We have come from the cloud-capp'd mountains, From the land of purest fountains; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our sweethearts and wives conjure us,-- Hurrah! hurrah! Not to leave a foe before us, And strike for old Virginia, boys; Hurrah! hurrah! Then we'll rally to the bugle call; For Southern rights we'll fight and fall; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our grey-haired sires sternly say,-- Hurrah! hurrah! That we must die or win the day, Three cheers for old Virginia, boys, Hurrah! hurrah! Then our silken banner wave on high; For Southern homes we'll fight and die; Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Our cause is right, our quarrel just,-- Hurrah! hurrah! We'll in the God of battles trust, And conquer for Virginia, boys, Hurrah! hurrah! BATTLE SONG OF THE INVADED. The foe! the foe! They come! they come! Light up the beacon pyre; Light every hill and mountain home, Give back the signal fire; And wave the red cross on the night, The blood-red cross of war-- What though we perish in the fight! Our fathers died before! Hark! lo their shouts upon the breeze, Their banners in the sun, And like the thunder of the seas Their deep tread thunders on. We'll meet them here on each bold height, In every glen make head-- And give the battle to the right; We will be free or dead. We stand on sacred, holy ground, Where thousand memories meet; Our fathers' homes are all around, Their graves beneath our feet; Our roofs are mouldering far and wide, That late smiled in the sun; Our brides are weeping at our sides; Gods! let them then come on! Hurrah! hurrah! he gleams in sight; It fires the brain to see How the proud spoiler flashes bright In war's gay panoply; We'll show him that our fathers' brands Nor rust nor time can stay; With tramp and shouts, bold hearts and hands, Up, freemen, and away! The work is done, the strife is o'er, The whirlwinds thundered by,-- There's not from hill to ocean shore A foeman left to die. Our brides are thronging every height, They wave us weeping home; God gives the battle to the right-- Back to our hearth-stones, come! THE SONG OF THE SNOW. By MRS. M. J. PRESTON, Lexington, Va. Halt! the march is over; Day is almost done; Loose the cumbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun. Chilled, and worn, and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amidst the snow. Round the camp-blaze gather, Heed not sleep nor cold; Ye are Spartan soldiers, Strong, and brave, and bold. Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe, Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow!