Of all the mighty nations, in the East or in the West, Our glorious Southern nation is the greatest and the best; We have room for all true Southrons, with our Stars and Bars unfurled, And a general invitation to the people of the world. CHORUS.--Then, to arms, boys! to arms, boys! make no delay, Come from every Southern State, come from every way, Our army isn't large enough, Jeff Davis calls for more, To hurl the vile invader from off our Southern shore. Ohio is our northern line, far as her waters flow, And on the south is the Rio Grande and the Gulf of Mexico; While between the Atlantic Ocean, where the sun begins to rise, Westward to Arizona, the land of promise lies. CHORUS. While the Gulf States raise the cotton, the others grain and pork, North and South Carolina's factories will do the finer work; For the deep and flowing waterfalls that course along our hills, Are "just the things" for washing sheep and driving cotton mills. CHORUS. Our Southern boys are brave and true, and joining heart and hand And are flocking to the "Stars and Bars" as they are floating o'er the land. And all are standing ready, with their rifles in their hands, And invite the North to open graves down South in Dixie's land. CHORUS. SONG OF THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER. By "P. E. C.," in _Richmond Examiner_. _Tune_--"_Barclay and Perkins' Drayman._" These lines were written Jan. 8, 1861, for a friend, who expected to sing them in the theatre, but thought at the time to be too much in the secession spirit. I'm a soldier, you see, that oppression has made! I don't fight for pay or for booty; But I wear in my hat a blue cockade, Placed there by the fingers of Beauty. The South is my home, where a black man is black, And a white man there is a white man; Now I am tired of listening to Northern clack,-- Let us see what they will do in a fight, man. The Yankees are cute; they have managed, somehow, Their business and ours to settle; They make all we want, from a pin to a plough, Now we'll show them some Southern mettle. We have had just enough of their Northern law, That robbed us so long of our right, man, And too much of their cursed abolition jaw,-- Now we'll see what they'll do in a fight, man! Their parsons will open their sanctified jaws, And cant of our slave-growing sin, sir; They pocket the _profits_, while preaching the laws, And manage our cotton to spin, sir. Their incomes are nice, on our sugar and rice, Though against it the hypocrites write, sir; Now our dander is up, and they'll soon smell a mice, If we once get them into a fight, sir.