Soon Abe will find what he's about Will cost him such a pile of rocks, Before his cherished _work_ is _out_, He'll have no _sorts_ in any _box_!

For his _bank_ is now so very low, He scarce can _chase_ up _quoins_ to pay The hired sc.u.m, the foreign foe, Who comes to steal our rights away.

And his _chums_ now see, by his _foul matter_, To set _clean proof_ he ne'er was _cast_, And fears are felt that the gaunt old _ratter_ Will go _broadside_ to _h.e.l.l_ at last, Where his friend, the _devil_, will welcome him, With _accents_ sweet--to his bosom fly, _Revise_ his _foul proof-sheets_ once more, And _knock_ his naked _form_ in _pi_.

And so to rush the base old _monk_ along, And bring the quiet soon about, We'll swell our _lines_ to _columns_ strong, And give no quarters till he's _out_; For Southern _jours._ now take a _stand_, Their _foremen_ marshaled at their _head_, And each with _shooting-stick_ in hand, Resolved they will his _matter lead_.

And while a foe is in the field, Our _hands_ still steady, our _leaders_ cool, Death we'll _em-brace_ before we'll yield; But, by G.o.d's help, we'll _stick_ and _rule_, And when, in after years to come, Our history's read by youth and sage, They'll make a _side-note_ of "well done,"

On this our _volume's_ brightest _page_.

NORFOLK, VA., _April 4, 1862_.

THE Ma.r.s.eILLES HYMN.

_Translated and adapted as an ode_,

BY B. F. PORTER, OF ALABAMA.

Sons of the South, arise! awake! be free!

Behold! the day of Southern glory comes.

See where the blood-stained flag of tyranny Pollutes the air that breathes around your homes.

Rise! Southern men, from villages and farms, Cry vengeance! Oh! shall worse than pirate slaves Strangle your children in their mothers' arms, And spit on dust that fills your fathers' graves?

To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

What would these men, whose lives black treachery stains-- Conspirators, to plunder long endeared?

For whom these vile, these ignominious chains-- These fetters, for our brother's hands prepared?

Sons of the South, for us! Oh! bitter thought!

What transports should our burning souls inspire!

Shall Southern men, by mercenaries bought, Be sold to va.s.salage, from son to sire?

To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

What! shall this groveling race, who cringe for gold, Make laws for Southern men, on Southern soil?

Shall these degenerate hordes, to avarice sold, Crush freedom's sons, and Freedom's altars spoil?

Great G.o.d! oh! by these iron-shackled hands, Ne'er shall our necks beneath their yokes be led.

Of despots such as these, shall Southern bands Ne'er own the mastery, till every heart is dead.

To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

Tremble, O tyrants! and you, perfidious tools, Of every race and party long the scorn!

Tremble, ye base, ye parricidal fools, The doom of treachery is already born.

All Southern men are heroes in the fray; If fall they must, o'erpowered in the field, Long as the race endures, each child for aye Shall from his cradle strike the sounding shield.

To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

Sons of the South! magnanimous in war, Strike or withhold, as honor bids, your blows.

Spare, if you will, those victims from afar, Who, ignorant of liberty, become your foes.

But for these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds of a free-born bed, These parasites, in Freedom's arms caressed, These beasts, by sin and spoil and rapine bred, Who dig for blood, deep in their mother's breast, To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

O sacred love of country! For the South, Come, brave avengers, rush to every field.

Let cries of "Liberty" from every mouth Sound the alarm, till the base traitors yield.

Under our glorious flag, let Victory Respond to Freedom's call. Wipe off the stain Of the invaders' feet. Dying, they will see Thy triumph, and the land redeemed again.

To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.

_Nashville Gazette._

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON.

BY THE EXILE.

Aye, toll! toll! toll!

Toll the funeral bell!

And let its mournful echoes roll From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul That ever in battle fell.

Yes, weep! weep! weep!

Weep for the hero fled!

For death, the greatest of soldiers, at last Has over our leader his black pall cast, And from us his n.o.ble form hath pa.s.sed To the home of the mighty dead.

Then toll! and weep! and mourn!

Mourn the fall of the brave!

For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation proud, At whose very name the enemy cowed, With the "crimson cross" for his martial shroud, Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave.

His form has pa.s.sed away; His voice is silent and still; No more at the head of "the old brigade,"

The daring men who were never dismayed, Will he lead them to glory that never can fade-- Stonewall of the Iron Will!

He fell as a hero should fall; 'Mid the thunder of war he died.

While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared, And the blood of the friend and foeman poured, He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword That erst was the nation's pride.

Virginia, his mother, is bowed; Her tread is heavy and slow.

From all the South comes a wailing moan, And mountains and valleys re-echo the groan, For the gallant chief of her clans has flown, And a nation is filled with woe.

Rest, warrior! rest!

Rest in thy laureled tomb!

Thy mem'ry shall live through all of earth's years, And thy name still excite the despot's fears, While o'er thee shall fall a nation's tears; Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

BY MRS. C. D. ELDER.

Bright banner of freedom, with pride I unfold thee; Fair flag of my country, with love I behold thee, Gleaming above us, in freshness and youth, Emblem of liberty--symbol of truth; For this flag of my country in triumph shall wave O'er the Southerner's home and the Southerner's grave.