OH! Dixie's homes are bonnie,
And Dixie's hearts are true;
And 'twas down in dear old Dixie
Our life's first breath we drew;
And there our last we'd sigh,
And for Dixie, dear old Dixie,
We'll lay us down and die.

No more upon the mountain,

No longer by the shore,

The trumpet song of Dixie

Shall shake the world no more;

For Dixie's songs are o'er,

Her glory gone on high,

And the brave who bled for Dixie
Have laid them down to die.

LOYAL.

[TO GENERAL CLEBURNE.]

THE good Lord Douglas-dead of old— In his last journeying

Wore at his heart, encased in gold,

The heart of Bruce, his king,

Through Paynim lands to Palestine—
For so his troth was plight-
To lay that gold on Christ his shrine,
Let fall what peril might.

By night and day, a weary way
Of vigil and of fight,
Where never rescue came by day,

Nor ever rest by night.

And one by one the valiant spears

Were smitten from his side,

LOYAL.

And one by one the bitter tears
Fell for the brave that died;

Till fierce and black around his track
He saw the combat close,
And counted but the single sword
Against uncounted foes.

He drew the casket from his breast,
He bared his solemn brow!
Oh, foremost of the kingliest !
Go "first in battle" now!

Where leads my Lord of Bruce, the sword
Of Douglas shall not stay!

Forward! We meet at Christ His feet

In Paradise, to-day!

The casket flashed; the battle clashed,
Thundered, and rolled away;
And dead above the heart of Bruce
The heart of Douglas lay!

Loyal! Methinks the antique mould

Is lost, or theirs alone

Who sheltered Freedom's heart of gold,
Like Douglas, with their own!

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61

THE HIELAND LASS AT LUCKNOW.

66 DINNA YE HEAR THE PIBROCH ?"

Nor alone, not alone upon Lucknow's moan
The midnight of blackness fell;

Not alone, not alone by her shattered stone,
Stood Sorrow, the sentinel.

Not a heart but beat to her watcher's feet,
Under that awful sky,

And ne'er a hearth on the darkened earth
But blazed at the slogan's cry.

For the Campbells came like the rush of flame,
With that clamor so wild and high,

That its clarion breath in the ears of Death
Might have trembled with victory.

Here's a brimming can to the Highlandman,
And the Bengal bolt he hurled !

Here's a brimming glass to the Hieland lass
Who echoed it round the world!

"HONOR THE BRAVE."

"HONOR THE BRAVE."

UP in the Indian hills

Of the Cutchee tribe 'tis said That when a chieftain dies

They bind his wrist with thread: Green for the very brave;

But for the bravest, red.

One time in Indian wars,

A squad of Englishmen Charged sixty Cutcheears

So valiantly that, when

The fight was done, of ten, not one
Ever came back again.

Long after, when the winds.

Their skeletons had kissed,

A squad of Englishmen

Looked up their missing list,

And found them dead, with each a thread

Of scarlet on his wrist.

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