Published by M. Morgan, Galveston, Texas, Confederate States, 1861.
They come! They come! see their bayonets bright,
They sparkle and flash across hollow and height;
And the dusky files in the openings appear,
And the green leaves mingle with plume and spear,
And the bugles echo the valleys among!
Huzza! like a torrent they bear them along.
Would any the names of those warriors know,
They are Texan Rangers in chase of the foe.
See! how they steal from the dark-skirted wood,
Vault over the ravine, and plunge in the flood;
Now in ambush crouch breathless—the Yankee is nigh?
Ha! they shout and rush at him gallantly—
In carnage and flame they are victors still;
With vile Northern blood they are drenching the hill—
Their rifles so true whence the death-shots go,
’Tis the Texans who level in chase of the foe.
Below in that vale, ‘mid the fury of fight.
Where steel-harnessed horsemen are glittering bright;
Where the death-game of battle their chargers try,
And the fire of freedom enkindling high,
Of the blood-red hue, spreads widely and far,
The herald of glory and beacon of war:
Those chargers that trample the slain as they go,
Are spurr’d by the Texans, who dash at the foe.
Mark those brave, with the enemies’ slain overthrown,
In silence they writhe, and they die without groan:
For their last pulse may throb, and life’s fountain fail,
And death-dews lie chill on their visages pale;
But their souls feel no tremor, they smile in their pain
They know that the South will have freedom again:
Be hallow’d such suffering, and bless’d every sigh,
They are Texans, who know how to triumph and die!