The Barefooted Boys.

By the sword of St. Michael
The old dragon through!

By David his sling,

And the giant he slew!
Let us write us a rhyme,
As a record to tell,

How the South on a time
Stormed the ramparts of hell

With her barefooted boys!

Had the South in her border

A hero to spare,

Or a heart at her altar,

Lo! its life's blood was there!

And the black battle-grime

Might never disguise The smile of the South,

On the lips and the eyes

Of her barefooted boys!

There's a grandeur in fight,
And a terror the while,

But none like the light

Of that terrible smile—

The smile of the South,

When the storm-cloud unrolls

The lightning that loosens

The wrath in the souls

Of her barefooted boys!

It withered the foe

Like the red light that runs Through the dead forest leaves, And he fled from his guns! Grew the smile to a laugh, Rose the laugh to a yell,

As the iron-clad hoofs

Clattered back into hell

From our barefooted boys.

The Tennessee Exile's Song.

I HEAR the rushing of her streams,
The murmuring of her trees,
The exile's anguish swells my heart
And melts with each soft breeze.
'Midst other scenes her corn-hills wave,
Her mountains pierce the sky-

Where, where are they who swore to save―
To conquer, or to die?

They come, from every blue hill-side,

From every lovely dale,

The heart, the soul, the very pride

Of mountain, hill, and vale. Stalwart, they court like Anak's sons, The rapture of the strife;

Drink in the earthquake of the guns,

To them the breath of life.

Spare not the invading mongrel hordes,
But slay them as they stand!
Strike! Tennessee has living swords,
The best in all the land!

Strew o'er her plains their hostile lines,
Drench her fair fields with blood,
Fill their long ranks with bitter groans—
Let blood flow like a flood!

Ay, sow the seeds of lasting hate
At Johnson's, Hatlin's graves,
And do their deeds and dare their fate,
Or live the oppressors' slaves!
Bleed freely, as you bled of yore,
In every well-fought field,

Press round the flag you always bore
The foremost-as a shield

I feel her pulse beat high and quick,
Her sinews stretch for strife,

Full come her heart-throbs deep and thick,
She kindles into life!

Though Donelson has told her tale,

And Shiloh's page is bright, There's yet a bloodier field to win,

For Nashville and the right!

Somebody's Darling.

INTO a ward of the whitewashed walls Where the dead and the dying lay— Wounded by bayonets, shells and ballsSomebody's darling was borne one day. Somebody's darling! so young and so brave, Wearing still on his pale, sweet faceSoon to be hid by the dust of the graveThe lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould-
Somebody's darling is dying now.

Back from the beautiful, blue-veined face
Brush every wandering, silken thread;
Cross his hands as a sign of grace-
Somebody's darling is still and dead!

Kiss him once for somebody's sake;
Murmur a prayer, soft and low;
One bright curl from the cluster take-

They were somebody's pride, you know.