V.

But the son of the South, if such there be, Who will shrink from the contest now, From a love of ease, or the lust of gain, Or through fear of the Yankee foe; May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand, As though it was soiled for aye, And may every woman turn her cheek From his craven lips away; May his country's curse be on his head, And may no man ever see, A gentle bride by the traitor's side, Or children about his knee.