REBELS.

Rebels! 'tis a holy name!

The name our fathers bore, When battling in the cause of Right, Against the tyrant in his might, In the dark days of yore.

Rebels! 'tis our family name!

Our father, Washington, Was the arch-rebel in the fight, And gave the name to us--a right Of father unto son.

Rebels! 'tis our given name!

Our mother, Liberty, Received the t.i.tle with her fame, In days of grief, of fear, and shame, When at her breast were we.

Rebels! 'tis our sealed name!

A baptism of blood!

The war--aye, and the din of strife-- The fearful contest, life for life-- The mingled crimson flood.

Rebels! 'tis a patriot's name!

In struggles it was given; We bore it then when tyrants raved, And through their curses 'twas engraved On the doomsday-book of heaven.

Rebels! 'tis our fighting name!

For peace rules o'er the land, Until they speak of craven woe-- Until our rights receive a blow, From foe's or brother's hand.

Rebels! 'tis our dying name!

For, although life is dear, Yet, freemen born and freemen bred, We'd rather live as freemen dead, Than live in slavish fear.

Then call us rebels, if you will-- We glory in the name; For bending under unjust laws, And swearing faith to an unjust cause, We count a greater shame.

_Atlanta Confederacy._

THE HEART OF LOUISIANA.

BY HARRIET STANTON.

Oh! let me weep, while o'er our land Vile discord strides, with sullen brow, And drags to earth, with ruthless hand, The flag no tyrant's power could bow!

Trailed in the dust, inglorious laid, While one by one her stars retire, And pride and power pursue the raid, That bids our liberty expire.

Aye, let me weep! for surely Heaven In anger views the unholy strife; And angels weep that thus is riven The tie that gave to Freedom life.

I can not shout--I will not sing Loud paeans o'er a severed tie; And, draped in woe, in tears I fling Our State's new flag to greet the sky.

I can but choose, while senseless zeal And lawless hate are clothed with power, The bitter cup; but still I feel The sadness of this parting hour!

I know that thousand hearts will bleed While loud huzzas the welkin rend; The thoughtless crowd will shout, Secede!

But ah! will this the conflict end?

Oh! let me weep and prostrate lie Low at the footstool of my G.o.d; I can not breathe one note of joy, While yet I feel His chastening rod.

Sure, we have as a nation sinned-- Let every heart its folly own, And sackcloth, as a girdle, bind, And mourn our glorious Union gone!

Sisters, farewell! You know not half The pain your pride, injustice, give; You spurn our cause, and lightly laugh, And hope no more the wrong shall live.

_New Orleans Delta._

SOUTHERN SONG OF FREEDOM.

AIR--"_The Minstrel's Return_."

A nation has sprung into life Beneath the bright Cross of the South; And now a loud call to the strife Rings out from the shrill bugle's mouth.

They gather from mora.s.s and mountain, They gather from prairie and mart, To drink, at young Liberty's fountain, The nectar that kindles the heart.

Then, hail to the land of the pine!

The home of the n.o.ble and free; A palmetto wreath we'll entwine Round the altar of young Liberty!

Our flag, with its cl.u.s.ter of stars, Firm fixed in a field of pure blue, All shining through red and white bars, Now gallantly flutters in view.

The stalwart and brave round it rally, They press to their lips every fold, While the hymn swells from hill and from valley, "Be, G.o.d, with our Volunteers bold."

Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.

The invaders rush down from the North, Our borders are black with their hordes; Like wolves for their victims they flock, While whetting their knives and their swords.

Their watchword is "Booty and Beauty,"

Their aim is to steal as they go; But Southrons act up to your duty, And lay the foul miscreants low.

Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.

The G.o.d of our fathers looks down And blesses the cause of the just; His smile will the patriot crown Who tramples his chains in the dust.

March, march Southrons! shoulder to shoulder, One heart-throb, one shout for the cause; Remember--the world's a beholder, And your bayonets are fixed at your doors!

Then, hail to the land of the pine!

The home of the n.o.ble and free; A palmetto wreath we'll entwine Round the altar of young Liberty.

J. H. H.

THERE'S NOTHING GOING WRONG.

_Dedicated to "Old Abe."_

There's a general alarm, The South's begun to arm, And every hill and glen Pours forth its warrior men; Yet, "There's nothing going wrong,"

Is the burden of my song.