Firm as the firmest where duty led, He hurried without a falter; Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won--but the field was red; And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed, On his country's hallowed altar. CHORUS. On the trampled breast of the battle plain, Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, The fairest form 'mid all the slain, Like a child asleep he nestled. In the solemn of the woods that swept The field where his comrades found him, They buried him there--and strong men wept, As in silence they gathered 'round him. CHORUS. THE CAVALIER'S GLEE. By CAPT. BLACKFORD, of General Stuart's Staff. _Air--"The Pirate's Glee."_ Spur on! spur on! we love the bounding Of barbs that bear us to the fray; "The charge" our bugles now are sounding, And our bold Stuart leads the way. CHORUS.--The path to honor lies before us Our hated foeman gather fast; At home bright eyes are sparkling for us, And we'll defend them to the last. Spur on! spur on! we love the rushing Of steeds that spurn the turf they tread; We'll through the Northern ranks go crushing, With our proud battle-flag o'erhead. CHORUS. Spur on! spur on! we love the flashing Of blades that battle to be free; 'Tis for our sunny South they're clashing, For household gods and liberty. CHORUS. SONG. _Air--"Faintly Flows the Falling River."_ Here we bring a fragrant tribute, To the bed where valor sleeps, Though they missed the victor's triumph, O'er their tomb a nation weeps, Honor through all time be rendered, To their proud, heroic names, Fondly be their mem'ry cherished, Bright their never-dying fame. Glowing in young manhood's beauty, Sprang they at their country's call, Made before the foeman's legions 'Round our homes a living wall. By disease's foul breath withered, Ere had dawned the battle-day, On the fever couch of anguish, Thousands passed from earth away. Thousands, after deeds whose daring, With their glory filled the land, Fell before the flying foeman, On the fields won by their hand. Mourning o'er the fruitless struggle, Bowed beneath the hand of God, Come we weeping and yet proudly, Now to deck this sacred sod. WE CONQUER OR DIE. By JAMES PIERPONT, 1861. Permission of HENRI WEHRMAN. The war drum is beating; prepare for the fight, The stern bigot Northman exults in his might, Gird on your bright weapons, your foeman is nigh, And this be your watchword, "We conquer or die." The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore, Your swords and your lances must slumber no more. Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high, Inscribed with the watchword, "We conquer or die."