They throng to the martial summons, To the loud, triumphant strain; And the dear bright eyes of long-dead friends Come to the heart again!
They come with the ringing bugle, And the deep drum's mellow roar; Till the soul is faint with longing For the hands we clasp no more!
Oh, band in the pine-woods, cease! Or the heart will melt in tears, For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, And the voices of old years.
Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, The pride of the golden sun! 'Tis the fairest land of flowers The eye e'er looked upon.
Sing of her orange and myrtle, That glitter like gems above; Sing of her dark-eyed maidens As fair as a dream of love.
Sing of her flowing rivers-- How musical their sound! Sing of her dark-green forests, The Indian hunting-ground.
Sing of the noble nation, Fierce struggling to be free; Sing of the brave who barter Their lives for liberty!
Weep for the maid and matron Who mourn their loved ones slain; Sigh for the light departed, Never to shine again.
'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping, That never will comfort know; 'Tis the wail of desolation, The breaking of hearts in woe!
Ah! the blood of Abel crieth For vengeance from the sod! 'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted In the face of an angry God!
Oh! brother of the Northland, We plead from our father's grave; We strike for our homes and altars, He fought to build and save!
A smoldering fire is burning, The Southern heart is steeled-- Perhaps 'twill break in dying, But never will it yield.
Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking Than live with arms folded the slave of the North.
Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.
Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you, When the fierce bear was cut down in his track-- If at that moment she never deceived you, Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.
Then come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking Than live with arms folded the slave of the North.