Southern men, unsheathe the sword, Inland and along the board; Backward drive the Northern horde-- Rush to victory! Let your banners kiss the sky, Be "The right" your battle cry! Be the God of battles nigh-- Crown you in the fight! Pressing back the tears that start, We behold your hosts depart: Saying, with heroic heart, Clothe your arms with might! Lower the proud oppressor's crest! Or, if he should prove the best, Dead, not dishonored, rest On the field of blood! We--may God so give us grace!-- Sons will rear, to take your place; Strong the foeman's steel to face-- Strong in heart and hand! Death your serried ranks may sweep, Proud shall be the tears we weep, Sacredly our hearts shall keep Memory of your deeds! Though our land be left forlorn, Spirit of the Southern-born, Northern rage shall laugh to scorn-- Northern hosts defy. He that last is doomed to die Shall, with his expiring sigh, Send aloft the battle-cry, "God defend the right!" [Illustration] RALLYING SONG OF THE VIRGINIANS. By SUSAN A. TALLY. _Air--"Scots, Wha hae wi' Wallace bled."_ Now rouse ye, gallant comrades all, And ready stand, in war's array,-- Virginia sounds her battle call, And gladly we obey. Our hands upon our trusty swords, Our hearts with courage beating high-- We'll fight as once our fathers fought, To conquer or to die! Adieu, awhile, to loving eyes, And lips that breathe our names in prayer; To them our holiest thoughts be given, For them our swords we bare! Yet linger not when honor calls, Nor breathe one sad, regretful sigh,-- Defying fate, for love we'll live, Or for our country die! No tyrant hand shall ever dare Our sacred Southern homes despoil, No tyrant foot shall e'er invade Our free Virginia soil. Lo! from her lofty mountain peaks, To plains that skirt the Southern seas, We fling her banner to the winds, Her motto on the breeze! We hear the roll of stormy drums, We hear the trumpet's call afar! Now forward, gallant comrades all, To swell the ranks of war; Uplift on high our battle cry, When fiercest rolls the bloody fight, "Virginia! for the Southern cause, And God defend the right!" POP GOES THE WEASEL. From "JACK MORGAN SONGSTER." King Abraham is very sick, Old Scott has got the measles, Manassas we have now at last-- Pop goes the weasel! All around the cobbler's house The monkey chased the people, And after them in double haste, Pop goes the weasel! When the night walks in, as black as a sheep, And the hen on her eggs was fast asleep, When into her nest with a serpent's creep, Pop goes the weasel! Of all the dance that ever was planned, To galvanize the heel and the hand, There's none that moves so gay and grand, As--pop goes the weasel.