Swelling 'round with gold lace plenty, See the gay "brass button" gentry; Solomon in all his splendors Was scarce arrayed like these "defenders." CHORUS. In cities, sir, it is alarming To see them 'round the hotel swarming; And at each little "one-horse town," sir, See the "birds" how they "fly 'round," sir. CHORUS. On the steamboat, in the cars, sir, Deep respect is shown the "bars," sir. And if a "star" or two is spotted, See how "the elephant" is courted. CHORUS. Should a grand soiree be given, The "braided lions" take the even. No, no! the privates are not slighted! They can't expect to be invited! CHORUS. The ladies! bless the darling creatures! Quite distort their pretty features, And say (I know you've seen it done, sir), "They'll have an officer or none," sir. CHORUS. And if when death-shots round us rattle, An officer is kill'd in battle-- How the martyr is lamented! (This is right--we've not dissented). CHORUS. But only speak of it to show, sir, Privates are not honor'd so, sir. No muffled drum, no wreath of glory, If one dies, proclaims the story. CHORUS. In Dixie's land, in every way, sir, "Fuss and feathers" "win the day," sir, For with all sexes, sizes, ages, How the "gold lace fever" rages! CHORUS. List the moral of my song, sir; In Dixie there is something wrong, sir. As all that glitters is not gold, sir, Read and ponder what I've told, sir. CHORUS. THE SENTINEL'S DREAM OF HOME. By COL. A. M. HOBBY. 'Tis dead of night, nor voice, nor sound, breaks on the stillness of the air, The waning moon goes coldly down on frozen fields and forests bare: The solemn stars are glittering high, while here my lonely watch I keep, To guard the brave with anxious eye, who sweetly dream and sweetly sleep. Perchance of home these sleepers dream, of sainted ones no longer here, Whose mystic forms low bend unseen, and breathe soft whispers in their ear: Sleep on, sleep on, my comrades brave, quaff deep to-night of pleasure's cup, Ere morning's crimson banners wave, and reveille shall rouse thee up. The sporting winds and waves to-night seem tired of their boisterous play, And armed ships, with signal lights and bristling guns before me lay: But not of ships nor battle-fields, with clash of arms and roll of drums-- To softer scenes my spirit yields--to-night a sweeter vision comes.