A man more kind was never born, In battle no one bolder; His loss all noble hearts will mourn, This gallant faithful soldier; For when the word was duty, He was first to fight for victory; Oh! may he live in history, The gallant Stonewall Jackson. CHORUS. But alas! his time was come, To see our promised land; His comrade's fatal gun, Shot through his arm and hand; The Almighty's will was read, Upon his noble brow; "My race is run," he said. Death has its victim now. CHORUS. THE SOUTHERN CAPTIVE. By CAPT. SAM HOUSTON. [The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.] Softly comes the twilight stealing gently through my prison bars, While from out the vault of heaven, faintly glimmering come the stars; Well I know my mother's weeping for her long-lost wandering boy-- Does she know that still I'm living? even that would give her joy. No, they tell her that I'm sleeping 'neath the turf on Shiloh's plain; That she ne'er will see her wanderer--never on this earth again; Oh, my poor heart sinks within me, as the months roll slowly by, And it seems in this cold Northland a lone captive I must die! Yes, far away from friends and kindred, without a hand to mark my grave-- And not upon a field of glory I'll sleep amid the Southern brave; Mother! yes, your boy is dying! soon he'll pass through death's dark wave, And the wintry wind be sighing o'er a captive's lonely grave. THE VOLUNTEER; OR, IT IS MY COUNTRY'S CALL. By HARRY MCCARTHY. I leave my home and thee, dear, with sorrow at my heart, It is my country's call, dear, to aid her, I depart; And on the blood-red battle plain, we'll conquer or we'll die; 'Tis for our honor and our name, we raise the battle-cry. CHORUS.--Then weep not, dearest, weep not, if in the cause I fall; Oh, weep not, dearest, weep not, it is my country's call. And yet, my heart is sore, love, to see thee weeping thus; But mark me, there's no fear, love, for in Heaven is our trust; And if the heavy drooping tear swells in my mournful eye, It is that Northmen of our land should cause the battle-cry. CHORUS. Our rights have been usurp'd, dear, by Northmen of land; Fanatics rais'd the cry, dear, politicians fired the brand; The Southrons spurn the galling yoke, the tyrants' threats defy; They find we've sons like sturdy oaks to raise the battle-cry. CHORUS. I knew you'd let me go, pet, I saw it in that tear, To join the gallant men, pet, who never yet knew fear; With Beauregard and Davis, we'll gain our cause or die; Win battles like Manassas, and raise the battle-cry. CHORUS. DEAR MOTHER, I'VE COME HOME TO DIE. By E. BOWERS. Music by HENRY TUCKER.