Our cannons' mouths are dumb. No more our volleyed muskets peal, Nor gleams, to mark where squadrons rush, the light from flashing steel; No more our crossed and starry flags in gentle dalliance play With battle breeze, as when we fought, a wearing of the gray. Our cause is lost! No more we fight 'gainst overwhelming power; All wearied are our limbs, and drenched with many a battle shower; We fain would rest! For want of strength we yield them up the day, And lower the flag so proudly borne while wearing of the gray. Defeat is not dishonor! No! Of honor not bereft, We should thank God that in our breasts this priceless boon is left; And though we weep 'tis for those braves who stood in proud array Beneath our flag, and nobly died while wearing of the gray. When in the ranks of war we stood, and faced the deadly hail, Our simple suits of gray composed our only coats of mail; And of those awful hours that marked the bloody battle day, In memory we'll still be seen a wearing of the gray. O, should we reach that glorious place where waits the sparkling crown, For every one who for the right his soldier life lay down, God grant to us the privilege, upon that happy day, Of clasping hands with those who fell a wearing of the gray. THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. Words by MOINA. Music by ARMAND. [The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.] Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave, in the cause of right It's stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to victory. Out of its scabbard, when full long It slumbered peacefully-- Roused from its rest by the battle song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, and avenging the wrong-- Gleamed the sword of Lee! Forth from its scabbard, high in air, Beneath Virginia's sky-- And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear, That where that sword led they would dare To follow and to die. Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause as grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee! Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed, That sword might victor be! And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on, while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee! Forth from its scabbard! All in vain! Forth flashed the sword of Lee! 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully. OFF WITH YOUR GRAY SUITS, BOYS! By LIEUT. FALLIGANT, Savannah, Ga.