When all shall own it, but the type
Whereby we shall be known in every land
Is that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand,
And through the cold, untempered ocean pours
Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores
May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze
Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas.




God Save the South.

George H. Miles, of Baltimore.



God save the South!
God save the South!
Her altars and firesides--
God save the South!
Now that the war is nigh--
Now that we arm to die--
Chanting--our battle-cry,
Freedom or Death!

God be our shield!
At home or a-field,
Stretch Thine arm over us,
Strengthen and save!