[Illustration: Georgia Button.] THE BATTLE SONG OF THE SOUTH. Words by P. E. COLLINS. Music by WM. HERZ. Land of our birth, thee, thee I sing, Proud heritage is thine, Wide to the breeze thy banner fling, Thy freedom ne'er resign. Land of the South, the foe defies Thy valor! lo, he comes, To prove thy strength, awake, arise! To arms! protect thy homes. Bright Southern land, the time has come, Thy bright historic day, Sons of the South, the time has come, Drive back the tyrants' sway! Strike, Southrons, strike! the foe shall flee, Nor e'er again invade; The sons of free men shall be free, They cannot slaves be made. Land of the South, by right maintained, The day of trial past, The prize of victory will be gained; Thou'lt triumph at the last, And future bards your deeds shall tell Of valor and renown; What tyranny and hate befell, By Southern might cast down. MY HEART'S IN MISSISSIPPI. My heart's in Mississippi, 'Tis de place whar I was born; 'Tis dar I planted sugar cane, 'Tis dar I hoed de corn, Dey have taken me to Texas, A thousand miles below; Yet my heart's in Mississippi Wherever I go. CHORUS.--Yet my heart's in Mississippi, 'Tis de place whar I was born; 'Tis dar I planted sugar cane, 'Tis dar I hoed de corn. Mobile may boast of beauties, Dat lemonade de street; But dey neber hab a sixpence, To ax you to a treat; De Mississippi yellow gals, Dey always treat dar beaux, Den my heart's in Mississippi Wherever I go. CHORUS. Way down in Mississippi, De fields am always green; And orange trees in blossom, De whole year may be seen, Dar darkies live like princes, And dar do heel and toe; Den my heart's in Mississippi, Wherever I go. CHORUS. Den fill to Mississippi, And let de toast go 'round, Rosin up de fiddle-sticks, And let de banjo sound; O fotch along de whiskey, And let de fluid flow: For my heart's in Mississippi, boys, Wherever I go. CHORUS. THE FUNERAL OF ALBERT SYDNEY JOHNSTON. He fell and they cried, bring us home our dead! We'll bury him here where the prairies spread, And the gulf waves beat on our Southern shores; He will hear them not when he comes once more-- Our Albert Sydney Johnston! When he went, how the flushed hope beat high On the brows of The Rangers standing nigh! And the champing steeds of the Texas plain-- For his voice was that to their bridle rein That the air's to the Persian monsoon. But they bore him now to the crash of wheels; No sound of their sorrow the hero feels, Tho' many are come that are sad and fair, With flowers and stars for his bloody bier, And weeping they lay them down.