SONG OF THE SOUTH.
I
Of all the garden flowers,
The fairest is the rose;
Of winds that stir the bowers,
O, there is none that blows
Like the South, the gentle South;
For that balmy breeze is ours.
II
Cold is the frozen North,
In its stern and savage mood;
'Mid gales come drifting forth
Bleak snows and drenching flood;
But the South, the gentle South,
Thaws to love the willing blood.
III
Bethink thee of the vales,
With their birds and blossoms fair—
Of the darkling nightingales,
That charm the starry air,
In the South, the gentle South;
Ah! our own dear home is there!
IV
Where doth beauty brightest glow
With each rich and radiant charm,
Eyes of night and brow of snow,
Cherry lip, and bosom warm?
In the South, the gentle South—
There she waits and works her harm.
V
Say, shines the star of love
From the clear and cloudless sky,
The shadowy groves above,
Where the nestling ring-doves lie?
From the South, the gentle South,
Gleams its lone and lucid eye.
VI
Then turn ye to the home
Of your brethren and your bride;
Far astray your steps may roam,
And more joys for thee abide
In the South, our gentle South,
Than in all the world beside.
