56
Go, point thee to the cannon's mouth,
And swear its brazen lips are better,
To guard 'the interests of the South,'
Than parchment scroll, of Charter's letter.[1]
We fear not.—Steams which brawl most loud
Along their course, are oftenest shallow;
And loudest to a doubting crowd
The coward publishes his valor.
Thy courage has at least been shown
In many a bloodless southern quarrel,
Facing, with hartshorn and cologne,
For Georgian's harmless pistol-barrel.[2]
No, Southron! not in Yankee land
Will threats, like thine, a fear awaken—
Her men, who on their charter stand
For truth and right, may not be shaken.
Still shall that truth assail thine ear—
Each breeze, from Northern mountains flowing,
The tones of Liberty shall bear—
God's 'free incendiaries' going!
We give thee joy!—thy name is heard
With reverence on the Neva's borders;
And 'turban'd Turk' and Poland's lord,
And Metternich, are thy applauders.