Desert us now, Kentucky boys, And on the future dawning, Thy faded glory scarce will streak The first gray light of morning.

Heed not the starveling crew, who hang Upon the blue Ohio, A craven heart each traitor bears, And dare not venture nigher.

And should they--know ye not the blood Within our full hearts beaming?-- At once ten thousand scabbards fly, Ten thousand blades are gleaming!

Then, waken from thy nerveless sleep, Gird on thy well-tried armor, And soon the braggart North will feel That Right has strength to harm her.

Kentucky boys and girls have we-- From us ye may not take them; Sad-hearted will ye give them up, And for the foe forsake them?

Oh, Tennessee, twin-sister, grieves, To take thy hand at parting, And feel that from its farewell grasp A brother's blood is starting.

It must not be! Kentucky, come!

Virginia loudly calls thee; And Maryland defenseless stands, To share what fate befalls thee.

Come ere the tyrant's chain is forged, From out the war-cloud looming; Come ere thy palsied knee is bent, To hopeless ruin dooming.

A POEM WHICH NEEDS NO DEDICATION.

BY JAMES BARRON HOPE.

What! you hold yourselves as freemen?

Tyrants love just such as ye!

Go! abate your lofty manner!

Write upon the State's old banner, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Sink before the Federal altars, Each one, low on bended knee; Pray, with lips that sob and falter, This prayer from a coward's Psalter: "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

But you hold that quick repentance In the Northern mind will be; This repentance comes no sooner Than the robber's did at Luna.[16]

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented him; the Bishop Gave him absolution free-- Poured upon him sacred chrism In the pomp of his baptism "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented; then, he sickened-- Was he pining for the sea?

In extremis he was shriven, The Viatic.u.m was given; "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Then the old cathedral's choir Took the plaintive minor key, With the Host upraised before him, Down the marble aisle they bore him, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

And the Bishop, and the Abbot, And the monks of high degree, Chanting praise to the Madonna, Came to do him Christian honor.

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Now, the Miserere's cadence Takes the voices of the sea;-- As the music-billows quiver See the dead freebooter shiver!

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Is it that those intonations Thrill him thus from head to knee?

So! his cerements burst asunder!

'Tis a sight of fear and wonder!

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Fierce he stands before the Bishop-- Dark as shape of Destinie!

Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling!

Down the prelate goes, dead--falling; "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

HASTING lives! He was but feigning!

What! Repentant? Never he!

Down he smites the priests and friars, And the city lights with fires.

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Ah! the children and the maidens, 'Tis in vain they strive to flee!

Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding Is no place for tearful pleading.

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine?"

Louder swells the frightful tumult; Pallid Death holds reverie; Dies the organ's mighty clamor, By the Norseman's iron hammer.

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

And they thought that he repented!

Had they nailed him to a tree, He had not deserved their pity, And--they had not lost their city.

"A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

There's a moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be: If we trust the North's relenting, We will shriek, too late, repenting, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

G.o.d SAVE THE SOUTH.

BY REUBEN NASON.

G.o.d bless our Southern land!

Guard our beloved land!

G.o.d save the South!

Make us victorious, Happy and glorious; Spread Thy shield over us; G.o.d save the South!

G.o.d of our sires, arise!

Scatter our enemies, Who mock Thy truth; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks: In Thee our faith we fix; G.o.d save the South!

In the fierce battle-hour, With Thine almighty power, a.s.sist our youth; May they, with victory crowned, Joining our choral round, With heart and voice resound, "G.o.d save the South!"

ON! SOUTHRON, ON!

BY GEN. M. B. LAMAR.