JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY.

Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy;
When next I go to Bully Run
I'll throw away the brandy.

Yankee Doodle, you had ought
To be a little smarter;
Instead of catching woolly heads,
I vow you've caught a tartar.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy;
Go to hum, you've had enough
Of Rebels and of brandy.

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JUSTICE IS OUR PANOPLY.

BY DE G.

[Copy of verses found in a pocket-book picked up by a private of the Fifth Regiment Zouaves, U. S. A. There was no date attached to them.]

WE'RE free from Yankee despots,
We 've left the foul mudsills;

Declared fore'er our freedom,
We'll keep it, spite of ills.

Bring forth your scum and rowdies,
Thieves, vagabonds, and all;
March down your Seventh regiment,
Battalions great and small.

We'll meet you in Virginia, -
A Southern battle-field,

Where Southern men will never
To Yankee foemen yield.

Equip your Lincoln cavalry,

Your NEGRO light-brigade,
Your hodmen, boot-blacks, tinkers,

And scum of every grade.

Pretended love for negroes
Incites you to the strife;
Well, come each Yankee white man
And take a negro wife.

You'd make fit black companions, -
Black heart joined to black skin;
Such unions would be glorious,
They'd make the devil grin.

Our freedom is our panoply:
Come on, you base black-guards,
We'll snuff you like wax-candles,
Led by our Beauregards.

P. G. T. B. is not alone,
Men like him with him fight;
God's providence is o'er us,
He will protect the right.

THE STARS AND BARS.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

FLING wide the dauntless banner
To every Southern breeze,
Baptized in flame with Sumter's name, -
A patriot and a hero's fame,

From Moultrie to the seas!

That it may cleave the morning sun,

And, streaming, sweep the night,

THE STARS AND BARS.

The emblem of a battle won
With Yankee ships in sight.

Come, hucksters, from your markets;
Come, bigots, from your caves;
Come, venal spies, with brazen lies
Bewildering your deluded eyes,

That we may dig your graves;
Come, creatures of a sordid clown
And drivelling traitor's breath,
A single blast shall blow you down
Upon the fields of Death.

The very flag you carry

Caught its reflected grace,
In fierce alarms, from Southern arms,
When foemen threatened all your farms,
And never saw your face;
Ho! braggarts of New-England's shore,
Back to your hills, and delve
The soil whose craven sons forswore
The flag in eighteen-twelve !

We wreathed around the roses
It wears before the world,
And made it bright with storied light,
In every scene of bloody fight

Where it has been unfurled;
And think ye now the dastard hands
That never yet could hold

Its staff, shall wave it o'er our lands,
To glut the greed of gold?

No! by the truth of Heaven
And its eternal Sun,
By every sire whose altar-fire
Burns on to beckon and inspire,

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It never shall be done;
Before that day the kites shall wheel
Hail-thick on Northern heights,
And there our bared aggressive steel
Shall countersign our rights!

Then, spread the flaming banner

O'er mountain, lake, and plain ;
Before its bars degraded Mars
Has kissed the dust with all his stars,
And will be struck again;
For, could its triumph now be stayed
By Hell's prevailing gates,
A sceptred Union would be made
The grave of sovereign States.

THE IRISH BATTALION.*

WHEN Old Virginia took the field,
And wanted men to rally on,
To be at once her sword and shield, -
She formed her First Battalion.

Although her sons were Volunteers,
And brave as ever bore a brand,
The good old lady had her fears

That they might prove but weak of hand.

* It is worthy of remark, that while Rebel organs made great and constant boast of that poor inheritance, Cavalier and Jacobite blood, and reviled the Union armies on account of the number of Irishmen in their ranks, the proportion of which was in reality very small, there was yet occasion for such verses as these, and the "Song of the Irish Brigade," which follows. It seems, after all rather a sorry confession that "Old Virginia" took three hundred Irishmen to form her First Battalion.

THE IRISH BATTALION.

She therefore wisely cast about

For men of mettle and of mould, With nerve of steel and muscle stout, Like those that lived in days of old.

She wanted men of pluck and might,
Of fiery heart and horny hand,
To wield a pick as well as fight,

Or build a breastwork out of sand.

Or should she march to meet the foe

That threatened on her western border,
She wanted willing men to go,
When told, to put her roads in order.

Or should the Volunteers retreat,

With baggage that might make them tarry, 'T would blunt the edge of their defeat To bear a hand and help them carry.

Or should some die of fell disease,

The surgeons having failed to save, Sure men who work with so much ease, Would volunteer to dig a grave!

For these, and reasons quite as sound,
When Old Virginia went to war,
She circumspectly viewed the ground
And plumped the middle man from taw !

In other words, to change the figure,
When she stood up and took her rifle,
And put her finger on the trigger,
She meant to work, and not to trifle.

And standing thus, yet wanting then
Some regulars to rally on,

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