Alabama, 19 18. 65 



On wind-blown Northern prairies 

 The wheat shall bare its blade, 

 The cotton toss its turban 

 In every Southern glade ; 

 And bearded oats in armies 

 Shall set their lances keen, 

 And all shall answer, "Coming, 

 You Little Men in Green." 



The grandsire and his grandson 

 Shall labor side by side ; 

 The dewy dawn shall greet them, 

 A star shall be their guide; 

 The soil shall not be barren 

 That righteous wrath has plowed, 

 Nor Freedom's sod turn sullen 

 Till sloth her sun becloud. 



What matter though the weakling 

 Withhold his futile hand ? 

 By Belgium's murdered millions, 

 We'll mobilize the land ! 

 'Tis God himself that arms us, 

 And mortal hath not seen 

 The legions that can stand against 

 The Little Men in Green. 

 — Bdwarrd Williston Prantz, of the 

 Vigilantes. 



