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Shall we our feelings longer smother, And bear with patience yet our wrongs,
Their jeers, their crimes, their taunts and thongs And greet them still as friend and brother ?
Their tyranny we'll bear no longer,
But burst asunder every tie, Although in number they are stronger,
We will be free, or we will die ! Too long the South has wept, bewailing,
That falsehood's dagger Yankees wield, But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
A SOUTHERN GATHERING SONG.
By L. Virginia French.
Sons of the South, beware the foe ! Hark to the murmur, deep and low, Rolling up like the coming storm, Swelling up like the sounding storm, Hoarse as the hurricanes that brood In space's far infinitude ! Minute guns of omen boom Through the future's folded gloom; Sounds prophetic fill the air, Heed the warning—and prepare !
Watch ! be wary—every hour
Mark the foeman's gathering power—