Come one, come all, at your country's call,
Let none remain behind,
But those too young, and those too old,
The feeble, the halt, the blind;
Let _every man_, whether rich or poor,
Who can carry a knapsack and gun,
Repair to the ranks of our Southern host,
'Till the cause of the South is won.



V.


But the son of the South, if such there be,
Who will shrink from the contest now,
From a love of ease, or the lust of gain,
Or through fear of the Yankee foe;
May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand,
As though it was soiled for aye,
And may every woman turn her cheek
From his craven lips away;
May his country's curse be on his head,
And may no man ever see,
A gentle bride by the traitor's side,
Or children about his knee.