Joseph Augustine Signaigo
I.
Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God,
That He hath met the Southron’s foe, and scourged him with his rod:
On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came,
And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame;
But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day,
Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay.
II.
But the Vandals with presumption–for they came in all their might–
Gave free vent unto their _feelings_, for they thought to win the
fight;
And they forced our little cohorts to the very river’s brink,
With a breath between destruction and of life’s remaining link:
When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth,
Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South.
III.
There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high
That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die;
And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle’s din,
Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win:
And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords,
Came destruction to the foeman–and the vengeance was the Lord’s!
IV.
When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry,
That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high!
It was “Cheatham!” “Cheatham!” “Cheatham!” that the Vandals’ ears did
sting,
And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring;
And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won,
From the crackling of our rifles–_bravely_ then they had to run!
V.
Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay,
And their great grandchildren’s children will be shamed to name that day;
For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South
Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon’s booming mouth:
And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood,
For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman’s blood.
VI.
Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe,
And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow:
Like the ocean beating wildly ‘gainst a prow of adamant,
Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant;
Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field,
Cheering on his noble comrades, ne’er unto the foe to yield!
VII.
None e’er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime–
Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time:
And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few:
“I have bravely fought them, mother–I have bravely fought for you!”
Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South,
And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth.
VIII.
In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag,
Proudly to the breeze ’twas floating in defiance to our flag;
And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down,
They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown;
But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch,
Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch!
IX.
And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death,
Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath;
But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high,
On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die;
But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three,
Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee!
X.
Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be,
That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free;
That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky.
And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die;
For His fiat hath gone forth, e’en among the Hessian horde,
That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord.
XI.
Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God,
That He hath met the Southron’s foe and scourged him with His rod;
That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might,
And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight;
Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim,
We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is written as a victory hymn, but it is also a piece of battlefield myth-making. It treats the fight at Belmont not just as a military engagement, but as proof of divine favor and moral certainty. From the opening lines, the speaker frames the conflict in religious terms, presenting the South as an instrument of God’s will and the enemy as something closer to a scourge than an opposing army. That framing drives everything that follows.
The language is loud, repetitive, and intentional in its bluntness. The poem wants to be remembered and repeated. Names of officers, shouted cries, and rolling lists of deeds give it the feel of an oral record meant for public recitation rather than quiet reading. The enemy is consistently stripped of individuality. They are called Vandals, Hessians, hirelings. This choice matters. By denying them personal identity, the poem makes their deaths easier to celebrate and harder to question.
What stands out is how completely the poem fuses violence with righteousness. Victory does not come from strategy or chance but from God’s direct intervention. Cannon fire becomes divine judgment. Retreat becomes shame passed down through generations. Even the river itself is enlisted as a witness, running red as if nature approves of the slaughter. There is no room here for doubt, error, or shared humanity. The battle is cast as clean on one side and corrupt on the other.
At the same time, the poem spends a great deal of energy honoring individual sacrifice. The sections about fallen officers and soldiers slow the pace and shift the tone. These moments are more personal, almost intimate, especially in the quoted last words to a mother. Here the poem reveals its emotional core. It is not only celebrating victory but trying to give meaning to death. Naming the dead, praising their courage, and promising lasting memory serves to justify the cost of the fight.
The flag episode is especially telling. The enemy banner is treated as a near-sacred object whose capture requires martyrdom. Death is expected, even welcomed, if it comes in service of honor. The poem does not question whether such deaths are necessary. It assumes they are, and it presents that assumption as obvious truth.
Religious language intensifies toward the end, moving from gratitude to certainty. God is not merely supportive but fully aligned with the Southern cause. The land is described as pure, the people as chosen, and any invasion as a kind of spiritual contamination. This is where the poem becomes most revealing of its historical moment. It reflects how war poetry can function as reassurance, telling its audience not just that they fought well, but that they are right in every sense that matters.
As a war poem, this piece is less about the complexity of combat and more about sustaining belief. It reassures the living, sanctifies the dead, and frames ongoing violence as both necessary and holy. Its power lies in its confidence and its clarity of purpose. Its limits lie in that same certainty. There is no space here for grief that questions, or victory that feels costly rather than triumphant. The poem shows how war verse can act as a shield against doubt, forging a story where bloodshed is transformed into proof of favor, and faith becomes a weapon alongside the sword.