Classic Poem

By the sword of St. Michael,
The old Dragon, threw!
By David, his sling,
And the giant he slew!
Let us write us a rhyme
As a record, to tell
How the South on a time,
Stormed the ramparts of Hell
With her bare-footed boys.

Had the South in her borders
A hero to spare?
Or a heart at her altars?
Lo! It's life-blood was there!
And the black, battle grime
Might never disguise
The smile of the South
On the lips and the eyes
Of her bare-footed boys.

There's a grandeur in fight,
And a terror, the while;
But none like the light
Of that terrible smile;
The smile of the South
When the storm-cloud unrolls;
The lightning that loosens
The wrath in the souls
Of her bare-footed boys.

It withered the foe,
As the red light that runs
Through the dead forest leaves,
And he fled from his guns,
Grew the smile to a laugh —
Rose the laugh to a yell,
As the iron-clad hoofs
Clattered back into Hell
From our bare-footed boys.