Maryland, My Maryland and There's Life in the Old Land Yet/There’s Life in the Old Land Yet
There’s Life in the Old Land Yet.
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[From the New Orleans Delta.]
“Graves are better hid by flowers than by snow.” Jean Paul.
If the grave of unhappy Maryland were really dug and its mound heaped by the minions of despotism, there would not be wanting lovely forms and tender hearts to robe its sod with flowers. But something would be still lacking to give the crowning touch of consecrated melancholy to the scene—something to make death utterly beautiful—something to make despair transcendently eloquent and that would be such garlands of song as might be wreathed by the young Southern poet who composed the stirring melody of “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet.” This fine poem appeared originally in the Delta, and has since been extensively republished by the Southern press and credited to the Baltimore Exchange. Weare by no means sure that it was published in that journal, and doubt whether it has found publication anywhere in the trampled State whose wrongs it paints, whose vengeance it invokes, whose hopes it sets to lofty rhyme.—It soon, however, went home to the hearts of the expatriated Marylanders, who in Virginia are fighting against the despotism which crushes their fatherland; and, indeed, throughout the Army of the Potomac it has been adopted as a favorite war song, as we learn from several army correspondents of the press. The correspondent of the Charleston Mercury, writing from Centreville, thus speaks of the part it was made to play in the ceremony of distributing the new battle flag to the various regiments of the army:
“All of the officers, on receiving the ‘Southern Cross’ made their acknowledgements in patriotic pledges to do their duty. The bands then played the familiar air from H Puritani, to which music some soul stirring lines, suggestive of the rescue of Maryland, had been written by J. R. Randall, a young poet of New Orleans, whose fugitive verses have already attracted much attention.—Printed copies of these verses were distributed among the several regiments.”
Mr. Randall, the author of the poem, is a native of Maryland, and has been some years a resident of New Orleans. A previous poem from his pen on the same theme appeared in the Delta last spring. It was full of pathos and plaintive melody, and was not pitched to so defiant and rousing a key as the second, which was rewarded as the best production of the kind which the war has inspired. Had the author written only these two poems we could say he possessed a peculiar genius for composing war songs. But discriminating readers who have met with his other poems would unhesitatingly dispute this verdict, and claim for him rarely rich and brilliant powers of imagination, humor and satire, together with extraordinary felicity of language upon every theme which may fire a poet. or to be embellished with verse.
The South is rich in literary talent and genius, which are destined to throw lustre round her history, but, without meaning any individual distinction, we may well say there is none whose fame she has more reason to cherish with pride and affection than that of the young poet to whom we offered, in the foregoing remarks, a hasty and imperfect tribute. As modest a man as he is accomplished as a writer, distinguished not less for exemplary life and social merits than for natural gifts and cultivation of mind, he is not a person likely to be spoiled by either popular admiration or critical praise, though, unhappily such organizations are but too often suppressed by neglect.
As the song of “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet” is so much sought alter on the frontier, we presume its republication would not be unacceptable in this city.
THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET.
By blue Patapsco’s billowy dash
The Tyrant’s war shout comes,
Along with the cymbal’s fitful clash
And the growl of his sullen drums;
We hear it—we heed it, with vengeful thrills,
And we shall not forgive or forget—
There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills,
There's Life in the Old Land yet!
Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead,
We are crushed—we are scourged—we are scarred—
We crouch—’tis to welcome the triumph-tread
Of the peerless Beauregard.
Then woe to your vile, polluting horde
When the Southern braves are met—
There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword—
There’s Life in the Old Land vet!
Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind
With the clank of an iron chain;
The Spirit of Freedom sings in the wind
O’er Merryman, Thomas and Kane!
And we—though we smite not—are not thralls,
We are piling a gory debt,
While down by McHenry’s dungeon walls
There’s Life in the Old Land yet!
Our women have hung their harps away,
And they scowl on your brutal bands,
While the nimble poinard dares the day
In their dear, defiant hands!
They will strip their tresses to string our bows
Ere the Northern sun is set—
There’s faith in their unrelenting woes,
There’s Life in the Old Land yet!
There’s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,
Tis vocal without noise—
It gushed o’er Manassas’ solemn plains
From the blood of the Maryland boys!
That blood shall cry aloud, and rise
With an everlasting threat—
By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,
There’s Life in the Old Land yet!