38. Songs of the Rebels.
The Marseilles Hymn. Translated and Adapted as an Ode.
by E. F. Porter, of Alabama.
Sons of the South, arise I awake! be free!Behold! the day of Southern glory comes
See where the blood-stained flag of tyranny
Pollutes the air that breathes around your homes
Rise! Southern men, from villages and farms
Cry vengeance! Oh! shall worse than pirate slaves
Strangle your children in their mothers' arms,
And spit on dust that fills your fathers' graves?
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood; [blood.
March on! let every vale overflow with the invaders'
[35] What would these men, whose lives black treachery stains--
Conspirators, to plunder long endeared?
For whom these vile, these ignominious chains?
These fetters, for our brother's hands prepared?
Sons of the South, for us! Oh! bitter thought!
What transports should our burning souls inspire!
Shall Southern men, by mercenaries bought,
Be sold to vassalage, from son to sire?
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
What! shall this grovelling race who cringe for gold,
Make laws for Southern men, on Southern soil?
Shall these degenerate hordes, to avarice sold,
Crush freedom's sons, and freedom's altars spoil?
Great God! oh! by these iron-shackled hands,
Ne'er shall our necks beneath their yokes be led.
Of despots such as these, shall Southern bands
Ne'er own the mastery, till every heart is dead.
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
Tremble, O tyrants! and you, perfidious tools,
Of every race and party long the scorn!
Tremble, ye base, ye parricidal fools,
The doom of treachery is already born.
All Southern men are heroes in the fray;
If fall they must, o'erpowered in the field,
Long as the race endures, each child for aye
Shall from his cradle strike the sounding shield.
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
Sons of the South! magnanimous in war,
Strike or withhold, as honor bids, your blows.
Spare, if you will, those victims from afar,
Who, ignorant of liberty, become your foes.
But for these bastards of a free-born bed,
These parasites, in freedom's arms caressed,
These beasts, by sin and spoil arid rapine bred,
Who dig for blood, deep in their mothers' breast,
To arms! sons of the South! Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
O sacred love of country! For the South,
Come, brave avengers, rush to every field.
Let cries of “Liberty,” from every mouth
Sound the alarm, till the base traitors yield.
Under our glorious flag, let victory
Respond to freedom's call. Wipe off the stain
Of the invaders' feet. Dying, they will see
Thy triumph, and the land redeemed again.
To arms! sons of the South. Come like a mountain-flood;
March on! let every vale o'erflow with the invaders' blood.
--Nashville Gazette, Feb. 4.
