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134. from the South to the North.

by C. L. S.
There is no union, when the hearts
     That 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.

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