Our men come from the prairies rolling broad, proud and free, From the high and craggy mountains to the murmuring Mexic' sea; And their hearts are open as their plains; their tho'ts as proudly brave As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard, or the Gulf's resistless wave. Then, quick! into the saddle, and shake the bridle free, To-day with gallant Wharton we cross the Tennessee. 'Tis joy to be a Ranger! to fight for dear Southland! 'Tis joy to follow Wharton, with his gallant, trusty band! 'Tis joy to see our Harrison plunge, like a meteor bright, Into the thickest of the fray, and deal his deadly might, Oh! who'd not be a Ranger, and follow Wharton's cry! And battle for their country, and, if needs be, die? By the Colorado's waters, on the Gulf's deep murmuring shore, On our soft, green, peaceful prairies, our home we may see no more, But in those homes our gentle wives, and mothers with silvery hairs, Are loving us with tender hearts, and shielding us with prayers. So trusting in our country's God, we draw our stout good brand, For those we love at home, our altars and our land. Up! up! with the crimson battle flag, let the blue pennon fly; Our steeds are stamping proudly, they hear the battle cry! The thundering bomb, the bugle's call, proclaim the foe is near: We strike for God and native land, and all we hold most dear. Then spring into the saddle, and shake the bridle free, For Wharton leads, thro' fire and blood, for Home and Victory. THE OFFICER'S FUNERAL. Hark! 'tis the shrill trumpet calling, It pierceth the soft summer air! Tears from each comrade are falling, For the widow and orphan are there: Our bayonets earthward are turning, And the drum's muffled breath rolls around, But he hears not the voice of their mourning, Nor awakes to the bugle's shrill sound. Sleep, soldier! tho' many regret thee, Who stand by thy cold bier to-day, Soon, soon shall the kindest forget thee, And thy name from the earth pass away; The man thou did'st love as a brother, A friend in thy place will have gained; Thy dog will keep watch for another, And thy steed by a stranger be reined. But tho' many now weep for thee sadly, Soon joyous as ever shall be; Tho' thy bright orphan boy may laugh gladly As he sits on some kind comrade's knee, There is one who will still do her duty Of tears for the true and the brave, As when first in the bloom of her beauty, She weeps o'er her brave soldier's grave! THE SOLDIER'S DEATH. By A. B. CUNNINGHAM.