!