THE BATTLE CRY OF THE SOUTH
Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare,
And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown—
Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there
In the cliffs of the Father’s frown;
Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light
Which the Sun of Justice gives—
In the caves and sepulchres of night
Jehovah the Lord King lives!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees—
For ye have the sword of the Lion’s Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees!
Think of the dead by the Tennessee
In their frozen shrouds of gore—
Think of the mothers who shall see
Those darling eyes no more!
But better are they in a hero-grave
Than the serfs of time and breath,
For they are the Children of the Brave,
And the Cherubim of Death!
To arms! to arms! for the South needs help,
And a craven is he who flees—
For ye have the sword of the Lion’s Whelp,
And the God of the Maccabees!
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