What shall the Southron's watchword be, Fighting the battles of liberty? Holy the light on his manly brow, The victor's wreath or the cypress bough! Such are the thoughts which the brave inspire, Filling their souls with the soldier's fire; Then shall the Southron's watchword be, "The grave of the hero or victory!" THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET. Words by JAMES B. RANDALL. Music by EDWARD O. EATON. [The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.] By blue Patapsco's billowy dash, The tyrant's war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal's fitful clash, And the roll of his sullen drums. We hear it! we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget-- There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, "There's life in the Old Land yet!" Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred-- We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There's faith in the victor's stainless sword,-- "There's life in the Old Land yet!" Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind, O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane; And we--though we smite not--are not thralls, We are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry's dungeon walls, "There's life in the Old Land yet!" Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day, In their dear, defiant hands; They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set-- There's faith in their unrelenting woes, "There's life in the Old Land yet!" There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, 'Tis vocal without noise; It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains, From the blood of the Maryland boys. That blood shall cry aloud and rise With an everlasting threat-- By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, "There's life in the Old Land yet!" _New Orleans Delta_, Sept., 1861. YOU ARE GOING TO THE WARS, WILLIE BOY! Words and Music by JOHN H. HEWITT. You are going to the wars, Willie boy, Willie boy, You are going to the wars far away, To protect our rights and laws, Willie boy, Willie boy, And the banner in the sun's golden ray; With your uniform all new, And your shining buttons, too, You'll win the hearts of pretty girls, But none like me so true. Oh, won't you think of me, Willie boy, Willie boy; Oh, won't you think of me when far away? I'll often think of ye, Willie boy, Willie boy, And ever for your life and glory pray.