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A Ballad for the Young South.


By Joseph Brenan.

‘ Men of the South! our men are up
In fierce and grim army;
Their stable banner laps the air--
An insult to the day!
The States of Cromwell rise again
In sanctimonious hordes,
Hiding behind the garb of fence
A million ruthless swords.
From North, from East and West they seek
The same disastrous goal,
With Christ upon the lying lip,
And Satan in the soul;
Mocking, with ancient Shibboleth,
All wise and just restraints--
"To the Saints of Heaven was Empire given,
And we alone are Saints."

Men of the South! look up — behold
The deep and sullen gloom
Which darkens over your sunny land
With thunder in its womb!
Are ye so blind ye cannot see
The omens in the say?
Are ye so deaf ye cannot hear
The whips and scorn of men,
Who hide the heart of Titus Oates,
Beneath the words of Penn?
Are ye so base, that foot to foot,
ye will not gladly stand
For land and life, for child and wife,
With naked steel in hand?

A preacher to the pulpit comes,
And calls upon the crowd,
For Southern creeds, and Southern hopes,
To weave a bloody shroud.
Besides the prayer book on his desk
The bullet mould is seen,
And near the Bible's golden clasp
The dagger's stately sheen;
The simple tale of Bethlehem
No more is fondly told,
For every priestly surplice drags
Too heavily with gold;
The blessed Cross of Calvary
Becomes a sign of Bael,
Like that which played when Chieftains raised
The clansmen of the Gael!

"Down with the laws our fathers made!
They bind our hearts no more;
Down with the stately edifice
Cemented with their gore!
Forget the legends of our race--
Effect and it wise decree--
Americans must kneel as slaves,
Till Africans are free!.
Oar on the mere Caucasian blood
O. Teaton, Celt or Gaul--
The stream which springs from Niger's source
Must triumph over all"
So speaks solemn Senator
Within these halls to-day
Which echoed erst the thunder burst
Of Webster and of Clay!

Hark to the howling demagogue.--
A fierce and ravenous pack--
With nostrils prone, and bark and bay,
Which run upon our track!
The waddling bull-pup, Hale — the cur
Of Massachusetts breed--
The morning mongrel, sparsely crossed
With Puritanic seed--
The Boston bards who join the chase
With genuine beagle chime,
And Summer, snarling poodle pet
Of virgins past their prime;
And even the sluts of Women's Rights--
Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, all--
Are yelping shrill against us still,
And hunger for our fall.

Look North, look East, look West--the scene
Is blackening all around--
The Negro Cordon, year by year,
Is fast and faster bound;
The black line crossed — the sable flag
Surrounded by a host--
Our out-past forced, our sentinels
Asleep upon their posts;
Our brethren's life-blood flowing free
To state the Kansas soil,
And said in vain, while pious thieves
Are fattening on our soil,
Look North, look West--the ominous sky
Is moonless, starless black.
And from the East comes hurrying up
A sweeping thunder-rack!

Men of the South! ye have no kin
With s of feets;
You are not bound by breed or birth
To Massachusetts rules
A hundred actions gave their blood
To feed those beautiful springs,
Which hear the seed of Jacques Bonhomme
With that of Bourbin kings.
The Danish added and sailor-craft,
The Huguenotic will,
The Norman grace and chivalry,
The German steady skill;
The fiery Celtic impassioned thought
Inspire the Southern heart;
Who have no room for hight-gloom,
Or pious plunder's art!

Sons of the brave! the time has come
To bow the haughty crest,
Or stand alone, despite the threats
Of North, or East or West!
The hour has come for manly deeds,
And not for puling words
The hour has passed for platform prate--
It is the time for swords!
And by the fame of John Calhoun,
To honest truth be true,
And by old Jackson's Iron will,
Now do what ye can do!
By all ye love by all ye hope,
Be resolute and proud,
And make your flag a symbol high
Of triumph, or a shroud!

Men of the South! look up — behold
The deep and sullen gloom,
Which darkens o'er your sunny land
With thunder in its womb!
Are ye so blind ye cannot see
The omens in the sky?
Are ye so deaf ye cannot hear
The tramp of foemen night?
Are ye so dull ye will endure
The whips and scorns of men,
Who hide the heart of Pitus Oates
Beneath the words of Penn!
Are ye so base that, foot to foot,
Ye will not gladly stand
For land and life, for child and wife,
With naked steel in hand?

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