  Dedicated to R. W. Knott, Editor of the Louisville Evening Post Sweet were my dreams along thy streams, Old South, in bygone days, Till war’s red cloud, ’mid thunders loud, Consumed them in its blaze: Sewanee’s old plantation scenes, Where wild bees filled the comb; The banjo and the moonlight dance Of old Kentucky Home. The New South wakes! the New South shakes The dew-drops from her mane, For idle grief brings no relief, The past comes not again; To manly hearts and patient souls Heaven sanctifies each loss; Two angels, Toil and Patience, bear To Heaven the Southern Cross. New South! New South! unseal thy mouth, Thy golden age is come— Invention’s soaring harmony And labor’s busy hum. The Old South dies; with beaming eyes The New South hastens in; So boyhood’s toys are cast aside When manhood’s deeds begin. |
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