_Charleston Courier._

JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY.

BY DE G.

We're free from Yankee despots, We've left the foul mud-sills, Declared for e'er our freedom-- We'll keep it spite of ills.

Bring forth your sc.u.m and rowdies, Thieves, vagabonds, and all; March down your Seventh Regiment, Battalions great and small.

We'll meet you in Virginia, A Southern battle-field, Where Southern men will never To Yankee foemen yield.

Equip your Lincoln cavalry, Your NEGRO _light_-brigade, Your hodmen, bootblacks, tinkers, And sc.u.m of every grade.

Pretended love for negroes Incites you to the strife; Well, come each Yankee white man, And take a negro wife.

You'd make fit black companions, Black heart joined to black skin; Such _unions_ would be glorious-- They'd make the Devil grin.

Our freedom is our panoply-- Come on, you base _black_-guards, We'll snuff you like wax-candles, Led by our Beauregards.

P. G. T. B. is not alone, Men like him with him fight; G.o.d's providence is o'er us, _He_ will protect the right.

THE BLUE c.o.c.kADE.

BY MARY WALSINGHAM CREAN.

G.o.d be with the laddie, who wears the blue c.o.c.kade!

He's gone to fight the battles of our darling Southern land; He was true to old Columbia, till more sacred ties forbade-- Till 'twere treason to obey her, when he took his sword in hand; And G.o.d be with the laddie, who was true in heart and hand, To the voice of old Columbia, till she wronged his native land!

He buckled on his knapsack--his musket on his breast-- And donned the plumed bonnet--sword and pistol by his side; Then his weeping mother kissed him, and his aged father bless'd, And he pinned the floating ribbon to his gallant plume of pride.

And G.o.d be with the ribbon, and the floating plume of pride!

They have gone where duty called them, and may glory them betide!

He would not soil his honor, and he would not strike a blow, For he loved the aged Union, and he breath'd no taunting word; He would dare Columbia, till she swore herself his foe-- Forged the chains for freemen--when he buckled on his sword.

And G.o.d be with the freeman, when he buckled on his sword!

He lives or dies for duty, and he yields no inch of sward.

The foes they come with thunder, and with blood and fire arrayed, And they swear that we shall own them--they the masters, we the slaves; But there's many a gallant laddie, who wears a blue c.o.c.kade, Will show them what it is to dare the blood of Southern braves!

And G.o.d be with the banner of those gallant Southern braves!

They may n.o.bly die as freemen--they can never live as slaves!

THE LEGION OF HONOR.

BY H. L. FLASH.

Why are we forever speaking Of the warriors of old?

Men are fighting all around us, Full as n.o.ble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving, Mind and muscle, heart and soul, With the reins of judgment keeping Pa.s.sions under full control.

n.o.ble hearts are beating boldly As they ever did on earth; Swordless heroes are around us, Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses, Building up the purer laws, Scattering the dust of ages, Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no "right divine"

In kings and princes from the rest; In their creed he is the n.o.blest Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them-- Diamond stars they laugh to scorn-- Each will wear a "Cross of Honor"

On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom-- Like the n.o.ble Hebrew youth, Striking down Goliath's error With the G.o.d-blessed stone of truth.

Marshaled 'neath the Right's broad banner, Forward rush these volunteers, Beating olden wrong away From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them, But the _coming_ times will say (Speaking of the slandered present), "There _were_ heroes in that day."

Why are we then idly lying On the roses of our life, While the n.o.ble-hearted struggle In the world redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion, Ever foremost in the fray-- Battling in the name of Progress For the n.o.bler, purer day.

"WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID."

BY JOHN M'LEMORE, OF S. C.

Full many a year in the village church, Above the world have I made my home; And happier there, than if I had hung High up in air in a golden dome; For I have tolled When the slow hea.r.s.e rolled Its burden sad to my door; And each echo that woke, With the solemn stroke, Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.

I know the great bell of the city spire Is a far prouder one than such as I; And its deafening stroke, compared with mine, Is thunder compared with a sigh; But the shattering note Of his brazen throat, As it swells on the Sabbath air, Far oftener rings For other things Than a call to the house of prayer.

Brave boy, I tolled when your father died, And you wept when my tones pealed loud; And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame Your mother dear lay in her shroud: And I rang in sweet tone The angels might own, When your sister you gave to your friend; Oh! I rang with delight, On that sweet summer night, When they vowed they would love to the end!

But a base foe comes from the regions of crime, With a heart all hot with the flames of h.e.l.l; And the tones of the bell you have loved so long No more on the air shall swell: For the people's chief, With his proud belief That his country's cause is G.o.d's own, Would change the song, The hills have rung To the thunder's harsher tone.

Then take me down from the village church, Where in peace so long I have hung; But I charge you, by all the loved and lost, _Remember the songs I have sung_.

Remember the mound Of holy ground Where your father and mother lie And swear by the love For the dead above To beat your foul foe, or die.