Six States already out, Beckon others on the route; And the cry is "Still they come!"

From the Southern sunny home; Yet, "There's nothing going wrong,"

Is the burden of my song.

There's a wail in the land, From a want-stricken band; And "Food! Food!" is the cry: "Give us work or we die!"

Yet, "There's nothing going wrong,"

Is the burden of my song.

The st.u.r.dy farmer doth complain Of low prices for his grain; And the miller, with his flour, Murmurs the dullness of the hour.

Yet, "There's nothing going wrong,"

Is the burden of my song.

The burly butcher in the mart, He, too, also takes his part; And the merchant in his store Hears no creaking of his door.

But, "There's nothing going wrong,"

Is the burden of my song.

Stagnation is everywhere; On the water, in the air, In the shop, in the forge, On the mount, in the gorge; With the anvil, with the loom, In the store and counting-room; In the city, in the town, With Mr. Smith, with Mr. Brown!

And "yet there's nothing wrong,"

Is the burden of my song.

A. M. W.

NEW ORLEANS, _March 4, 1861_.

MARYLAND.

BY JAMES R. RANDALL.

The despot's heel is on thy sh.o.r.e, Maryland!

His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland!

Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to thy wand'ring son's appeal, Maryland!

My mother State! to thee I kneel, Maryland!

For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland!

Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland!

Remember Carroll's sacred trust; Remember Howard's warlike thrust,-- And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland!

Come! with thy panoplied array, Maryland!

With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, With Watson's blood, at Monterey, With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, Maryland! My Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland!

Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland!

Come! to thine own heroic throng, That stalks with Liberty along, And give a new _Key_ to thy song, Maryland! My Maryland!

Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland!

Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland!

She meets her sisters on the plain: "_Sic semper_," 'tis the proud refrain, That baffles minions back amain, Maryland!

Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland!

But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland!

But lo! there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek-- Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland! My Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland!

Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland!

Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland!

The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum, Maryland!

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb: Huzza! she spurns the Northern sc.u.m!

She breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come!

Maryland! My Maryland!

POINTE COUPEE, _April 26, 1861_.

A CRY TO ARMS.

BY HENRY TIMROD.

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!

Ho! dwellers in the vales!

Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales!

Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade!

The despot roves your fairest lands; And, till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armed hands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!

Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain, And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!

Come, with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife: He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life.

The arm that drives its unbought blows, With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn!

Does any falter? Let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies.

Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch.

What hope, O G.o.d! would not grow warm, When thoughts like these give cheer?

The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm-tree fear?

No! rather let its branches court The rack that sweeps the plain, And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain!

Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!