Hark honor's call, Summoning all, Summoning all of us Unto the strife. Sons of the South awake! Strike till the brand shall break, Strike for dear Honor's sake, Freedom and Life. CHORUS. _Rebels_ before, Our fathers of yore, _Rebels_ the righteous name _Washington_ bore. Why, then be our's the same, The name that he snatch'd from shame, Making it first in fame, Foremost in war. CHORUS. War to the hilt, Their's be the guilt, Who fetter the freeman, To ransom the slave. Up, then, and undismayed, Sheathe not the battle blade Till the last foe is laid Low in the grave! CHORUS. God save the South, God save the South, Dry the dim eyes that now Follow our path. Still let the light feet rove Safe through the orange grove; Still keep the land we love Safe from _Thy_ wrath. CHORUS. God save the South, God save the South, Her altars and firesides, God save the South! For the great war is nigh, And we will win or die, Chanting our battle cry, Freedom or death. CHORUS. "ALLONS ENFANS." _The Southern Marseillaise._ By A. E. BLACKMAR, New Orleans, 1861. [The music of this song can be obtained of Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.] Sons of the South awake to glory, A thousand voices bid you rise, Your children, wives and grandsires hoary, Gaze on you now with trusting eyes, Gaze on you now with trusting eyes; Your country ev'ry strong arm calling, To meet the hireling Northern band That comes to desolate the land With fire and blood and scenes appalling, To arms, to arms, ye brave; Th' avenging sword unsheath! March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death. March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death. Now, now, the dang'rous storm is rolling, Which treacherous brothers madly raise, The dogs of war let loose, are howling And soon our peaceful towns may blaze, And soon our peaceful towns may blaze. Shall fiends who basely plot our ruin, Unchecked, advance with guilty stride To spread destruction far and wide, With Southrons' blood their hands embruing? To arms, to arms, ye brave! Th' avenging sword unsheath! March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death, March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death. With needy, starving mobs surrounded, The jealous, blind fanatics dare To offer, in their zeal unbounded, Our happy slaves their tender care, Our happy slaves their tender care. The South, though deepest wrongs bewailing, Long yielded all to Union name; But _Independence_ now we claim, And all their threats are unavailing. To arms, to arms, ye brave! Th' avenging sword unsheath!