THE GOOD OLD CAUSE.

219

The Good Old Cause.

BY JOHN D. PHELAN, MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA.

I.

HUZZA! huzza! for the Good Old Cause,

'Tis a stirring sound to hear,
For it tells of rights and liberties
Our fathers bought so dear;
It brings up the Jersey prison ship,

The spot where Warren fell,

And the scaffold which echoes the dying words,

Of murdered Hayne's farewell.

II.

The Good Old Cause! it is still the same

Though age upon age may roll;

"Tis the cause of the right against the wrong,

Burning in each generous soul;

'Tis the cause of all who claim to live

As freemen on Freedom's sod;

Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons,
By Tyranny's heel down-trod

III.

And whoever burns with a holy zeal,

To behold his country free,

And would sooner see her baptized in blood
Than to bend the suppliant knee,
Must agree to follow her White-cross flag,

Where the storms of battle roll,

A soldier a SOLDIER! with arms in his hands,

And the love of the South in his soul!

IV.

Come one, come all, at your country's call,
Let none remain behind,

But those too young and those too old,
The feeble, the halt, the blind;
Let every man, whether rich or poor,
Who can carry a knapsack or gun,
Repair to the ranks of our Southern host,
Till the cause of the South is won.

V.

But the son of the South, if such there be,
Who will shrink from the contest now,
From a love of ease, or the lust of gain,
Or through fear of the Yankee foe,
May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand
As though it was soiled for aye,
And may every woman turn her cheek

From his craven lips away;

May his country's curse be on his head,

And may no man ever see

A gentle bride by the traitor's side,

Or children about his knee.

VI.

Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause,

'Tis a stirring sound to hear;

For it tells of rights and liberties,

Our fathers bought so dear;

It summons our braves from their bloody graves, To receive our fond applause,

And bids us tread in the steps of those

Who died in the Good Old Cause.

THE SOLDIER'S PRAYER.

221

The Soldier's Prayer.

BY MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON, VIRGINIA.

FATHER! fold thine arms of pity,
Round us as we meekly bow;
Never have we kneeled before Thee,
With such burdened hearts as now!

Joy has been our constant portion,
And if ill must now befall,

With a filial acquiescence,

We would thank thee for it all.

In the path of present duty,
With thy hand to lean upon,
Questioning not the hidden future,
May we walk serenely on.

For this holy, happy home-love,
Purest bliss that crowns my life,
For these tender, trusting children,—
For this fondest, faithful wife,—

Here I pour my full thanksgiving;
And, when heart is torn from heart,
Be our sweetest tryst-word "Mizpah,"-
Watch betwixt us while we part!

And if never round this altar,
We should kneel as heretofore,-
If these arms in benediction,

Fold my precious ones no more,—

Thou who in her direst anguish,
Sooth'dst thy mother's lonely lot,
In thy still unchanged compassion,
Son of man! forsake them not!

FROM BEECHENBROOK.

The Chaplain's Prayer.

BY MRS. MABGARET J. PRESTON, VIRGINIA.

THE Chaplain advances with reverend face, Where lies a felled oak, he has chosen his place; On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays, And they bow on the grass as he silently prays.

Father, as we bend the knee,
May we feel thy presence nigh,-
Nothing 'twixt our souls and thee!

Lay their weight on every breast;
And each heart before thee knows,
That it sighs for inward rest.

THE CHAPLAIN'S PRAYER.

Thou canst lift this weight away,

Thou canst bid these sighings cease;
Thou canst walk these waves and say
To their restless tossings--"Peace !"

We are tempted:-snares abound,

Sin its treacherous meshes weaves;
And temptations strew us round,

Thicker than the Autumn leaves.

Midst these perils, mark our path,
Thou who art the life, the way;

Rend each fatal wile that hath
Power to lead our souls away.

Prince of Peace! we follow Thee!
Plant thy banner in our sight;

Let thy shadowy legions be

Guards around our tents to-night."

FROM BEECHENBROOK.

223

God Save the Southern Land.

A HYMN.

Respectfully Dedicated to Mrs. Joshua Peterkin, of Richmond.

BY S. FRANCIS CAMERON, MARYLAND.

Он, let the cry awaken,

From every hero-band,

And still the prayer re-echo,

God bless the Southern land.