Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer! Solemn and strong and sure! The strife shall not be longer Than God shall bid endure. By the life which only yesterday Came with the infant's breath, By the feet which ere the morn may Tread to the soldier's death! By the blood which cries to Heaven! Crimson upon our sod! Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer! In the name of the Mighty God! PARIS, 1862. PATRIOTISM. The holy fire that nerved the Greek To make his stand at Marathon, Until the last red foeman's shriek Proclaimed that Freedom's fight was won, Still lives unquenched--unquenchable! Through every age its fires will burn-- Lives in the hermit's lonely cell, And springs from every storied urn! The hearthstone embers hold the spark Where fell Oppression's foot hath trod; Through Superstition's shadow dark It flashes to the living God! From Moscow's ashes spring the Russ; In Warsaw Poland lives again; Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus, Strikes Liberty's electric chain! Tell's freedom-beacon lights the Swiss; Vainly the invader ever strives; He finds "Sic Semper Tyrannis" In San Jacinto's bowie-knives! Than these--than all--a holier fire Now burns thy soul, Virginia's son! Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire; Strike for the grave of Washington! The Northern rabble aims for greed; The hireling parson goads the train-- In that foul crop from bigot seed, Old "Praise God Barebones" howls again! We welcome them to "Southern lands"-- We welcome them to "Southern slaves"-- We welcome them "with bloody hands To hospitable Southern graves!" SONG FOR THE MARYLAND LINE. BY J. D. M'CABE, JR. By old Potomac's rushing tide Our bayonets are gleaming; And o'er the bounding waters wide We gaze while tears are streaming. The distant hills of Maryland Rise sadly up before us, And tyrant bands have chained our land-- Our mother, proud, that bore us. Our proud old mother's queenly head Is bowed in subjugation; With her children's blood her soil is red, And fiends in exultation Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, While her heart is torn with anguish; Old mother, on famed Manassas's plains Our vengeance did not languish! We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, 'Mid shot and shell appalling; We heard your voice as it upward gushed From the Maryland life-blood falling. No pity we knew! Did they mercy show When they bound the mother that bore us? But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe, Till they, shrieking, fled before us!