Where the soldier sleeps with the stars o'erhead;
Where rifles are ringing the peal of death,
And the dying hero yields his breath.

Where the mother and sister in silence sit,
And far into midnight sew and knit,
And pray for the soldier-brother or son,--
God's blessing on all that the four have done!

Where the traitors plot, in foul debate,
To war with God and strive with fate;
Digging pitfalls to catch them slaves,--
Pitfalls, to serve for their own deep graves.

Where the Bishop-General proves that the rod
Which lashes women is blest of God.
There's a rod to come, ere the red leaves fall,
Which will swallow your rattlesnake, scales and all.

Where the wretched Northern renegade
On a Southern journal plies his trade,
Swearing and writing, with scowl or smile,
That all that is Yankee is low and vile.

Where the cowardly dough-face talks of war
But fears we are going a little too far;--
Hoping the North may win the fight,
But thinking the South is 'partially right.'

Where the trembling, panting contraband