We mourn for our brothers brave, that fell On that field, so stern and gory; But their spirits rose with our triumph-yell To the heavenly realms of glory. And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-- By their love so true and tender; We'll keep the prize they would not yield, We'll die, but we'll not surrender. And, mother, we wait but the signal-blast, To rush to redeem thy glory; We may fall, but our conquering dust shall rest On thy soil, so famed in story. The tyrant's flag shall no longer shine, Thy liberty to smother, When the word is passed to the Maryland Line, To strike for their loved old mother. CONFEDERATE LAND. BY H. H. STRAWBRIDGE. States of the South! Confederate land! Our foe has come--the hour is nigh; His bale-fires rise on every hand-- Rise as one man, to do or die! From mountain, vale, and prairie wide, From forest vast, and field, and glen, And crowded city, pour thy tide, Oh! fervid South! of patriot men. Up! old and young; the weak, be strong! Rise for the right--hurl back the wrong, And foot to foot, and hand to hand, Strike for our own Confederate land! Make every house, and rock, and tree, And hill, your forts; and fen and flood Yield not! our soil shall rather be One waste of flame, one sea of blood! Fear not their steel, but fear their gold-- Not Yankee force, but Yankee fraud; Trust not the race--as false as cold-- Whose very prayers are lies to God. Up! old and young, etc. Armed, or unarmed, stand fearless forth, Sons of the South! stand, wife and maid! Against the foul insidious North, Our _babes_ shall wield the battle-blade! On! though perennial be the strife, For honor dear, for hearth-stone fire; Give blow for blow! take life for life! "Strike! till the last armed foe expire!" Up! old and young, etc. THE BANNER SONG. BY JAMES B. MARSHALL. Up, up with the banner, the foe is before us, His bayonets bristle, his sword is unsheathed, Charge, charge on his line with harmonious chorus, For the prayers go with us that beauty has breathed. He fights for the power of despot and plunder, While we are defending our altars and homes; He has riven the firmly-knit Union asunder, And to bind it with Tyranny's fetters he comes. Like the prophet Mokanna, whose veil so resplendent, His monstrous deformity closely concealed, Duplicity marks Lincoln's course, and dependent On falsehood is every fair promise revealed.