Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl, And glory in the name, And boast it with far greater pride Than glittering wealth or fame. We envy not the Northern girl, Her robes of beauty rare, Though diamonds grace her snowy neck, And pearls bedeck her hair. CHORUS.--Hurrah! Hurrah! For the sunny South so dear, Three cheers for the homespun dress The Southern ladies wear! The homespun dress is plain, I know, My hat's palmetto, too; But then it shows what Southern girls For Southern rights will do. We send the bravest of our land, To battle with the foe, And we will lend a helping hand-- We love the South, you know. CHORUS. Now Northern goods are out of date; And since old Abe's blockade, We Southern girls can be content With goods that's Southern made. We send our sweethearts to the war; But, dear girls; never mind-- Your soldier-love will ne'er forget The girl he left behind. CHORUS. The soldier is the lad for me-- A brave heart I adore; And when the sunny South is free, And when fighting is no more, I'll choose me then a lover brave, From out that gallant band. The soldier lad I love the best Shall have my heart and hand. CHORUS. The Southern land's a glorious land, And has a glorious cause; Then cheer, three cheers for Southern rights, And for the Southern boys! We scorn to wear a bit of silk, A bit of Northern lace, But make our homespun dresses up, And wear them with a grace. CHORUS. And now, young man, a word to you: If you would win the fair, Go to the field where honor calls, And win your lady there. Remember that our brightest smiles Are for the true and brave, And that our tears are all for those Who fill a soldier's grave. CHORUS. THE BANNER SONG. By JAMES B. MARSHALL. Up, up with the banner, the foe is before us, His bayonets bristle, his sword is unsheathed, Charge, charge on his line with harmonious chorus, For the prayers go with us that beauty has breathed. He fights for the power of despot and plunder, While we are defending our altars and homes; He has riven the firmly knit Union asunder, And to bind it with tyranny's fetters he comes, Like the prophet Mokanna, whose veil so resplendent, His monstrous deformity closely concealed; Duplicity marks Lincoln's course, and dependent On falsehood is every fair promise revealed.