Dear South! though thy beautiful forests and hills, Thy emerald valleys and silvery rills, Are subject to strangers--not free as of yore-- Thus changed, and in sorrow, I love thee the more. Sweet South! lovely land of beautiful flowers, Though cool now the zephyrs, and faded thy bowers, Oh, soon shall the springtime thy beauties restore, And bloom o'er our lost ones--I love thee the more. Darling South! when I think every forest and grove, And valley have pillow'd the heads that we love, Have echoed their war cry and drank of their gore, I feel thou art sacred, and love thee the more. THE POOR SOLDIER! A Popular Camp-fire Song of the 62d Alabama Regiment (The Boy Regiment.) Little do rich people know, What we poor soldiers undergo-- Called upon to take up arms, To guard our country from all harm. Break of day--the morning gun, Wakes the rebels--the fife and drum, Breaks a soldier's sweet repose-- He tumbles out--puts on his clothes. First sergeant rushes in and out: "Hurrah! hurrah, boys! do turn out;" Front and rear he forms his line-- His 'coutrements and sword must shine. "Eyes right!--steady!" is the word; Our captain then presents his sword-- The sergeant jerks out his roll-- Names are called--the absent told. Our surgeon is a man of skill, Gives the sick each day bread pills; If his pills do not act well-- He swears and damns our souls to hell. Would you know who wrote this song, I will tell--it won't take long; It was composed by A. T. Height, While walking post one rainy night. THE BONNIE WHITE FLAG; OR, THE PRISONER'S INVOCATION TO PEACE. Col. W. S. HAWKINS. In _Camp Chase Ventilator_, 1864. _Air--"Bonnie Blue Flag."_ Though we're a band of prisoners, Let each be firm and true, For noble souls and hearts of oak, The foe can ne'er subdue. We then will turn us homeward, To those we love so dear; For peace and happiness, my boys, Oh, give a hearty cheer! CHORUS.--Hurrah! Hurrah! for peace And home, hurrah! Hurrah for the Bonnie White Flag, That ends this cruel war! The sword into the scabbard, The musket on the wall, The cannon from its blazing throat, No more shall hurl the ball; From wives and babes and sweethearts, No longer will we roam, For ev'ry gallant soldier boy, Shall seek his cherished home. CHORUS. Our battle banners furled away, No more shall greet the eye, Nor beat of angry drums be heard, Nor bugle's hostile cry. The blade no more be raised aloft, In conflict fierce and wild. The bomb shall roll across the sward, The plaything of a child. CHORUS.