VIII.

If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon shall bring them gladness; To arms! etc. Exultant pride soon banish sorrow; Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. To arms! etc. Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

The Old Rifleman.

By Frank Ticknor, of Georgia.

Now bring me out my buckskin suit! My pouch and powder, too! We'll see if seventy-six can shoot As sixteen used to do.

Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright! Our trigger quick and true! As far, if not as _fine_ a sight, As long ago we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint! A real white and blue, Perhaps 'twill win the _other_ tint Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your brass percussion caps! Old "shut-pan" suits as well! There's something in the _sparks:_ perhaps There's something in the smell!

We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed! The red-skin Indian, too! We've never thought to draw a bead On Yanke-doodle-doo!

But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart! Those days are mostly done; And now we must revive the art Of shooting on the run!

If Doodle must be meddling, why, There's only this to do-- Select the black spot in his eye, And let the daylight through!

And if he doesn't like the way That Bess presents the view, He'll maybe change his mind, and stay Where the good Doodles do!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, Who kissed the Testament; To keep the Constitution? No! _To keep the Government!_

We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, And take him half and half; We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool, And _miss_ him, if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks By which a war is won; Especially how Seventy-six Took Tories on the run.

Battle Hymn.

Charleston Mercury.

Lord of Hosts, that beholds us in battle, defending The homes of our sires 'gainst the hosts of the foe, Send us help on the wings of thy angels descending, And shield from his terrors, and baffle his blow. Warm the faith of our sons, till they flame as the iron, Red-glowing from the fire-forge, kindled by zeal; Make them forward to grapple the hordes that environ, In the storm-rush of battle, through forests of steel!

Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious The martyr who falls in the front of the fight;-- That the faith which is steadfast makes ever victorious The arm which strikes boldly defending the right;-- That the zeal, which is roused by the wrongs of a nation, Is a war-horse that sweeps o'er the field as his own; And the Faith, which is winged by the soul's approbation, Is a warrior, in proof, that can ne'er be o'erthrown.

Kentucky, She Is Sold

By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.

A tear for "the dark and bloody ground," For the land of hills and caves; Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep Where the vandals tread their graves; A sigh for the loss of her honored fame, Dear won in the days of old; Her ship is manned by a foreign crew, For Kentucky, she is sold.

The bones of her sons lie bleaching on The plains of Tippecanoe, On the field of Raisin her blood was shed, As free as the summer's dew; In Mexico her McRee and Clay Were first of the brave and bold-- A change has been in her bosom wrought, For Kentucky, she is sold.

Pride of the free, was that noble State, And her banner still were so, Had the iron heel of the despot not Her prowess sunk so low; Her valleys once were the freeman's home, Her valor unbought with gold, But now the pride of her life is fled, For Kentucky, she is sold.

Her brave would once have scorned to wear The yoke that crushes her now, And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread, Would sullen have made her brow; Her spirit yet will be wakened up, And her saddened fate be told, Her gallant sons to the world yet prove That Kentucky is not sold.

Sonnet--The Ship of State.

Here lie the peril and necessity That need a race of giants--a great realm, With not one noble leader at the helm; And the great Ship of State still driving high, 'Midst breakers, on a lee shore--to the rocks. With ever and anon most terrible shocks-- The crew aghast, and fear in every eye. Yet is the gracious Providence still nigh; And, if our cause be just, our hearts be true, We shall save goodly ship and gallant crew, Nor suffer shipwreck of our liberty! It needs that as a people we arise, With solemn purpose that even fate defies, And brave all perils with unblenching eye!

Charleston Mercury.

"In His Blanket on the Ground."

By Caroline H. Gervais, Charleston.

Weary, weary lies the soldier, In his blanket on the ground With no sweet "Good-night" to cheer him, And no tender voice's sound, Making music in the darkness, Making light his toilsome hours, Like a sunbeam in the forest, Or a tomb wreathed o'er with flowers.

Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful, As his memories sadly roam To the "cozy little parlor" And the loved ones of his home; And his waking and his dreaming Softly braid themselves in one, As the twilight is the mingling Of the starlight and the sun.

And when sleep descends upon him, _Still_ his thought within his dream Is of home, and friends, and loved ones, And his busy fancies seem To be _real_, as they wander To his mother's cherished form. As she gently said, in parting "Thine in sunshine and in storm: Thine in helpless childhood's morning, And in boyhood's joyous time, Thou must leave me now--_God_ watch thee In thy manhood's ripened prime."

Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms Teeming thick within his brain, His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered, Come to greet his view again; And he hears his trembling accents, Like a clarion ringing high, "Since _not mine_ are youth and strength, boy, _Thou_ must victor prove, or die."

Or perchance he hears a whisper Of the faintest, faintest sigh, Something deeper than word-spoken, Something breathing of a tie Near his soul as bounding heart-blood: It is hers, that patient wife-- And again that parting seemeth Like the taking leave of life: And her last kiss he remembers, And the agonizing thrill, And the "_Must you go?_" and answer, "_I but know my Country's will._"

Or the little children gather, Half in wonder, round his knees; And the faithful dog, mute, watchful, In the mystic glass he sees; And the voice of song, and pictures, And the simplest homestead flowers, Unforgotten, crowd before him In the solemn midnight hours.

Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander To a sister's sweet caress, And he feels her dear lips quiver As his own they fondly press; And he hears her proudly saying, (Though sad tears are in her eyes), "Brave men fall, but live in story, _For the Hero never dies!_"

Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes, And his heart beats quicker now, As he thinks of one who gave him, Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow; And, ah, fondly he remembers He is _still_ her dearest care, Even in his star-watched slumber That she pleads for him in prayer.

Oh, the soldier _will_ be dreaming, Dreaming _often_ of us all, (When the damp earth is his pillow, And the snow and cold sleet fall), Of the dear, familiar faces, Of the cozy, curtained room, Of the flitting of the shadows In the twilight's pensive gloom.

Or when summer suns burn o'er him, Bringing drought and dread disease, And the throes of wasting fever Come his weary frame to seize-- In the restless sleep of sickness, Doomed, perchance, to martyr death, Hear him whisper "_Home_"--sweet cadence, With his quickened, labored breath.

Then God bless him, bless the soldier, And God nerve him for the fight; May He lend his arm new prowess To do battle for the right. Let him feel that while he's dreaming In his fitful slumber bound, That we're praying--_God watch o'er him In his blanket on the ground._

The Mountain Partisan.