Читать книгу War Poetry of the South - Various - Страница 7

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You can never win them back,

never! never!

Though they perish on the track

of your endeavor;

Though their corses strew the earth

That smiled upon their birth,

And blood pollutes each hearthstone

forever!

They have risen, to a man

stern and fearless;

Of your curses and your ban

they are careless.

Every hand is on its knife;

Every gun is primed for strife;

Every palm contains a life

high and peerless!

You have no such blood as theirs

for the shedding,

In the veins of Cavaliers

was its heading.

You have no such stately men

In your abolition den,

To march through foe and fen,

nothing dreading.

They may fall before the fire

of your legions,

Paid in gold for murd'rous hire--

bought allegiance!

But for every drop you shed

You shall leave a mound of dead;

And the vultures shall be fed

in our regions.

But the battle to the strong

is not given,

While the Judge of right and wrong

sits in heaven!

And the God of David still

Guides each pebble by His will;

There are giants yet to kill--

wrong's unshriven.