Southern War Songs by Various

COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY
W. L. FAGAN

 

ILLUSTRATED.

 

New York
M. T. RICHARDSON & CO.
1890.

 

 

Copyrighted
BY M. T. RICHARDSON.
1889.

 

 


PREFACE.

The war songs of the South are a part of the history of the Lost Cause. They are necessary to the impartial historian in forming a correct estimate of the animus of the Southern people.

Emotional literature is always a correct exponent of public sentiment, and these songs index the passionate sincerity of the South at the time they were written.

Poetic merit is not claimed for all of them; still each one embodies either a fact or a principle. Written in an era of war, when the public mind was thoroughly aroused, some may now appear harsh and vindictive. Eight millions of people read and sang them. This fact alone warrants their collection and preservation.

A greater number of the songs have been gathered from Southern newspapers. The task has been laborious, but still a labor of love, as no work of this kind has before been offered to the public.

Thanks are due Mr. Henri Wehrman, of New Orleans, for permission to use valuable copyrights, also to the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston; A. E. Blackmar, New Orleans; and J. C. Schreiner, Savannah, Ga. Mr. G. N. Galloway, Philadelphia, has given material assistance.

The work is not complete, still the compiler claims for it the largest and only collection of Confederate songs published.

W. L. FAGAN.

Havana, Ala., December 1, 1889.

 


Southern War Songs.

 

 

GOD SAVE THE SOUTH.

National Hymn.

Words by George H. Miles; Music by C. W. A. Ellerbrock; Permission of A. E. Blackmar.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass, owner of the copyright.]

God save the South,
God save the South,
Her altars and firesides,
God save the South,
Now that the war is nigh,
Chanting our battle-cry
Freedom or death.

Chorus—Now that the war is nigh,
Now that we arm to die,
Chanting the battle cry,
Freedom or death.

God be our shield,
At home or afield,
Stretch thine arm over us,
Strengthen and save.
What tho’ they’re three to one,
Forward each sire and son,
Strike till the war is won,
Strike to the grave.
Chorus.

God made the right,
Stronger than might,
Millions would trample us
Down in their pride.
Lay Thou their legions low,
Roll back the ruthless foe,
Let the proud spoiler know
God’s on our side.
Chorus.

Hark honor’s call,
Summoning all,
Summoning all of us
Unto the strife.
Sons of the South awake!
Strike till the brand shall break,
Strike for dear Honor’s sake,
Freedom and Life.
Chorus.

Rebels before,
Our fathers of yore,
Rebels the righteous name
Washington bore.
Why, then be our’s the same,
The name that he snatch’d from shame,
Making it first in fame,
Foremost in war.
Chorus.

War to the hilt,
Their’s be the guilt,
Who fetter the freeman,
To ransom the slave.
Up, then, and undismayed,
Sheathe not the battle blade
Till the last foe is laid
Low in the grave!
Chorus.

God save the South,
God save the South,
Dry the dim eyes that now
Follow our path.
Still let the light feet rove
Safe through the orange grove;
Still keep the land we love
Safe from Thy wrath.
Chorus.

God save the South,
God save the South,
Her altars and firesides,
God save the South!
For the great war is nigh,
And we will win or die,
Chanting our battle cry,
Freedom or death.
Chorus.

 

 


“ALLONS ENFANS.”

The Southern Marseillaise.

By A. E. Blackmar, New Orleans, 1861.

[The music of this song can be obtained of Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.]

Sons of the South awake to glory,
A thousand voices bid you rise,
Your children, wives and grandsires hoary,
Gaze on you now with trusting eyes,
Gaze on you now with trusting eyes;
Your country ev’ry strong arm calling,
To meet the hireling Northern band
That comes to desolate the land
With fire and blood and scenes appalling,
To arms, to arms, ye brave;
Th’ avenging sword unsheath!

March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death.
March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death.

Now, now, the dang’rous storm is rolling,
Which treacherous brothers madly raise,
The dogs of war let loose, are howling
And soon our peaceful towns may blaze,
And soon our peaceful towns may blaze.
Shall fiends who basely plot our ruin,
Unchecked, advance with guilty stride
To spread destruction far and wide,
With Southrons’ blood their hands embruing?
To arms, to arms, ye brave!
Th’ avenging sword unsheath!

March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death,
March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death.

With needy, starving mobs surrounded,
The jealous, blind fanatics dare
To offer, in their zeal unbounded,
Our happy slaves their tender care,
Our happy slaves their tender care.
The South, though deepest wrongs bewailing,
Long yielded all to Union name;
But Independence now we claim,
And all their threats are unavailing.
To arms, to arms, ye brave!
Th’ avenging sword unsheath!

March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death,
March on! March on! All hearts resolved on victory or death.

This may be called the rallying song of the Confederacy. Composed early in 1861, it was sung throughout the South while the soldiers were hurried to Virginia with this, the grandest of martial airs, as a benediction.

 

 


“THE SOUTHERN CROSS.”

By St. Geo. Tucker, of Virginia.

Published in 1860, a few months before the author’s death.

Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storms,
More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?
Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,
As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.
How radiant each star, as the beacon afar,
Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war!

Chorus—’Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain
To light us to freedom and glory again!

How peaceful and blest was America’s soil,
’Til betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,
Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil
To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.
Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel,
And crush the foul viper ’neath Liberty’s heel!
Chorus.

’Tis the emblem of peace, ’tis the day-star of hope,
Like the sacred Labarum that guided the Roman;
From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware’s slope,
’Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foeman.
Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare
The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare!
Chorus.

And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied,
And war’s bloody vulture should flap its black pinions,
Then gladly “To arms,” while we hurl, in our pride,
Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions!
With our front to the field, swearing never to yield,
Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield!

Chorus—And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave
As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave.

 

 


THE STAR OF THE WEST.

Charleston Mercury.

Dixie.

I wish I was in de land o’ cotton,
Old times dair ain’t not forgotten—
Look away, etc.
In Dixie land whar I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin’—
Look away, etc.

Chorus—Den I wish I was in Dixie.

In Dixie land dat frosty mornin’,
Jis ’bout de time de day was dawnin’—
Look away, etc.
De signal fire from de East bin roarin’,
Rouse up, Dixie, no more snorin’—
Look away, etc.
Chorus.

Dat rocket high a-blazing in de sky,
’Tis de sign dat de snobbies am comin’ up nigh—
Look away, etc.
Dey bin braggin’ long, if we dare to shoot a shot,
Dey comin’ up strong and dey’ll send us all to pot,
Fire away, fire away, lads in gray.
Chorus.

 

 


THE SOUTHRON’S CHANT OF DEFIANCE.

By C. A. Warfield, Kentucky. Music by A. E. Blackmar.

You can never win us back
Never! never!
Though we perish on the track
Of your endeavor;
Though our corses strew the earth,
That smiled upon their birth,
And blood pollutes each hearth
Stone forever!

We have risen to a man,
Stern and fearless;
Of your curses and your ban
We are careless.
Every hand is on its knife,
Every gun is pruned for strife,
Every palm contains a life,
High and peerless!

You have no such blood as ours
For the shedding:
In the veins of cavaliers
Was its heading!
You have no such stately men
In your “abolition den,”
To march through foe and fen,
Nothing dreading!

We may fall before the fire
Of your legions,
Paid with gold for murderous hire—
Bought allegiance;
But for every drop you shed,
You shall have a mound of dead,
And the vultures shall be fed
In your regions.

But the battle to the strong
Is not given,
While the judge of right and wrong
Sits in Heaven!
And the God of David still
Guides the pebble with his will.
There are giants yet to kill—
Wrongs unshriven.

 

 


THE DUTCH VOLUNTEER.

As sung by Harry Macarthy in his Personation Concerts, 1862.

It vas in Ni Orleans city,
I first heard der drums und fife,
Und I vas so full mit lager,
Dot I care nix for my life.

Mit a schicken tail stuck in mine hat,
I marched up midout fear,
Und joined der Southern Army,
Like a Dutche—a volunteer.

Ven ve vent apoard der steampote,
Ve told um all good-by,
Ter vimins wafed der handkerchief,
Und I pegun to gry.

Vhen we got to vere de var vas,
Dey stood us in a row,
Und learned us ven dey hollered out,
Vich vay ve have to go.

Dey loads our guns mit noding,
Und learn to shoot um right,
Und charge upon der Yankee,
Ven no Yankee vas in sight.

My name is Yacob Schneider,
Und I yust come here to-night
From Hood’s Army up in Georgia,
Ver all de times dey fight.

 

“I marched up midout fear.”

 

But, ven I see der Yankee coming,
So mad it makes me feel,
Dot I jumped apoard der steamer cars,
Und come down to Mopeel.

Now, all young folks vot goes out dere,
To fight your country’s foes,
Take my adfice, brepare yourself
Pefore out dere you goes.

Take a couble parrels of sauer-kraut,
Und lots of schweitzer kase,
Also, some perloona sausage,
Und everyting else you please.

Und ven der pattle commence,
Kill all der Yankees you can,
Und schump perhind some pig oak-tree,
For dot ish der officer’s blan.

Ven der pattle gits vide open,
Und dem palls dey comes so tick,
Oh! you tink you must go somewhere,
Pecause you vas so sick.

Yust lower your knapsack down yer back,
Und cover up your rear,
Den you von’t get vounded,
Like dis Dutcher Volunteer.

 

 


SOUTHERN SONG OF FREEDOM.

Air—“The Minstrel’s Return.”

A nation has sprung into life
Beneath the bright Cross of the South;
And now a loud call to the strife
Rings out from the shrill bugle’s mouth.
They gather from morass and mountain,
They gather from prairie and mart,
To drink, at young Liberty’s fountain,
The Nectar that kindles the heart.

Chorus—Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty!

Our flag, with its cluster of stars,
Firm fixed in a field of pure blue,
All shining through red and white bars,
Now gallantly flutters in view.
The stalwart and brave round it rally,
They press to their lips every fold,
While the hymn swells from hill and from valley,
“Be God with our Volunteers bold.”
Chorus.

Th’ invaders rush down from the North,
Our borders are black with their hordes;
Like wolves for their victims they flock,
While whetting their knives and their swords.
Their watchword is “Booty and Beauty,”
Their aim is to steal as they go;
But, Southrons, act up to your duty,
And lay the foul miscreants low.
Chorus.

The God of our fathers looks down
And blesses the cause of the just;
His smile will the patriot crown
Who tramples his chains in the dust.
March, March, Southrons! Shoulder to shoulder,
One heart-throb, one shout for the cause;
Remember—the world’s a beholder,
And your bayonets are fixed at your doors!
Chorus.

J. J. H.

 

 


“CALL ALL! CALL ALL!”

By “Georgia.”

Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose,
Roaring round like the very deuce;
Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,—
After ’em, boys, and drive ’em back.

Bull dog, terrier, cur, and fice,
Back to the beggarly land of ice,
Worry ’em, bite ’em, scratch and tear
Everybody and everywhere.

Old Kentucky is caved from under,
Tennessee is split asunder,
Alabama awaits attack,
And Georgia bristles up her back.

Old John Brown is dead and gone!
Still his spirit is marching on,—
Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys,
Long as an ape’s from Illinois.

Want a weapon? Gather a brick,
Club or cudgel, or stone or stick;
Anything with a blade or butt,
Anything that can cleave or cut.

Anything heavy, or hard, or keen!
Any sort of a slaying machine!
Anything with a willing mind,
And the steady arm of a man behind.

Want a weapon? Why, capture one!
Every Doodle has got a gun,
Belt, and bayonet, bright and new;
Kill a Doodle, and capture two!

Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire!
All, call! all to the feast of fire!
Mother and maiden, and child and slave,
A common triumph or a single grave.

Rockingham (Va.) Register.

 

 


ANOTHER YANKEE DOODLE.

Yankee Doodle had a mind
To whip the Southern traitors,
Because they didn’t choose to live
On codfish and potatoes,
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
And to keep his courage up
He took a drink of brandy.

Yankee Doodle said he found
By all the census figures,
That he could starve the rebels out,
If he could steal their niggers.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
And then he took another drink
Of gunpowder and brandy.

Yankee Doodle made a speech;
’Twas very full of feeling;
“I fear,” says he, “I cannot fight,
But I am good at stealing.”
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Hurrah for Lincoln, he’s the boy
To take a drop of brandy.

Yankee Doodle drew his sword,
And practised all the passes;
Come, boys, we’ll take another drink
When we get to Manassas.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
They never reached Manassas plain,
And never got the brandy.

Yankee Doodle soon found out
That Bull Run was no trifle;
For if the North knew how to steal,
The South knew how to rifle.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
’Tis very clear I took too much
Of that infernal brandy.

Yankee Doodle wheeled about,
And scampered off at full run,
And such a race was never seen
As that he made at Bull Run.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
I haven’t time to stop just now,
To take a drop of brandy.

Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame,
You’re always intermeddling;
Let guns alone, they’re dangerous things;
You’d better stick to peddling.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy.
When next I go to Bully Run
I’ll throw away the brandy.

 

 


“YE MEN OF ALABAMA!”

By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.

Air—“Ye Mariners of England.”

Ye men of Alabama,
Awake, arise, awake
And rend the coils asunder
Of this abolition snake.
If another fold he fastens—
If this final coil he plies—
In the cold clasp of hate and power,
Fair Alabama dies.

Though round your lower limbs and waist
His deadly coils I see,
Yet, yet, thank heaven! your head and arms,
And good right hand, are free;
And in that hand there glistens—
O, God! what joy to feel!
A polished blade, full sharp and keen,
Of tempered State rights’ steel.

Now, by the free-born sires
From whose brave loins ye sprung,
And by the noble mothers
At whose fond breasts ye hung!
And by your wives and daughters,
And by the ills they dread
Drive deep that good secession steel
Right through the monster’s head.

This serpent abolition
Has been coiling on for years.
We have reasoned, we have threatened,
We have begged almost with tears;
Now, away, away with union,
Since on our Southern soil
The only union left us
Is an anaconda’s coil.

Brave little South Carolina
Will strike the self-same blow,
And Florida, and Georgia,
And Mississippi, too,
And Arkansas, and Texas;
And at the death, I ween,
The head will fall beneath the blows
Of all the brave fifteen.

In this, our day of trial,
Let feuds and factions cease,
Until above this howling storm
We see the sign of peace.
Let Southern men, like brothers,
In solid phalanx stand,
And poise their spears, and lock their shields
To guard their native land.

The love that for the Union
Once in our bosoms beat,
From insult and from injury
Has turned to scorn and hate;
And the banner of secession,
To-day we lift on high,
Resolved, beneath that sacred flag,
To conquer, or to die!

Montgomery Advertiser, October, 1860.

 

 


1776-1861.

Air—“Bruce’s Address.”

Sons of the South! from hill and dale,
From mountain-top, and lowly vale,
Arouse ye now! ’tis Freedom’s wail—
“To arms! to arms!” she cries.
Strike! for freedom in the dust;
Strike! to crush proud Mammon’s lust;
Strike! remembering God is just!
Thus a freeman dies.

Southrons! who with Beauregard,
Day and night, keep watch and ward—
Southrons! whom the angels guard,
Strike for Liberty!
Smite the motley hireling throng;
Smite! as Heaven smites the wrong;
Smite! they fly before the strong,
In God and Liberty!

By your hearth-stones, by your dead,
By all the fields where patriots bled,
A freeman’s home or gory bed
Let the alternate be.
Weeping wives and mothers here,
Sisters, daughters, dear ones near—
Seas of blood for every tear,
God and Liberty!

Louder swells the battle-cry,
Flaming sword and flashing eye
Light the field when freemen die!
Death or Liberty!
Backward roll your poisonous waves,
Infidel and ruffian slaves!
’Tis Heaven’s own wrath your blindness braves—
God and Liberty!
C.
Washington, D. C.

 

 


WOULD’ST THOU HAVE ME LOVE THEE?

By Alex. B. Meek, Mobile, Ala.

Would’st thou have me love thee, dearest,
With a woman’s proudest heart,
Which shall ever hold thee nearest
Shrined in its inmost heart?
Listen, then! My country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Leave these groves of rose and myrtle;
Drop thy dreamy harp of love!
Like young Korner—scorn the turtle,
When the eagle screams above!

Dost thou pause? Let dastards dally,
Do thou for thy country fight!
’Neath her noble emblem rally—
“God, our country, and our right!”
Listen! now her trumpets calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Woman’s heart is soft and tender,
But ’tis proud and faithful too:
Shall she be her land’s defender?
Lover! Soldier! up and do!

Seize thy father’s ancient falchion,
Which once flashed as freedom’s star!
’Til sweet peace—the bow and halcyon—
Stilled the stormy strife of war.
Listen! now thy country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Sweet is love in moonlight bowers!
Sweet the altar and the flame!
Sweet the Spring-time with her flowers!
Sweeter far the patriot’s name!

Should the God who smiles above thee,
Doom thee to a soldier’s grave,
Hearts will break, but fame will love thee,
Canonized among the brave!
Listen, then! thy country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Rather would I view thee lying
On the last red field of strife,
’Mid thy country’s heroes dying,
Than become a dastard’s wife!