THE SOUTHRON'S CHANT OF DEFIANCE. By C. A. WARFIELD, Kentucky. Music by A. E. BLACKMAR. You can never win us back Never! never! Though we perish on the track Of your endeavor; Though our corses strew the earth, That smiled upon their birth, And blood pollutes each hearth Stone forever! We have risen to a man, Stern and fearless; Of your curses and your ban We are careless. Every hand is on its knife, Every gun is pruned for strife, Every _palm_ contains a life, High and peerless! You have no such blood as ours For the shedding: In the veins of cavaliers Was its heading! You have no such stately men In your "abolition den," To march through foe and fen, Nothing dreading! We may fall before the fire Of your legions, Paid with gold for murderous hire-- Bought allegiance; But for every drop you shed, You shall have a mound of dead, And the vultures shall be fed In your regions. But the battle to the strong Is not given, While the judge of right and wrong Sits in Heaven! And the God of David still Guides the pebble with his will. There are giants yet to kill-- Wrongs unshriven. THE DUTCH VOLUNTEER. As sung by HARRY MACARTHY in his Personation Concerts, 1862. It vas in Ni Orleans city, I first heard der drums und fife, Und I vas so full mit lager, Dot I care nix for my life. Mit a schicken tail stuck in mine hat, I marched up midout fear, Und joined der Southern Army, Like a Dutche--a volunteer. Ven ve vent apoard der steampote, Ve told um all good-by, Ter vimins wafed der handkerchief, Und I pegun to gry. Vhen we got to vere de var vas, Dey stood us in a row, Und learned us ven dey hollered out, Vich vay ve have to go. Dey loads our guns mit noding, Und learn to shoot um right, Und charge upon der Yankee, Ven no Yankee vas in sight. My name is Yacob Schneider, Und I yust come here to-night From Hood's Army up in Georgia, Ver all de times dey fight. [Illustration: "I marched up midout fear."] But, ven I see der Yankee coming, _So mad it makes me feel_, Dot I jumped apoard der steamer cars, Und come down to Mopeel. Now, all young folks vot goes out dere, To fight your country's foes, Take my adfice, brepare yourself Pefore out dere you goes. Take a couble parrels of sauer-kraut, Und lots of schweitzer kase, Also, some perloona sausage, Und everyting else you please. Und ven der pattle commence, Kill all der Yankees you can, Und schump perhind some pig oak-tree, For dot ish der officer's blan. Ven der pattle gits vide open, Und dem palls dey comes so tick, Oh! you tink you must go somewhere, _Pecause you vas so sick_. Yust lower your knapsack down yer back, Und cover up your rear, Den you von't get vounded, Like dis Dutcher Volunteer.