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Page 26
Still a deep, deep well of feeling,
In my mother's heart is stirred,
And the tears come softly stealing
At each imitative word!
There's a struggle in my bosom,
For I love my darling boy--
He's the gladness of my spirit,
He's the sunlight of my joy!
Yet I think upon my country,
And my spirit groweth bold--
Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier
Were but twenty summers old!
I would speed him to the battle--
I would arm him for the fight;
I would give him to his country,
For his country's wrong and right!
I would nerve his hand with blessing
From the "God of battles" won--
With His helmet and His armor,
I would cover o'er my son.
Oh! I know there'd be a struggle,
For I love my darling boy;
He's the gladness of my spirit,
He's the sunlight of my joy!
Yet in thinking of my country,
Oh! my spirit groweth bold,
And I with my blue-eyed soldier
Were but twenty summers old!
The Good Old Cause.
By John D. Phelan, of Montgomery, Ala.
I.
Huzza! huzza! for the _Good Old Cause_,
'Tis a stirring sound to hear,
For it tells of rights and liberties,
Our fathers bought so dear;
It brings up the _Jersey prison-ship_,
The spot where _Warren_ fell,
And the scaffold which echoes the dying words
Of _murdered Hayne's_ farewell.
II.
The _Good Old Cause!_ it is still the same
Though age upon age may roll;
'Tis the cause of _the right_ against _the wrong_,
Burning bright in each generous soul;
'Tis the cause of all who claim to live
As freemen on Freedom's sod;
Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons,
By Tyranny's heel down-trod.
III.
And whoever burns with a holy zeal,
To behold his country free,
And would sooner see her _baptized in blood_,
Than to bend the suppliant knee;
Must agree to follow her _White-Cross flag_,
Where the storms of battle roll,
_A soldier_--A SOLDIER!--with _arms in his hands_,
And the _love of the South in his soul!_
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