Yankee Doodle had a mind To whip the Southern traitors, Because they didn't choose to live On codfish and potatoes, Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, And to keep his courage up He took a drink of brandy. Yankee Doodle said he found By all the census figures, That he could starve the rebels out, If he could steal their niggers. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, And then he took another drink Of gunpowder and brandy. Yankee Doodle made a speech; 'Twas very full of feeling; "I fear," says he, "I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing." Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, Hurrah for Lincoln, he's the boy To take a drop of brandy. Yankee Doodle drew his sword, And practised all the passes; Come, boys, we'll take another drink When we get to Manassas. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, They never reached Manassas plain, And never got the brandy. Yankee Doodle soon found out That Bull Run was no trifle; For if the North knew how to steal, The South knew how to rifle. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, 'Tis very clear I took too much Of that infernal brandy. Yankee Doodle wheeled about, And scampered off at full run, And such a race was never seen As that he made at Bull Run. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy, I haven't time to stop just now, To take a drop of brandy. Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame, You're always intermeddling; Let guns alone, they're dangerous things; You'd better stick to peddling. Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy. When next I go to Bully Run I'll throw away the brandy. "YE MEN OF ALABAMA!" By JOHN D. PHELAN, of Montgomery, Ala. _Air--"Ye Mariners of England."_ Ye men of Alabama, Awake, arise, awake And rend the coils asunder Of this abolition snake. If another fold he fastens-- If this final coil he plies-- In the cold clasp of hate and power, Fair Alabama dies. Though round your lower limbs and waist His deadly coils I see, Yet, yet, thank heaven! your head and arms, And good right hand, are free; And in that hand there glistens-- O, God! what joy to feel! A polished blade, full sharp and keen, Of tempered State rights' steel. Now, by the free-born sires From whose brave loins ye sprung, And by the noble mothers At whose fond breasts ye hung! And by your wives and daughters, And by the ills they dread Drive deep that good secession steel Right through the monster's head.