From War Songs and poems of the Southern Confederacy. Author unknown.'Twas a goodly boon that out fathers gave,And fits but ill to be held by the slave;And sad were the thought, if one of our bandShould give up the hope of so fair a land.But the hour has come, and the times that triedThe souls of men in our days of pride,Return once more, and now for the brave,To merit the boon which our fathers gave.And if there be one base spirit who standsNow, in our peril, with folded hands,Let his grave at once in the soil we wrought,With the sword with which his old father fought.An oath sublime should the freeman take,Still braving the fight and the felon stake;The oath that his sires brought over the sea,When they pleged their swords to Liberty!
'Twas a goodly oath, and in Heaven's own sight,They battled and bled in behalf of the right;'Twas hallowed by God with the holiest sign,And seal'd with the blood of your sires and mine.We cannot forget and we dare not forgo,The holy duty to them that we owe,The duty that pledges the soul of the sonTo keep the freedom his sire hath won.To suffer no proud transgressor to spoilOne right of our homes, or one foot of our soil,One privilege pluck from our keeping, or dareUsurp one blessing 'tis fit that we share!Art ready for this, dear brother, who stillKeep'st Washington's bones upon Vernon's hill?Art ready for this, dear brother whose ear.Should ever the voices of Mecklenburg hear?Thou art ready, I know, brother nearest my heart,Son of Eutaw and Ashley, to do thy part;The sword and the rifle are bright in thy hands,And wait but the word for the flashing of brands!And thou, by Savannah's broad valleys-and thouWhere the black warrior murmurs in echoes the vow;And thou, youngest sons of our sires, who rovesWhere Apalachicola glides through her groves.Nor shall Tennessee pause, when like voice from the steep,The great South shall summon her sons from their sleep;Nor Kentucky be slow, when our trumpets shall call,To tear down that rifle that hangs on the wall!Oh, sound, to awaken the dead from their graves,The will that would thrust us from place for our slaves,That by fraud which lacks courage, and plea that lacks truth,Would rob us of right without reason or ruth.
Dost thou hearken, brave Creole, as fearless as strong,Nor rouse thee to combat the infamous wrong?Ye hear it, I know, in the depth of your souls,Valiant race, through whose valley the great river rolls.At last ye are wakened, all rising at length,In the passion of pride, in the fulness of strength;And now let the struggle begin which shall see,If the son, like the sire, is fit to be free.We are sworn to the State, from our fathers that came,To welcome the ruin, but never the shame;To yield not a foot of our soil, nor a right,While the soul and the sword are still fit for the fight.Then, brothers, your hands and your hearts, while we drawThe bright sword of right, on the charter of law;Here the record was writ by our fathers, and here,To keep, with the sword, that old record, we sweare.Let those who defile and deface it, be sure,No longer their wrong or their fraud we endure;We will scatter in scorn every link of the chain,With which they would fetter our free souls in vain.How goodly and bright were its links at the first!How loathly and foul, in their usage accurst!We had worn it in pride while it honor'd the brave,But we rend it, when only grown fit for the slave.
