By HENRY TIMROD.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the chafing tideHave roughened in the gales!Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,Lay by the bloodless spade;Let desk and case and counter rot,And burn your books of trade!The despot roves your fairest lands;And till he flies or fears,Your fields must grow but armèd bands,Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!Give up to mildew and to rustThe useless tools of gain,And feed your country's sacred dustWith floods of crimson rain!Come with the weapons at your call—With musket, pike, or knife;He wields the deadliest blade of allWho lightest holds his life.The arm that drives its unbought blowsWith all a patriot's scorn,Might brain a tyrant with a roseOr stab him with a thorn.Does any falter? Let him turnTo some brave maiden's eyes,And catch the holy fires that burnIn those sublunar skies.Oh, could you like your women feel,And in their spirit march,A day might see your lines of steelBeneath the victor's arch!What hope, O God! would not grow warmWhen thoughts like these give cheer?The lily calmly braves the storm,And shall the palm-tree fear?No! rather let its branches courtThe rack that sweeps the plain;And from the lily's regal portLearn how to breast the strain.Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-sideHo, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the roaring tideHave roughened in the gales!Come, flocking gayly to the fight,From forest, hill, and lake;We battle for our country's right,And for the lily's sake!
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!Ho, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the chafing tideHave roughened in the gales!Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,Lay by the bloodless spade;Let desk and case and counter rot,And burn your books of trade!
The despot roves your fairest lands;And till he flies or fears,Your fields must grow but armèd bands,Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!Give up to mildew and to rustThe useless tools of gain,And feed your country's sacred dustWith floods of crimson rain!
Come with the weapons at your call—With musket, pike, or knife;He wields the deadliest blade of allWho lightest holds his life.The arm that drives its unbought blowsWith all a patriot's scorn,Might brain a tyrant with a roseOr stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? Let him turnTo some brave maiden's eyes,And catch the holy fires that burnIn those sublunar skies.Oh, could you like your women feel,And in their spirit march,A day might see your lines of steelBeneath the victor's arch!
What hope, O God! would not grow warmWhen thoughts like these give cheer?The lily calmly braves the storm,And shall the palm-tree fear?No! rather let its branches courtThe rack that sweeps the plain;And from the lily's regal portLearn how to breast the strain.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-sideHo, dwellers in the vales!Ho, ye who by the roaring tideHave roughened in the gales!Come, flocking gayly to the fight,From forest, hill, and lake;We battle for our country's right,And for the lily's sake!
[Southern.]