To arms, to arms! each one, The sword unsheathe, raise the gun, Then on, rush on, ye brave and free, To death or victory.

Now clouds of war begin to gather, And black and murky is our sky-- Shall we submit--no, never, never!

Let death or freedom be our cry-- In Heaven's justice firm relying, We'll n.o.bly struggle to be free, And bravely gain our liberty, Or die, our Northern foes defying.

To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

The peaceful homes of Texas burning, And Harper's Ferry's blood-stained soil, Proclaim how strong their hearts are yearning For murder, pillage, crime, and spoil.

Shall we our feelings longer smother, And bear with patience yet our wrongs, Their jeers, their crimes, their taunts and thongs, And greet them still as friend and brother?

To arms, to arms! each one, etc.

Their tyranny we'll bear no longer, But burst asunder every tie, Although in numbers they are stronger, We will be free, or we will die!

Too long the South has wept, bewailing That falsehood's dagger Yankees wield, But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing.

To arms, to arms, each one, etc.

_Beauregard Songster._

RICHMOND ON THE JAMES.

BY G. T. BURGESS.

A soldier of our army lay gasping on the field, When battle's shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield.

He fell a youthful hero, before the foemen's aims, On a blood-red field near Richmond, near Richmond on the James.

But one still stood beside him, his comrade in the fray, They had been friends together through boyhood's happy day, And side by side had struggled on field of blood and flames, To part that eve near Richmond, near Richmond on the James.

He said, "I charge thee, comrade, the friend in days of yore, Of the far, far distant dear ones that I shall see no more, Though scarce my lips can whisper their dear and well-known names, To bear to them my blessing from Richmond on the James.

"Bear my good sword to my brother, and the badge upon my breast, To the young and gentle sister that I used to love the best; But one lock from my forehead give my mother who still dreams Of her soldier boy near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

"Oh, I wish that mother's arms were folded round me now, That her gentle hand could linger one moment on my brow, But I know that she is praying where our blessed hearth-light gleams, For her soldier's safe return from Richmond on the James.

"And on my heart, dear comrade, close lay those nut-brown braids, Of one who was the fairest of all our village maids; We were to have been wedded, but death the bridegroom claims, And she is far, that loves me, from Richmond on the James.

"Oh, does the pale face haunt her, dear friend, that looks on thee?

Or is she laughing, singing in careless girlish glee?

It may be she is joyous, and loves but joyous themes, Nor dreams her love lies bleeding near Richmond on the James.

"And though I know, dear comrade, thou'lt miss me for a while, When their faces--all that loved thee--again on thee shall smile; Again thou'lt be the foremost in all their youthful games, But I shall lie near Richmond--near Richmond on the James."

And far from all that loved him, that youthful soldier sleeps, Unknown among the thousands of those his country weeps; But no higher heart nor braver, than his, at sunset's beams, Was laid that eve near Richmond--near Richmond on the James.

The land is filled with mourning, from hall and cot left lone, We miss the well-known faces that used to greet our own; And long poor wives and mothers shall weep, and t.i.tled dames, To hear the name of Richmond--of Richmond on the James.

FROM THE SOUTH TO THE NORTH.

BY C. L. S.

There is no union when the hearts That once were bound together Have felt the stroke that coldly parts All kindly ties forever.

Then oh! your cruel hands draw back, And let us be divided In peace, since it is proved we lack The grace to live united.

We can not bear your scorn and pride, Your malice and your taunting, That have for years our patience tried-- Your hypocritic canting.

We WILL not bow our necks beneath The yoke that you decree us, We WILL be free, though only death Should have the power to free us!

Oh, Southern sons are bold to dare, And Southern hearts courageous.

Nor meekly will they longer bear Oppression so outrageous.

And you shall feel our honest wrath, If hearts so cold _can_ feel; Shall meet us in your Southern path And prove our Southern steel.

We ask no favor at your hand, No gifts and no affection; But only peace upon our land, And none of your protection.

We ask you now, henceforth, to know We are a separate nation; And be a.s.sured we'll fully show We scorn your "proclamation."

We were not first to break the peace, That blessed our happy land; We loved the quiet, calm, and ease, Too well to raise a hand, Till fierce oppression stronger grew, And bitter were your sneers-- Then to our land we must be true, Or show a coward's fears!

We loved our banner while it waved An emblem of our Union, The fiercest danger we had braved To guard that sweet communion.

But when it proved that "stripes" alone Were for our sunny South, And all the "stars" in triumph shone Above the chilly North--

Then, not till then, our voices rose In one tumultuous wave-- We WILL the tyranny oppose, Or find a b.l.o.o.d.y grave!

Another flag shall lead our hosts To battle on the plain, The "rebels" will defy your boasts, And prove your sneering vain!

There is no danger we could fear-- No hardship or privation-- To free the land we hold so dear, From tyrannous dictation.

Blockade her ports--her seas shall swell Beneath your ships of war, And every breeze in anger tell Your tyranny afar.

Her wealth may fail--her commerce droop With every foreign nation; But mark you, if her pride shall stoop, Or her determination!

The products of her fields will be For food and raiment too-- From mountain cliff to rolling sea Her children will be true.

Her banner may not always wave On victory's fickle breath, The young, chivalrous, and the brave, May feel the hand of death.

But, when her gallant sons have died, Her daughters will remain-- Nor crushed will be the Southern pride, Till they too, all are slain.

A BALLAD OF THE WAR.

BY GEORGE HERBERT Sa.s.s, OF S. C.

Watchman, what of the night?

Through the city's darkening street, Silent and slow, the guardsmen go On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down, Falleth the wintry rain; And the cold gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows, The sleet falls heavy and chill, And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.