O JOHNNY BULL, MY JO JOHN.

AIR--"_John Anderson, my Jo_."

It was stated in the Richmond "Dispatch" during the last days of December, 1861, that a gentleman, just from the West Indies, had said that there were eighty-seven British ships-of-war lying in those waters. This statement gave rise to the following imitation of an old song:

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! I wonder what you mean, By sending all these frigates out, commissioned by the Queen; You'll frighten off the Yankees, John, and why should you do so?

Best catch and sink, or burn them all, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Yankee hands profane, Were laid in wanton insult upon the lion's mane, He roared so loud and long, John, they quickly let him go, And sank upon their trembling knees, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John! when Lincoln first began To try his hand at war, John, you were a peaceful man; But now your blood is up, John, and well the Yankees know, You play the ---- when you start, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

O Johnny Bull, my Jo John, let's take the field together, And hunt the Yankee Doodles home, in spite of wind and weather, And ere a twelvemonth roll around, to Boston we will go, And eat our Christmas dinner there, O Johnny Bull, my Jo!

"SOUTHRONS."

BY CATHERINE M. WARFIELD.

You can never win them back-- Never! never!

Though they perish on the track Of your endeavor; Though their corses strew the earth, That SMILED upon their birth, And blood pollutes each hearth- Stone forever!

They have risen to a man, Stern and fearless; Of your curses and your ban They are careless.

Every hand is on its knife, Every gun is primed for strife, Every PALM contains a life, High and peerless!

_You have no such blood as theirs_ 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!

They 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, So that vultures may be fed In our regions!

But the battle to the strong Is not given, When the Judge of Right and Wrong Sits in heaven; And the G.o.d of David still Guides the pebble with _His will_; There are giants yet to kill-- Wrongs unshriven!

"NIL DESPERANDUM."

_Inscribed to our Soldier-boys_,

BY ADA ROSE.

The Yankee hosts are coming, With their glittering rows of steel, And sharp, from many a skirmish, Comes the rifle's ringing peal, Warning you how very near The Northern "Hessians" are, With their overwhelming forces; But ne'er must you despair.

For though they come on, surging Like a mighty rolling sea, They're _hired_ by their master, "Abe"-- _You_ fight for _Liberty_.

So bravely you must meet them, And face the cannon's blare; Your watchword, "Victory or Death,"

And never you despair.

True, the cloud is dark and lowering, But behind a cheerful ray, And the night is always darkest Just before the break of day.

Have faith; the cloud will soon disperse, For the light is surely there; The day will soon be dawning, So never you despair.

Go, emulate brave Washington, Who led a little band, To drive the proud oppressors From off their happy land.

The enemy outnumbered, By far, the "rebels" there; But bravely they encountered them, Nor yielded to despair.

'Tis said that "rebel" chieftain, Ere they sought the battle's fray, Would ask our Heavenly Father To be their shield and stay; And then they'd march with confidence, Well knowing He'd be there; And that must be the reason why They never did despair.

Likewise, if you will ask Him, He'll meet you on the field, To be a guard about you, And your support and shield; The foe shall fly before you, As you shout your victory there; Then don't forget to plead with Him, And never to despair.

PINE BLUFF, ARK.

ADDRESS OF THE WOMEN TO THE SOUTHERN TROOPS.

BY MRS. J. T. H. CROSS.

AIR--"_Bruce's Address_."

Southern men, unsheathe the sword, Inland and along the board; Backward drive the Northern horde-- Rush to Victory!

Let your banners kiss the sky, Be "The Right" your battle cry!

Be the G.o.d of Battles nigh-- Crown you in the fight!

Pressing back the tears that start, We behold your hosts depart, Saying, with heroic heart, Clothe your arms with might!

Lower the proud oppressor's crest!

Or, if he should prove the best, Dead, not dishonored, rest On the field of blood!

We--may G.o.d so give us grace!-- Sons will rear, to take your place; Strong the foemen's steel to face-- Strong in heart and hand!

Death your serried ranks may sweep, Proud shall be the tears we weep-- Sacredly our hearts shall keep Memory of your deeds!

Though our land be left forlorn, Spirit of the Southron-born Northern rage shall laugh to scorn-- Northern hosts defy.

He that last is doomed to die Shall, with his expiring sigh, Send aloft the battle-cry, "G.o.d defend the Right!"

THE CAVALIERS OF DIXIE.