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.”

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.

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!

J. J. H.