[Illustration: "Thy steed is impatient his mistress to bear."] CHORUS.--Then fear not, my Imogen, Thou'rt dearer than life! The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife, Imogen, The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife. [Illustration: "Arise to thy lattice, the moon is asleep."] Thy steed is impatient his mistress to bear, Imogen, Home to her lover, on the prairie afar, Imogen, Belov'd as a maiden, adored as a wife, Thou shalt be forever the star of my life. AN OLD TEXAN'S APPEAL. By REUBEN E. BROWN. Come all ye temper'd hearts of steel--come, quit your flocks and farms, Your sports, your plays, your holidays, and hark! away to arms! And hark! away to arms! Your sports, your plays, your holidays, And hark! away to arms! For a soldier is a gentleman--his honor is his life-- And he that won't fight at his post shall ne'er stay with his wife! Shall ne'er stay with his wife! And he that won't fight at his post, Shall ne'er stay with his wife! For love and honor are the same, they are so near alike, They neither can exist alone, but flourish side by side. Our country calls us to the field--let's not a moment stay; Gird on your arms with cheerfulness, and fearless march away. No foreign power shall us enslave--no Northern tyrant reign; 'Twas independence made us free, and freedom we'll maintain. The rising world shall sing of us a thousand years to come, And children to their children tell what glories we have won. Farewell, sweethearts! 'tis for awhile; my dear, sweet girls, adieu; Let's drive these Northern dogs away, we'll come and stay with you. And when the war is over, boys, we'll then sit down at ease-- We'll plow and sow, and reap and mow, and do just as we please. ARISE! YE SONS OF FREE-BORN SIRES! (Lines prompted by the spirit that pervaded the soldiers of Galveston on receiving the news of our disaster.) By A. E. MORRIS, Company C, Twentieth Infantry. Arise! ye sons of free-born sires; arise! your country save; Kindle again the wonted fires that animate the brave: Your heritage your foes menace--secure it from their foul embrace-- Your chains asunder burst! What tho' they count as harvest-seed--as fathers bled, their sons must bleed, Or be forever accursed! The boasted chivalry of yore you can, you must, maintain; Let not the scars our fathers bore for us, be borne in vain! Degenerate sons of noble sires, by baleful, wild, fanatic fires, And madden'd folly mov'd, Profaned their Hero's sacred dust--betrayed their country's sacred trust, And double traitors proved.