In his father's hall--where his mother's eye, Late hung with a gleam of joy, On the proud young form, as the hopes beat high In the breast of her soldier boy. And the dashing sound of the distant sea, With the wail in its troubled breast, To the hearts 'round that clouded hearth will be, But an echo of their unrest! But pillow his head on his flashing sword, Whose Fame on the field was won-- The strife raged high where his blood was poured-- And--he fell beside his gun! Oh, circle the banner around his form, That he loved with a soldier's pride, For it shone like a star thro' the battle storm, O'er the field where our hero died! He went from the red field down to the grave, He fell where his fame was won, And his own fair State hath a name for the brave, And a song for her martyred son! Yes, Liberty shrined his parting breath, And Texas his fainting cry-- Yes, Fame hath torn his young name from death, The brave can never die! Then pillow his head on his flashing sword, Who fell where the field was won; The turf is red where his life was poured-- He fell beside his gun! TYLER, TEXAS, 1863. YANKEE VANDALS. _Air--"Gay and Happy."_ The Northern Abolition vandals, Who have come to free the slave, Will meet their doom in "Old Virginny," Where they all will get a grave. CHORUS--So let the Yankees say what they will, We'll love and fight for Dixie still, Love and fight for, love and fight for, We'll love and fight for Dixie still. When the Hessian horde is driven, O'er Potomac's classic flood, The pulse of a new-born freedom, Then will stir old Maryland's blood. CHORUS. Then we'll crown our warrior chieftains Who have led us in the fight, And have brought the South in triumph, Through dread danger's troubled night. CHORUS. And the brave who nobly perished, Struggling in the bloody fray; We'll wear a wreath of fadeless laurel For their glorious memory. CHORUS. O'er their graves the Southern maidens, From sea-shore to mountain grot, We'll plant the smiling rose of beauty And the sweet forget-me-not. CHORUS. RIDING A RAID. _Air--"Bonny Dundee."_ 'Tis old Stonewall, the rebel, that leans on his sword, And, while we are mounting, prays low to the Lord; Now each cavalier who loves honor and right, Let him follow the feather of Stuart to-night. CHORUS--Come, tighten your girths and slacken your rein; Come, buckle your blanket and holster again; Try the click of your trigger and balance your blade, For he must ride _sure_ who goes riding a raid.