134. from the South to the North.
by C. L. S.
There is no union, when the heartsThat once were bound together,
Have felt the stroke that coldly parts
All kindly ties forever.
Then, oh! your cruel hands draw back,
And let us be divided
In peace, since it is proved we lack
The grace to live united.
We cannot bear your scorn and pride,
Your malice and your taunting,
That have for years our patience tried--
Your hypocritic canting.
We will not bow our necks beneath
The yoke that you decree us;
We will be free, though only death
Should have the power to free us!
Oh, Southern sons are bold to dare,,
And Southern hearts courageous;
Nor meekly will they longer bear
Oppression so outrageous.
And you shall feel our honest wrath,
If hearts so cold can feel;
Shall meet us in your Southern path,
And prove our Southern steel.
We ask no favor at your hand--
No gifts,,and no affection--
But only peace upon our land,
And none of your protection.
We ask you now, henceforth, to know
We are a separate nation;
And be assured, we'll fully show
We scorn your “proclamation.”
We were not first to break the peace
That blessed our happy land;
We loved the quiet, calm, and ease,
Too well to raise a hand,
Till fierce oppression stronger grew,
And bitter were your sneers--
Then to our land we must be true,
Or show a coward's fears!
We loved our banner while it waved
An emblem of our Union;
The fiercest danger we had braved
To guard that sweet communion.
But when it proved that “stripes” alone
Were for our sunny South,
And all the “stars” in triumph shone
Above the chilly North;
Then — not till then — our voices rose
In one tumultuous wave--
We will the tyranny oppose,
Or find a bloody grave!
Another flag shall lead our hosts
To battle on the plain;
The “rebels” will defy your boasts,
And prove your sneering vain!
There is no danger we could fear--
No hardship or privation,
To free the land we hold so dear,
From tyrannous dictation.
Blockade her ports,--her seas shall swell
Beneath your ships of war,
And every breeze in anger tell
Your tyranny afar.
Her wealth may fail — her commerce droop
With every foreign nation;
But mark you, if her pride shall stoop,
Or her determination!
The products of her fields will be
For food and raiment too;--
From mountain cliff to rolling sea,
Her children will be true.
Her banner may not always wave
On victory's fickle breath;
The young, the chivalrous and brave,
May feel the hand of death;
But, when her gallant sons have died,
Her daughters will remain--
Nor crushed will be her Southern pride,
Till they too all are slain!
Staunton, Va., May 7, 1861.
--Richmond Whig, May 13.
