This serpent abolition Has been coiling on for years. We have reasoned, we have threatened, We have begged almost with tears; Now, away, away with union, Since on our Southern soil The only _union_ left us Is an anaconda's coil. Brave little South Carolina Will strike the self-same blow, And Florida, and Georgia, And Mississippi, too, And Arkansas, and Texas; And at the death, I ween, The head will fall beneath the blows Of all the brave fifteen. In this, our day of trial, Let feuds and factions cease, Until above this howling storm We see the sign of peace. Let Southern men, like brothers, In solid phalanx stand, And poise their spears, and lock their shields To guard their native land. The love that for the Union Once in our bosoms beat, From insult and from injury Has turned to scorn and hate; And the banner of secession, To-day we lift on high, Resolved, beneath that sacred flag, To conquer, _or to die_! _Montgomery Advertiser_, October, 1860. 1776-1861. _Air--"Bruce's Address."_ Sons of the South! from hill and dale, From mountain-top, and lowly vale, Arouse ye now! 'tis Freedom's wail-- "To arms! to arms!" she cries. Strike! for freedom in the dust; Strike! to crush proud Mammon's lust; Strike! remembering _God is just_! Thus a freeman dies. Southrons! who with Beauregard, Day and night, keep watch and ward-- Southrons! whom the angels guard, Strike for Liberty! Smite the motley hireling throng; Smite! as Heaven smites the wrong; Smite! they fly before the strong, In God and Liberty! By your hearth-stones, by your dead, By all the fields where patriots bled, A freeman's home or gory bed Let the alternate be. Weeping wives and mothers here, Sisters, daughters, dear ones near-- Seas of blood for every tear, God and Liberty! Louder swells the battle-cry, Flaming sword and flashing eye Light the field when freemen die! Death or Liberty! Backward roll your poisonous waves, Infidel and ruffian slaves! 'Tis Heaven's own wrath your blindness braves-- God and Liberty! C. WASHINGTON, D. C. WOULD'ST THOU HAVE ME LOVE THEE? By ALEX. B. MEEK, Mobile, Ala. Would'st thou have me love thee, dearest, With a woman's proudest heart, Which shall ever hold thee nearest Shrined in its inmost heart? Listen, then! My country's calling On her sons to meet the foe! Leave these groves of rose and myrtle; Drop thy dreamy harp of love! Like young Korner--scorn the turtle, When the eagle screams above!