Zollicoffer.

FIRST in the fight, and first in the arms

Of the white-winged angels of glory,

With the heart of the South at the feet of God, And his wounds to tell the story;

For the blood that flowed from his hero heart,
On the spot where he nobly perished,
Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament
In the holy cause he cherished!

In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, And for his soul's sustaining

The apocalyptic eyes of Christ

And nothing on earth remaining,

But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,
A name in song and story-

And fame to shout with immortal voice:
DEAD ON THE FIELD OF GLORY!

I Word with the West. (vii)

ONCE more to the breach for the Land of the West!
And a leader we give, of our bravest and best,
Of his State and his army the pride;
Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest,
And gleams in the glaive at his side.

For his courage is keen and his honor is bright
As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight,
Newly wrought in the forges of Spain, (vii)
And this weapon, like all he has brandished for Right,
Will never be dimmed by a stain.

He leaves the loved soil of Virginia behind,
Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined,
Where lie the fresh fields of his fame;
Where the murmurous pines, (ix.) as they sway in the
wind,

Seem ever to whisper his name.

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, And their motto a noble distinction confers,

"Ever Ready"-for friend or for foe

With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs
The large, manly heart of our JOE.

We recall that a former bold chief of the clan
Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van,
On Shiloh's illustrious day;

And with reason we reckon our Johnston the man
The dark, bloody debt to repay.

There is much to be done: if not glory to seek, There's a just and a terrible vengeance to wreak For crimes of a terrible dye,

While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak In a chorus rise up to the sky.

For the Wolf of the North, we once drove to his den,

That quailed in affright 'neath the stern glance of

men,

With his pack has returned to the spoil; Then come from the hamlet, the mountain, the glen, And drive him again from the soil!

Brave-born TENNESSEANS, So loyal, so true,
Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you
Our leader has never a doubt;

You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew The day when his bugles ring out.

But ye

"HUNTERS" so famed "OF KENTUCKY" of yore,

Where, where are the rifles that kept from your door The wolf and the robber as well?

Of a truth, you have never been laggard before
To deal with a savage so fell.

Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold?

Has the fire on the altar died out? Do you hold Your lives than your freedom more dear? Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, Or basely take counsel of fear?

We will not believe it-KENTUCKY, the land
Of a CLAY, will not tamely submit to the brand
That disgraces the dastard, the slave;
The hour of redemption draws nigh-is at hand—
Her own sons her own honor shall save!

Mighty men of MISSOURI, come forth to the call, With the rush of your rivers when tempests appall, And the torrents their sources unseal;

And this be the watchword of one and of all— "Remember the butcher, McNIEL!"

Then once more to the breach for the land of the West!

Strike home for your hearts-for the lips you love best

Follow on where your Leader you see! One flash of his sword when the foe is hard pressed, And the Land of the West shall be free!