Fly, fleet-winged doves, to Ponce de Leon's spring, And in your bills bring her the pearls of youth; For lo the fingers of relentless Time Weave threads of silver in among the gold, And seam her face with pain and carking care, Till, bent and bowed, the shriveled hands of Death Reach from the welcome grave and draw her in.



FIDO

Hark, the storm is raging high; Beat the breakers on the coast, And the wintry waters cry Like the wailing of a ghost.

On the rugged coast of Maine Stands the frugal farmer's cot: What if drive the sleet and rain? John and Hannah heed it not.

On the hills the mad winds roar, And the tall pines toss and groan; Round the headland—down the shore— Stormy spirits shriek and moan.

Inky darkness wraps the sky; Not a glimpse of moon or star; And the stormy-petrels cry Out along the harbor-bar.

Seated by their blazing hearth— John and Hannah—snug and warm— What if darkness wrap the earth? Drive the sleet and howl the storm!

Let the stormy-petrels fly! Let the moaning breakers beat! Hark! I hear an infant cry And the patter of baby-feet:

And Hannah listened as she spoke, But only heard the driving rain, As on the cottage-roof it broke And pattered on the window-pane.

And she sat knitting by the fire While pussy frolicked at her feet; And ever roared the tempest higher, And ever harder the hailstones beat.

"Hark! the cry—it comes again!" "Nay, it is the winds that wail, And the patter on the pane Of the driving sleet and hail"

Replied the farmer as he piled The crackling hemlock on the coals, And lit his corn-cob pipe and smiled The smile of sweet contented souls.

Aye, let the storm rave o'er the earth; Their kine are snug in barn and byre; The apples sputter on the hearth, The cider simmers on the fire.

But once again at midnight high, She heard in dreams, through wind and sleet, An infant moan, an infant cry, And the patter of baby-feet.

Half-waking from her dreams she turned And heard the driving wind and rain; Still on the hearth the fagots burned, And hail beat on the window-pane.

John rose as wont, at dawn of day; The earth was white with frozen sleet; And lo his faithful Fido lay Dead on the door-stone at his feet.



THE REIGN OF REASON

The day of truth is dawning. I behold O'er darksome hills the trailing robes of gold And silent footsteps of the gladsome dawn. The morning breaks by sages long foretold; Truth comes to set upon the world her throne. Men lift their foreheads to the rising sun, And lo the reign of Reason is begun. Fantastic phantasms fly before the light— Pale, gibbering ghosts and ghouls and goblin fears: Man who hath walked in sleep—what thousands years? Groping among the shadows of the night, Moon-struck and in a weird somnambulism, Mumbling some cunning cant or catechism, Thrilled by the electric magic of the skies— Sun-touched by Truth—awakes and rubs his eyes.

Old Superstition, mother of cruel creeds, O'er all the earth hath sown her dragon-teeth. Lo centuries on centuries the seeds Grew rank, and from them all the haggard breeds Of Hate and Fear and Hell and cruel Death. And still her sunken eyes glare on mankind; Her livid lips grin horrible; her hands, Shriveled to bone and sinew, clutch all lands And with blind fear lead on or drive the blind. Ah ignorance and fear go hand in hand, Twin-born, and broadcast scatter hate and thorns, They people earth with ghosts and hell with horns, And sear the eyes of truth with burning brand.

Behold, the serried ranks of Truth advance, And stubborn Science shakes her shining lance Full in the face of stolid Ignorance. But Superstition is a monster still— An Hydra we may scotch but hardly kill; For if with sword of Truth we lop a head, How soon another groweth in its stead! All men are slaves. Yea, some are slave to wine And some to women, some to shining gold, But all to habit and to customs old. Around our stunted souls old tenets twine And it is hard to straighten in the oak The crook that in the sapling had its start: The callous neck is glad to wear the yoke; Nor reason rules the head, but aye the heart: The head is weak, the throbbing heart is strong; But where the heart is right the head is not far wrong.

Men have been learning error age on age, And superstition is their heritage Bequeathed from age to age and sire to son Since the dim history of the world begun. Trust paves the way for treachery to tread; Under the cloak of virtue vices creep; Fools chew the chaff while cunning eats the bread, And wolves become the shepherds of the sheep. The mindless herd are but the cunning's tools; For ages have the learned of the schools Furnished pack-saddles for the backs of fools. Pale Superstition loves the gloom of night; Truth, like a diamond, ever loves the light. But still 'twere wrong to speak but in abuse, For priests and popes have had, and have, their use. Yea, Superstition since the world began Hath been an instrument to govern man: For men were brutes, and brutal fear was given To chain the brute till Reason came from heaven. Aye, men were beasts for lo how many ages! And only fear held them in chains and cages.

Wise men were priests, and gladly I accord They were the priests and prophets of the Lord; For love was lust and o'er all earth's arena Hell-fire alone could tame the wild hyena. All history is the register, we find, Of the crimes and lusts and sufferings of mankind; And there are still dark lands where it is well That Superstition wear the horns of hell, And hold her torches o'er the brutal head, And fright the beast with fire and goblin dread Till Reason come the darkness to dispel.

How hard it is for mortals to unlearn Beliefs bred in the marrow of their bones! How hard it is for mortals to discern The truth that preaches from the silent stones, The silent hills, the silent universe, While Error cries in sanctimonious tones That all the light of life and God is hers! Lo in the midst we stand: we cannot see Either the dark beginning or the end, Or where our tottering footsteps turn or trend In the vast orbit of Eternity. Let Reason be our light—the only light That God hath given unto benighted man, Wherewith to see a glimpse of his vast plan And stars of hope that glimmer on our night. Lo all-pervading Unity is His; Lo all-pervading Unity is He: One mighty heart throbs in the earth and sea, In every star through heaven's immensity, And God in all things breathes, in all things is. God's perfect order rules the vast expanse, And Love is queen and all the realms are hers; But strike one planet from the Universe And all is chaos and unbridled chance.

And is there life beyond this life below? Aye, is death death?—or but a happy change From night to light—on angel wings to range, And sing the songs of seraphs as we go? Alas, the more we know the less we know we know.

God hath laid down the limits we cannot pass; And it is well he giveth us no glass Wherewith to see beyond the present glance, Else we might die a thousand deaths perchance Before we lay our bones beneath the grass. What is the soul, and whither will it fly? We only know that matter cannot die, But lives and lived through all eternity, And ever turns from hoary age to youth. And is the soul not worthier than the dust? So in His providence we put our trust; And so we humbly hope, for God is just— Father all-wise, unmoved by wrath or ruth: What then is certain—what eternal? Truth, Almighty God, Time, Space and Cosmic Dust.



LOVE WILL FIND

Seek ye the fairest lily of the field, The fairest lotus that in lakelet lies, The fairest rose that ever morn revealed, And Love will find—from other eyes concealed— A fairer flower in some fair woman's eyes.

List ye the lark that warbles to the morn, The sweetest note that linnet ever sung, Or trembling lute in tune with silver horn, And Love will list—and laugh your lute to scorn— A sweeter lute in some fair woman's tongue.

Seek ye the dewy perfume seaward blown From flowering orange-groves to passing ships; Nay, sip the nectared dew of Helicon, And Love will find—and claim it all his own— A sweeter dew on some fair woman's lips.

Seek ye a couch of softest eider-down, The silken floss that baby birdling warms, Or shaded moss with blushing roses strown, And Love will find—when they are all alone— A softer couch in some fair woman's arms.



AN OLD ENGLISH OAK

Silence is the voice of mighty things. In silence dropped the acorn in the rain; In silence slept till sun-touched. Wondrous life Peeped from the mold and oped its eyes on morn. Up-grew in silence through a thousand years The Titan-armed, gnarl-jointed, rugged oak, Rock-rooted. Through his beard and shaggy locks Soft breezes sung and tempests roared: the rain A thousand summers trickled down his beard; A thousand winters whitened on his head; Yet spake he not. He, from his coigne of hills, Beheld the rise and fall of empire, saw The pageantry and perjury of kings, The feudal barons and the slavish churls, The peace of peasants; heard the merry song Of mowers singing to the swing of scythes, The solemn-voiced, low-wailing funeral dirge Winding slow-paced with death to humble graves; And heard the requiem sung for coffined kings. Saw castles rise and castles crumble down, Abbeys up-loom and clang their solemn bells, And heard the owl hoot ruin on their walls: Beheld a score of battle fields corpse-strewn— Blood-fertiled with ten thousand flattered fools Who, but to please the vanity of one, Marched on hurrahing to the doom of death— And spake not, neither sighed nor made a moan. Saw from the blood of heroes roses spring, And where the clangor of steel-sinewed War Roared o'er embattled rage, heard gentle Peace To bleating hills and vales of rustling gold Flute her glad notes from morn till even-tide. Grim with the grime of a thousand years he stood— Grand in his silence, mighty in his years. Under his shade the maid and lover wooed; Under his arms their children's children played And lambkins gamboled; at his feet by night The heart-sick wanderer laid him down and died, And he looked on in silence.

Silent hours In ghostly pantomime on tip-toe tripped The stately minuet of the passing years, Until the horologe of Time struck One. Black Thunder growled and from his throne of gloom Fire-flashed the night with hissing bolt, and lo, Heart-split, the giant of a thousand years Uttered one voice and like a Titan fell, Crashing one hammer-clang, and passed away.



THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS[CG]

[CG] An-pe-tu Sa-pa—Clouded Day—was the name of the Dakota mother who committed suicide, as related in this legend, by plunging over the Falls of St. Anthony. Schoolcraft calls her "Ampata Sapa." Ampata is not Dakota. There are several versions of this legend, all agreeing in the main points.

[Read at the Celebration of the Old Settlers of Hennepin County, at the Academy of Music, Minneapolis, July 4, 1879.]

[The Numerals refer to Notes in Appendix.]

On the Spirit-Island [CH] sitting under midnight's misty moon, Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one! Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb; One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come. Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls, Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls. Great Unktehee—god of waters—lifts no more his mighty head; Fled he with the timid otters?—lies he in the cavern dead? Hark!—the waters hush their sighing and the whippowil her call, Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all. Lo from out the waters foaming—from the cavern deep and dread— Through the glamour and the gloaming comes a spirit of the dead. Sad she seems; her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest; Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed. Hark!—she chants the solemn story—sings the legend sad and old, And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told. Would you hear the legend olden hearken while I tell the tale— Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.

[CH] The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the Dakotas Wanagee We-ta—Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of Anpetu Sapa sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island, until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true. See Carver's Travels (London, 1778), p. 71.



THE LEGEND

Tall was young Wanata, stronger than Heyoka's [16] giant form,— Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm. When Wakinyan [32] flashed and thundered, when Unktehee raved and roared, All but brave Wanata wondered, and the gods with fear implored. When the war-whoop shrill resounded, calling friends to meet the foe, From the teepee swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow. In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew, Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,—many a stealthy foe he slew. Hunter swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear, Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair. Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain; Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it could not gain. So they called the brave "Ska Capa;"[CI] but the fairest of the band— Moon-faced, meek Anpetu-Sapa—won the hunter's heart and hand.

[CI] Or Capa Ska—White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning and hard to catch.

From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet, To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet. Love and joy sat in the teepee; him a black-eyed boy she bore; But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore. For the warriors chose Wanata first Itancan[CJ] of the band. At the council-fire he sat a leader brave, a chieftain grand. Proud was fair Anpetu-Sapa, and her eyes were glad with joy; Proud was she and very happy with her warrior and her boy. But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanata won, Brought a bitter woe upon her,—hid with clouds the summer sun. For among the brave Dakotas wives bring honor to the chief. On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf.

[CJ] E-tan-can—Chief.

Young and fair was Ape-duta[CK]—full of craft and very fair; Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her dark, abundant hair. In her net of hair she caught him—caught Wanata with her wiles; All in vain his wife besought him—begged in vain his wonted smiles. Ape-duta ruled the teepee—all Wanata's smiles were hers; When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star[CL] beheld the mother's tears. Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore; But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore. Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare; Patient ever, murmuring never, though her cheeks were creased with care. In the moon Maga-o kada, [71] twice an hundred years ago— Ere the "Black Robe's"[CM] sacred shadow stalked the prairies' pathless snow— Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues, From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes. On the queen of fairy islands, on the Wita Waste's [CN] shore Camped Wanata, on the highlands just above the cataract's roar. Many braves were with Wanata; Ape-duta, too, was there, And the sad Anpetu-sapa spread the lodge with wonted care. Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat-faced, laughing moon, And the stars—the spirits fairy—walked the welkin one by one. Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue, Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanata's birch canoe. In it stood Anpetu-sapa—in her arms her sleeping child; Like a wailing Norse-land drapa [CO] rose her death-song weird and wild:

[CK] A-pe—leaf,—duta—Scarlet,—Scarlet leaf

[CL] Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of the departed watching over their friends and relatives on earth.

[CM] The Dakotas called the Jesuit priests "Black Robes," from the color of their vestments.

[CN] Wee-tah Wah-stay—Beautiful Island,—the Dakota name for Nicollet Island, just above the Falls.

[CO] Drapa, a Norse funeral wail in which the virtues of the deceased are recounted.



Mihihna,[CP] Mihihna, my heart is stone; The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

Mihihna, Mihihna, the path is long, The burden is heavy and hard to bear; I sink—I die, and my dying song Is a song of joy to the false one's ear.

Mihihna, Mihihna, my young heart flew Far away with my brave to the bison-chase; To the battle it went with my warrior true, And never returned till I saw his face.

Mihihna, Mihihna, my brave was glad When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet; Sweet were the words that my hunter said As his trophies he laid at Anpetu's feet.

Mihihna, Mihihna, the boy I bore— When the robin sang and my brave was true, I can bear to look on his face no more, For he looks, Mihihna, so much like you.

Mihihna, Mihihna, the Scarlet Leaf Has robbed my boy of his father's love; He sleeps in my arms—he will find no grief In the star-lit lodge in the land above.

Mihihna, Mihihna, my heart is stone; The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.

[CP] Mee-heen-yah—My husband.

Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew; Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe. Hunters hurry in the gloaming; all in vain Wanata calls; Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls.

Long they searched the sullen river—searched for leagues along the shore, Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more; But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song, Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue. On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn; Spirit Isle, they say, is haunted, and they call the spot Wakan[CQ] Many summers on the highland in the full moon's golden glow— In the woods on Fairy Island,[CR] walked a snow-white fawn and doe— Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore For a father's love another turned away with evil power.

Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn, In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn; And on Spirit Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon, Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune.

[CQ] Pronounced Walk-on,—Sacred, inhabited by a spirit.

[CR] Fairy Island,—Wita-Waste—Nicollet Island.



CHICKADEE

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee! That was the song that he sang to me—Sang from his perch in the willow tree— Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee. My little brown bird, The song that I heard Was a happier song than the minstrels sing— A paean of joy and a carol of spring; And my heart leaped throbbing and sang with thee Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

My birdie looked wise With his little black eyes, As he peeked and peered from his perch at me With a throbbing throat and a flutter of glee, As if he would say— Sing trouble away, Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Only one note From his silver throat; Only one word From my wise little bird; But a sweeter note or a wiser word From the tongue of mortal I never have heard, Than my little philosopher sang to me From his bending perch in the willow tree— Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Come foul or fair, Come trouble and care— No—never a sigh Or a thought of despair! For my little bird sings in my heart to me, As he sang from his perch in the willow tree— Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee: Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee; Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.



ANTHEM

[APRIL, 1861.]

Spirit of Liberty, Wake in the Land! Sons of our Forefathers, Raise the strong hand! Burn in each heart anew Liberty's fires; Wave the old Flag again, Flag of our sires; Glow all thy stars again, Banner of Light! Wave o'er us forever, Emblem of might; God for our Banner! God for the Right!

Minions of Tyranny, Tremble and kneel! The sons of the Pilgrims Are sharpening their steel. Pledge for our Land again Honor and life; Wave the old Flag again; On to the strife! Shades of our Forefathers, Witness our fright! Wave o'er us forever, Emblem of might; God for our Banner! God for our Right!



HURRAH FOR THE VOLUNTEERS

[May, 1861.]

Come then, brave men, from the Land of Lakes With steady steps and cheers; Our country calls, as the battle breaks, On the Northwest Pioneers. Let the eagle scream, and the bayonet gleam! Hurrah for the Volunteers!



CHARGE OF "THE BLACK-HORSE"

[First battle of Bull Run.]

Our columns are broken, defeated, and fled; We are gathered, a few from the flying and dead, Where the green flag is up and our wounded remain Imploring for water and groaning in pain. Lo the blood-spattered bosom, the shot-shattered limb, The hand-clutch of fear as the vision grows dim, The half-uttered prayer and the blood-fettered breath, The cold marble brow and the calm face of death. O proud were these forms at the dawning of morn, When they sprang to the call of the shrill bugle-horn: There are mothers and wives that await them afar; God help them!—Is this then the glory of war? But hark!—hear the cries from the field of despair; "The Black-Horse" are charging the fugitives there; They gallop the field o'er the dying and dead, And their blades with the blood of their victims are red. The cries of the fallen and flying are vain; They saber the wounded and trample the slain; And the plumes of the riders wave red in the sun, As they stoop for the stroke and the murder goes on. They halt for a moment—they form and they stand; Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band Like the samiel that sweeps o'er Arabia's sand. "Halt!—down with your sabers!—the dying are here! Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear." Nay; the merciless butchers were thirsting for blood, And mad for the murder still onward they rode. "Stand firm and be ready!"—Our brave, gallant few Have faced to the foe, and our rifles are true; Fire!—a score of grim riders go down in a breath At the flash of our guns—in the tempest of death! They wheel, and they clutch in despair at the mane! They reel in their saddles and fall to the plain!

The riderless steeds, wild with wounds and with fear, Dash away o'er the field in unbridled career; Their stirrups swing loose and their manes are all gore From the mad cavaliers that shall ride them no more. Of the hundred so bold that rode down on us there But few rode away with the tale of despair; Their proud, plumed comrades so reckless, alas, Slept their long, dreamless sleep on the blood-spattered grass.



ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED

[The soldier was Louis Mitchell, of Co. 1, 1st Minn. Vols., killed in a skirmish, near Ball's Bluff, October 22, 1861.]

"We've had a brush," the Captain said, "And Rebel blood we've spilled; We came off victors with the loss Of only a private killed." "Ah," said the orderly—"it was hot,"— Then he breathed a heavy breath— "Poor fellow!—he was badly shot, Then bayoneted to death."

And now was hushed the martial din; The saucy foe had fled; They brought the private's body in; I went to see the dead; For I could not think our Rebel foes— So valiant in the van— So boastful of their chivalry— Could kill a wounded man.

A musket ball had pierced his thigh— A frightful, crushing wound— And then with savage bayonets They pinned him to the ground. One deadly thrust drove through the heart, Another through the head; Three times they stabbed his pulseless breast When he lay cold and dead.

His hair was matted with his gore, His hands were clinched with might, As if he still his musket bore So firmly in the fight. He had grasped the foemen's bayonets Their murderous thrusts to fend: They raised the coat-cape from his face, And lo—it was my friend!

Think what a shudder chilled my heart! 'Twas but the day before We laughed together merrily, As we talked of days of yore. "How happy we shall be," he said, "When the war is o'er, and when With victory's song and victory's tread We all march home again."

Ah little he dreamed—that soldier brave So near his journey's goal— How soon a heavenly messenger Would claim his Christian soul. But he fell like a hero—fighting, And hearts with grief are filled; And honor is his,—tho' the Captain says "Only a private killed."

I knew him well,—he was my friend; He loved our land and laws, And he fell a blessed martyr To our Country's holy cause; And I know a cottage in the West Where eyes with tears are filled As they read the careless telegram— "Only a private killed."

Comrades, bury him under the oak, Wrapped in his army-blue; He is done with the battle's din and smoke, With drill and the proud review. And the time will come ere long, perchance, When our blood will thus be spilled, And what care we if the Captain say— "Only a private killed."

For the glorious Old Flag beckons. We have pledged her heart and hand, And we'll brave even death to rescue Our dear old Fatherland. We ask not praise—nor honors, Then—as each grave is filled— What care we if the Captain say— "Only a private killed."



DO THEY THINK OF US?

[October, 1861, after the Battle of Ball's Bluff.]

Do they think of us, say—in the far distant West— On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest? On the long dusty march when the suntide is hot, O say, are their sons and their brothers forgot? Are our names on their lips, is our comfort their care When they kneel to the God of our fathers in prayer? When at night on their warm, downy pillows they lie, Wrapped in comfort and ease, do they think of us, say? When the rain patters down on the roof overhead, Do they think of the camps without shelter or bed? Ah many a night on the cold ground we've lain— Chilled, chilled to the heart by the merciless rain, And yet there stole o'er us the peace of the blest, For our spirits went back to our homes in the West. O we think of them, and it sharpens our steel, When the battle-smoke rolls and the grim cannon peal, When forward we rush at the shrill bugle's call To the hail-storm of conflict where many must fall.

When night settles down on the slaughter-piled plain, And the dead are at rest and the wounded in pain, Do they think of us, say, in the far distant West— On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest? Aye, comrades, we know that our darlings are there With their hearts full of hope and their souls full of prayer, And it steadies our rifles—it steels every breast— The thought of our loved ones at home in the West— On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest.



CHARGE OF FREMONT'S BODY-GUARD

On they ride—on they ride— Only three hundred,— Ride the brave Body-Guard, From the "Prairie Scouts" sundered: Two thousand riflemen, Ambushed on either side, The signal of slaughter bide: Ho! has the farmer-guide Led them astray and lied? How can they pass the wood? On they ride—on they ride— Fearlessly, readily, Silently, steadily Ride the brave Body-Guard Led by Zagonyi.

Up leap the Southrons there; Loud breaks the battle-blare; Now swings his hat in air; Flashes his saber bare: "Draw sabers;—follow me!" Shouts the brave Captain: "Union and Liberty!" Thunders the Captain. Three hundred sabers flash; Three hundred Guardsmen dash On to the fierce attack; Into the cul-de-sac Plunge the Three Hundred. Yell the mad ambushed pack— Two thousand rifles crack At the Three Hundred.

Dire is the death they deal, Gleams the steel—volleys peal— Horses plunge—riders reel; Sabers and bayonets clash; Guns in their faces flash; Blue coats are spattered red— Fifty brave Guards are dead— Zagonyi is still ahead, Swinging his hat in air, Flashing his saber: "Steady men;—steady there; Forward—Battalion!"

On they plunge—on they dash Thro' the dread gantlet; Death gurgles in the gash Of furious-dealt saber-slash; Over them the volleys crash Thro' the trees like a whirlwind. They pass through the fire of death; Pant riders and steeds for breath; "Halt!" cried the Captain Then he looked up the hill; There on the summit still The "Third Company" paltered. Right through the fire of hell, Where fifty brave Guardsmen fell, Zagonyi had ridden well; Foley had faltered.

Flashed like a flame of fire— Flashed with a menace dire— Flashed with a yell of ire The sword of the Captain. Kennedy saw the flash, And ordered the "Third" to dash Gallantly forward: "Come on, Boys, for Liberty! Forward, and follow me! Remember Kentucky!" Into the hell they broke— Into the fire and smoke— Dealing swift saber-stroke— The gallant Kentuckians. Horses plunge, Riders lunge Heavily forward; Over the fallen they ride Down to Zagonyi's side, Mowing a swath of death Either side,—right and left Piling the slaughtered!

Under the storm of lead, Still hissing overhead, They re-formed the battle-line; Then the brave Captain said: "Guardsmen: avenge our dead! Charge!"—Up the hill they go,— Right into the swarming foe! Woe to the foemen—woe! See mad Zagonyi there; Streams on the wind his hair, Flashes his saber bare; On they go—on they go; Volleys flash, Sabers clash, On they plunge, on they dash, Following Zagonyi Into the hell again.

Hand to hand fight and die Infantry, cavalry; Grappled and mixed they lie— Infantry, cavalry: Hurra!—the Rebels fly! Bravo!—Three Hundred! "Forward and follow me!" Shouted the Captain; "Union and Liberty!" All the Guards thundered. With mad hearts and sabers stout Into the Rebel-rout Gallop the Guardsmen, Thundering their cry again, Cleaving their foes in twain, Piling the heaps of slain Sabered and sundered. Three hundred foes they slayed, Glorious the charge they made, Victorious the charge they made— The gallant Three Hundred! Let the Crown-Poet paid Sing of the "Light Brigade" And "The wild charge they made" When "Some one had blundered;" Following the British Bard, I sing of the Body-Guard— The Heroes that fought so hard— Where nobody blundered. Hail, brave Zagonyi—hail! All hail, the Body-Guard!— The glorious— The victorious— The invincible Three Hundred.



A MILLION MORE

[AUGUST, 1862.]

The nation calls aloud again, For Freedom wounded writhes in pain. Gird on your armor, Northern men; Drop scythe and sickle, square and pen; A million bayonets gleam and flash; A thousand cannon peal and crash; Brothers and sons have gone before; A million more!—a million more!

Fire and sword!—aye, sword and fire! Let war be fierce and grim and dire; Your path be marked by flame and smoke, And tyrant's bones and fetters broke: Stay not for foe's uplifted hand; Sheathe not the sword; quench not the brand Till Freedom reign from shore to shore, Or might 'mid ashes smoke and gore.

If leader stay the vengeance-rod, Let him beware the wrath of God; The maddened millions long his trust Will crush his puny bones to dust, And all the law to guide their ire Will be the law of blood and fire. Come, then—the shattered ranks implore— A million more—a million more!

Form and file and file and form; This war is but God's thunder-storm To purify our cankered land And strike the fetter from the hand. Forced by grim fate our Chief at last Shall blow dear Freedom's bugle-blast; And then shall rise from shore to shore Four millions more—four millions more.[CS]

[CS] There were four millions of slaves in the South when the war began.



ON READING PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S LETTER

To Horace Greeley, of date Aug. 22, 1862—"If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it," etc.

Perish the power that, bowed to dust, Still wields a tyrant's rod— That dares not even then be just, And leave the rest with God.



THE DYING VETERAN

All-day-long the crash of cannon Shook the battle-covered plain; All-day-long the frenzied foemen Dashed against our lines in vain; All the field was piled with slaughter; Now the lurid setting sun Saw our foes in wild disorder, And the bloody day was won.

Foremost on our line of battle All-day-long a veteran stood— Stalwart, brawny, grim and steady, Black with powder, smeared with blood; Never flinched and never faltered In the deadliest storm of lead, And before his steady rifle Lay a score of foemen dead.

Never flinched and never faltered Till our shout of victory rose, Till he saw defeat, disaster, Overwhelmed our flying foes; Then he trembled, then he tottered, Gasped for breath and dropped his gun, Staggered from the ranks and prostrate Fell to the earth. His work was done.

Silent comrades gathered round him, And his Captain sadly came, Bathed his quivering lips with water, Took his hand and spoke his name; And his fellow soldiers softly On his knapsack laid his head; Then his eyes were lit with luster, And he raised his hand and said:

"Good-bye, comrades; farewell, Captain! I am glad the day is won; I am mustered out, I reckon— Never mind-my part is done. We have marched and fought together Till you seem like brothers all, But I hope again to meet you At the final bugle-call.

"Captain, write and tell my mother That she must not mourn and cry, For I never flinched in battle, And I do not fear to die. You may add a word for Mary; Tell her I was ever true. Mary took a miff one Sunday, And so I put on the "blue."

"And I know she has repented, But I never let her see How it cut—her crusty answer— When she turned away from me. I was never good at coaxing, So I didn't even try; But you tell her I forgive her, And she must not mourn and cry,"

Then he closed his eyes in slumber, And his spirit passed away, And his comrades spread a blanket O'er his cold and silent clay. At dawn of morn they buried him, Wrapped in his army-blue. On the bloody field of Fair Oaks Sleeps the soldier tried and true.



GRIERSON'S RAID

Mount to horse—mount to horse; Forward, Battalion! Gallop the gallant force; Down with Rebellion! Over hill, creek and plain Clatter the fearless— Dash away—splash away— Led by the Peerless.

Carbines crack—foemen fly Hither and thither; Under the death-fire They falter and wither. Burn the bridge—tear the track— Down with Rebellion! Cut the wires—cut the wires! Forward, Battalion! Day and night—night and day, Gallop the fearless— Swimming the rivers' floods— Led by the Peerless; Depots and powder-trains Blazing and thundering Masters and dusky slaves Gazing and wondering. Eight hundred miles they ride— Dauntless Battalion— Down through the Southern Land Mad with Rebellion. Into our lines they dash— Brave Cavaliers— Greeting our flag with A thunder of cheers.



THE OLD FLAG

[Written July 4, 1863.]

Have ye heard of Fort Donelson's desperate fight, Where the giant Northwest bared his arm for the right, Where thousands so bravely went down in the slaughter, And the blood of the West ran as freely as water; Where the Rebel Flag fell and our banner arose O'er an army of captured and suppliant foes? Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye of Shiloh, where fierce Beauregard O'erwhelmed us with numbers and pressed us so hard, Till our veteran supporters came up to our aid And the tide of defeat and disaster was staid— Where like grain-sheaves the slaughtered were piled on the plain And the brave rebel Johnston went down with the slain? Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye the cannon-roar down by Stone River? Saw ye the bleeding braves stagger and quiver? Heard ye the shout and the roar and the rattle? And saw ye the desperate surging of battle? Volley on volley and steel upon steel— Breast unto breast—how they lunge and they reel! Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye of Vicksburg—the Southern Gibraltar, Where the hands of our foemen built tyranny's altar, Where their hosts are walled in by a cordon of braves, And the pits they have dug for defense are their graves, Where the red bombs are bursting and hissing the shot, Where the nine thunders death and the charge follows hot? Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Heard ye from Gettysburg?—Glory to God! Bare your heads, O ye Freemen, and kneel on the sod! Praise the Lord!—praise the Lord!—it is done!—it is done! The battle is fought and the victory won! They first took the sword, and they fall by the sword; They are scattered and crushed by the hand of the Lord! Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.



GETTYSBURG: CHARGE OF THE FIRST MINNESOTA

[Written for and read at the Camp Fire of the G.A.R. Department of Minnesota, National Encampment of the Grand Army of the Republic, at Minneapolis, June 22, 1884.]

Ready and ripe for the harvest lay the acres of golden grain Waving on hillock and hillside and bending along the plain. Ready and ripe for the harvest two veteran armies lay Waiting the signal of battle on the Gettysburg hills that day. Sharp rang the blast of the bugles calling the foe to the fray, And shrill from the enemy's cannon the demon shells shrieked as they flew; Crashed and rumbled and roared our batteries ranged on the hill, Rumbled and roared at the front the bellowing guns of the foe Swelling the chorus of hell ever louder and deadlier still, And shrill o'er the roar of the cannon rose the yell of the rebels below, As they charged on our Third Corps advanced and crushed in the lines at a blow. Leading his clamorous legions, flashing his saber in air, Forward rode furious Longstreet charging on Round Top there— Key to our left and center—key to the fate of the field— Leading his wild-mad Southrons on to the lions' lair.

Red with the blood of our legions—red with the blood of our best, Waiting the fate of the battle the lurid sun stood in the west. Hid by the crest of the hills we lay at the right concealed, Prone on the earth that shuddered under us there as we lay. Thunder of cheers on the left!—dashing down on his stalwart bay, Spurring his gallant charger till his foaming flanks ran blood, Hancock, the star of our legions, rode down where our officers stood: "By the left flank, double-quick, march!"— We sprang to our feet and away, Like a fierce pack of hunger-mad wolves that pant for the blood of the prey. "Halt!"—on our battery's flank we stood like a hedge-row of steel— Bearing the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day.

Down at the marge of the valley our broken ranks stagger and reel, Grimy with dust and with powder, wearied and panting for breath, Flinging their arms in panic, flying the hail-storm of death. Rumble of volley on volley of the enemy hard on the rear, Yelling their wild, mad triumph, thundering cheer upon cheer, Dotting the slope with slaughter and sweeping the field with fear. Drowned is the blare of the bugle, lost is the bray of the drum, Yelling, defiant, victorious, column on column they come. Only a handful are we, thrown into the gap of our lines, Holding the perilous breach where the fate of the battle inclines, Only a handful are we—column on column they come.

Roared like the voice of a lion brave Hancock fierce for the fray: "Hurry the reserve battalions; bring every banner and gun: Charge on the enemy, Colvill, stay the advance of his lines: Here—by the God of our Fathers!—here shall the battle be won, Or we'll die for the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills today." Shrill rang the voice of our Colonel, the bravest and best of the brave: "Forward, the First Minnesota! Forward, and follow me, men!" Gallantly forward he strode, the bravest and best of the brave.

Two hundred and fifty and two—all that were left of us then— Two hundred and fifty and two fearless, unfaltering men Dashed at a run for the enemy, sprang to the charge with a yell. On us their batteries thundered solid shot, grape shot and shell; Never a man of us faltered, but many a comrade fell. "Forward, the First Minnesota!"—like tigers we sprang at our foes; Grim gaps of death in our ranks, but ever the brave ranks close: Down went our sergeant and colors—defiant our colors arose! "Fire!" At the flash of our rifles—grim gaps in the ranks of our foes!

"Forward, the First Minnesota!" our brave Colonel cried as he fell Gashed and shattered and mangled—"Forward!" he cried as he fell. Over him mangled and bleeding frenzied we sprang to the fight, Over him mangled and bleeding we sprang to the jaws of hell. Flashed in our faces their rifles, roared on the left and the right, Swarming around us by thousands we fought them with desperate might. Five times our banner went down—five times our banner arose, Tattered and torn but defiant, and flapped in the face of our foes. Hold them? We held them at bay, as a bear holds the hounds on his track, Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, we met them and staggered them back.

Desperate, frenzied, bewildered, blindly they fired on their own; Like reeds in the whirl of the cyclone columns and colors went down. Banner of stars on the right! Hurrah! gallant Gibbon is come! Thunder of guns on the left! Hurrah! 'tis our cannon that boom! Solid-shot, grape-shot and canister crash like the cracking of doom. Baffled, bewildered and broken the ranks of the enemy yield; Panic-struck, routed and shattered they fly from the fate of the field. Hold them? We held them at bay, as a bear holds the hounds on his track; Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, we met them and staggered them back; Two hundred and fifty and two, we held their mad thousands at bay, Met them and baffled and broke them, turning the tide of the day; Two hundred and fifty and two when the sun hung low in heaven, But ah! when the stars rode over we numbered but forty-seven: Dead on the field or wounded the rest of our regiment lay; Never a man of us faltered or flinched in the fire of the fray, For we bore the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day.

Tears for our fallen comrades—cover their graves with flowers, For they fought and fell like Spartans for this glorious land of ours. They fell, but they fell victorious, for the Rebel ranks were riven, And over our land united—one nation from sea to sea, Over the grave of Treason, over millions of men made free, Triumphant the flag of our fathers waves in the winds of heaven— Striped with the blood of her heroes she waves in the winds of heaven. Tears for our fallen comrades—cover their graves with flowers, For they fought and fell like Spartans for this glorious land of ours; And oft shall our children's children garland their graves and say: "They bore the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day."



ADDRESS TO THE FLAG

[After the Battle of Gettysburg.]

Float in the winds of heaven, O tattered Flag! Emblem of hope to all the misruled world: Thy field of golden stars is rent and red— Dyed in the blood of brothers madly spilled By brother-hands upon the mother-soil. O fatal Upas of the savage Nile,[CT] Transplanted hither—rooted—multiplied— Watered with bitter tears and sending forth Thy venom-vapors till the land is mad, Thy day is done. A million blades are swung To lay thy jungles open to the sun; A million torches fire thy blasted boles; A million hands shall drag thy fibers out And feed the fires till every root and branch Lie in dead ashes. From the blackened soil, Enriched and moistened with fraternal blood, Beside the palm shall spring the olive-tree, And every breeze shall waft the happy song Of Freedom crowned with olive-twigs and flowers.

Yea, Patriot-Flag of our old patriot-sires, Honored—victorious on an hundred fields Where side by side for Freedom's mother-land Her Southern sons and Northern fighting fell, And side by side in glorious graves repose,

[CT] African slavery.

I see the dawn of glory grander still, When hand in hand upon this battle-field The blue-eyed maidens of the Merrimac With dewy roses from the Granite Hills, And dark-eyed daughters from the land of palms With orange-blossoms from the broad St. Johns, In solemn concert singing as they go, Shall strew the graves of these fraternal dead. The day of triumph comes, O blood-stained Flag! Washed clean and lustrous in the morning light Of a new era, thou shalt float again In more than pristine glory o'er the land Peace-blest and re-united. On the seas Thou shalt be honored to the farthest isle. The oppressed of foreign lands shall flock the shores To look upon and bless thee. Mothers shall lift Their infants to behold thee as a star New-born in heaven to light the darksome world. The children weeping round the desolate, Sore-stricken mother in the saddened home Whereto the father shall no more return, In future years will proudly boast the blood Of him who bravely fell defending thee. And these misguided brothers who would tear Thy starry field asunder and would trail Their own proud flag and history in the dust, Ere many years will bless thee, dear old Flag, That thou didst triumph even over them. Aye, even they with proudly swelling hearts Will see the glory thou shalt shortly wear, And new-born stars swing in upon thy field In lustrous clusters. Come, O glorious day Of Freedom crowned with Peace. God's will be done! God's will is peace on earth—good-will to men. The chains all broken and the bond all free, O may this nation learn to war no more; Yea, into plow-shares may these brothers beat Their swords and into pruning-hooks their spears, Clasp hands again, and plant these battle-fields With golden corn and purple-clustered vines, And side by side re-build the broken walls— Joined and cemented as one solid stone With patriot-love and Christ's sweet charity.



NEW-YEARS ADDRESS—JANUARY 1, 1866

[Written for the St. Paul Pioneer.]

Good morning—good morning—a happy new year! We greet you, kind friends of the old Pioneer; Hope your coffee is good and your steak is well done, And you're happy as clams in the sand and the sun. The old year's a shadow—a shade of the past; It is gone with its toils and its triumphs so vast— With its joys and its tears—with its pleasure and pain— With its shouts of the brave and its heaps of the slain— Gone—and it cometh—no, never again. And as we look forth on the future so fair Let us brush from the picture the visage of care; The error, the folly, the frown and the tear— Drop them all at the grave of the silent old year. Has the heart been oppressed with a burden of woe? Has the spirit been cowed by a merciless blow? Has the tongue of the brave or the voice of the fair Prayed to God and received no response to its prayer? Look up!—'twas a shadow—the morning is here: A Happy New Year!—O, a Happy New Year! Yet stay for a moment. We cannot forget The fields where the true and the traitor have met; When the old year came in we were trembling with fear Lest Freedom should fall in her glorious career; And the roar of the conflict was loud o'er the land Where the traitor-flag waved in a rebel's red hand; But the God of the Just led the hosts of the Free, And Victory marched from the north to the sea. Behold—where the conflict was doubtful and dire— There—on house-top and hill-top, on fortress and spire— The Old Banner waves again higher and prouder, Though torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder.

God bless the brave soldiers that followed that flag Through river and swamp, over mountain and crag— On the wild charge triumphant—the sullen retreat— On fields spread with victory or piled with defeat; God bless their true hearts for they stood like a wall, And saved us our Country and saved us our all. But many a mother and many a daughter Weep, alas, o'er the brave that went down in the slaughter. Pile the monuments high—not on hill-top and plain— To the glorious sons 'neath the old banner slain— But over the land from the sea to the sea— Pile their monuments high in the hearts of the Free. Heaven bless the brave souls that are spared to return Where the "lamp in the window" ceased never to burn— Where the vacant chair stood at the desolate hearth Since the son shouldered arms or the father went forth. "Peace!—Peace!"—was the shout;—at the jubilant word Wives and mothers went down on their knees to the Lord!

Methinks I can see, through the vista of years— From the memories of old such a vision appears— A gray-haired old veteran in arm-chair at ease, With his grandchildren clustered intent at his knees, Recounting his deeds with an eloquent tongue, And a fire that enkindles the hearts of the young; How he followed the Flag from the first to the last— On the long, weary march, in the battle's hot blast; How he marched under Sherman from center to sea, Or fought under Grant in his battles with Lee; And the old fire comes back to his eye as of yore, And his iron hand clutches his musket once more, As of old on the battle-field ghastly and red, When he sprang to the charge o'er the dying and dead; And the eyes of his listeners are gleaming with fire, As he points to that Flag floating high on the spire.



Heaven bless the new year that is just ushered in; May the Rebels repent of their folly and sin, Depart from their idols, extend the right hand, And pledge that the Union forever shall stand. May they see that the rending of fetter and chain Is their triumph as well—their unspeakable gain; That the Union dissevered and weltering in blood Could yield them no profit and bode them no good. 'Tis human to err and divine to forgive; Let us walk after Christ—bid the poor sinners live, And come back to the fold of the Union once more, And we'll do as the prodigal's father of yore— Kill the well-fatted calf—(but we'll not do it twice) And invite them to dinner—and give them a slice.

There's old Johnny Bull—what a terrible groan Escapes when he thinks of his big "Rebel Loan"— How the money went out with a nod and a grin, But the cotton—the cotton—it didn't come in. Then he thinks of diplomacy—Mason-Slidell, And he wishes that both had been warming in hell, For he got such a rap from our little Bill Seward That the red nose he blows is right hard to be cured; And then the steam pirates he built and equipped, And boasted, you know, that they couldn't be whipped; But alas for his boast—Johnny Bull "caught a Tartar," And now like a calf he is bawling for quarter. Yes, bluff Johnny Bull will be tame as a yearling, Beg pardon and humbly "come down" with his sterling.

There's Monsieur l'Escamoteur[CU] over in France; He has had a clear field and a gay country dance Down there in Mexico—playing his tricks While we had a family "discussion wid sticks"; But the game is played out; don't you see it's so handy For Grant and his boys to march over the Grande. He twists his waxed moustache and looks very blue, And he says to himself, (what he wouldn't to you) "Py tam—dair's mon poor leetle chappie—Dutch Max! Cornes du Diable[CV]—'e'll 'ave to make tracks Or ve'll 'ave all dem tam Yankee poys on our packs."

Monsieur l'Empereur, if your Max can get out With the hair of his head on—he'd better, no doubt. If you'll not take it hard, here's a bit of advice— It is dangerous for big pigs to dance on the ice; They sometimes slip up and they sometimes fall in, And the ice you are on is exceedingly thin. You're au fait, I'll admit, at a sharp game of chance, But the Devil himself couldn't always beat France. Remember the fate of your uncle of yore, Tread lightly, and keep very close to the shore.

The Giant Republic—its future how vast! Now, freed from the follies and sins of the past,

[CU] The Juggler.

[CV] Horns of the Devil!—equivalent to the exclamation—The Devil!

It will tower to the zenith; the ice-covered sea And Darien shall bound-mark the Land of the Free. Behold how the landless, the poor and oppressed, Flock in on our shores from the East and the West! Let them come—bid them come—we have plenty of room; Our forests shall echo, our prairies shall bloom; The iron horse, puffing his cloud-breath of steam, Shall course every valley and leap every stream; New cities shall rise with a magic untold, While our mines yield their treasures of silver and gold, And prosperous, united and happy, we'll climb Up the mountain of Fame till the end of Old Time— Which, as I figure up, is a century hence: Then we'll all go abroad without any expense; We'll capture a comet—the smart Yankee race Will ride on his tail through the kingdom of Space, Tack their telegraph wires to Uranus and Mars; Yea, carry their arts to the ultimate stars, And flaunt the Old Flag at the suns as they pass, And astonish the Devil himself with—their brass.

And now, "Gentle Readers," I'll bid you farewell; I hope this fine poem will please you—and sell. You'll ne'er lack a friend if you ne'er lack a dime; May you never grow old till the end of Old Time; May you never be cursed with an itching for rhyme; For in spite of your physic, in spite of your plaster, The rash will break out till you go to disaster— Which you plainly can see is the case with my Muse, For she scratches away though she's said her adieus.

Dear Ladies, though last to receive my oblation, And last in the list of Mosaic creation, The last is the best, and the last shall be first. Through Eve, sayeth Moses, old Adam was cursed; But I cannot agree with you, Moses, that Adam Sinned and fell through the gentle persuasion of madam. The victim, no doubt, of Egyptian flirtation, You mistook your chagrin for divine inspiration, And condemned all the sex without proof or probation, As we rhymsters mistake the moonbeams that elate us For flashes of wit or the holy afflatus, And imagine we hear the applause of a nation,— But all honest men who are married and blest Will agree that the last work of God is the best.

And now to you all—whether married or single— Whether sheltered by slate, or by "shake," or by shingle— God bless you with peace and with bountiful cheer, Happy houses, happy hearts—and a happy New Year!

P.S.—If you wish all these blessings, 'tis clear You should send in your "stamps" for the old Pioneer.

* * * * *

MY FATHER-LAND

[From the German of Theodor Korner.]

Where is the minstrel's Father-land? Where the sparks of noble spirits flew, Where flowery wreaths for beauty grew, Where strong hearts glowed so glad and true For all things sacred, good and grand: There was my Father-land.

How named the minstrel's Father-land? O'er slaughtered son—'neath tyrants' yokes, She weepeth now—and foreign strokes; They called her once the Land of Oaks— Land of the Free—the German Land: Thus was called my Father-land. Why weeps the minstrel's Father-land? Because while tyrant's tempest hailed The people's chosen princes quailed, And all their sacred pledges failed; Because she could no ear command, Alas must weep my Father-land.

Whom calls the minstrel's Father-land? She calls on heaven with wild alarm— With desperation's thunder-storm— On Liberty to bare her arm, On Retribution's vengeful hand: On these she calls—my Father-land.

What would the minstrel's Father-land? She would strike the base slaves to the ground Chase from her soil the tyrant hound, And free her sons in shackles bound, Or lay them free beneath her sand: That would my Father-land.

And hopes the minstrel's Father-land? She hopes for holy Freedom's sake, Hopes that her true sons will awake, Hopes that just God will vengeance take, And ne'er mistakes the Avenger's hand: Thereon relies my Father-land.



MY HEART'S ON THE RHINE

[From the German of Wolfgang Muller.]

My heart's on the Rhine—in the old Father-land; Where my cradle was rocked by a dear mother's hand, My youth and my friends—they are there yet, I know, And my love dreams of me with her cheeks all aglow; O there where I reveled in song and in wine! Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine.

I hail thee, thou broad-breasted, golden-green stream; Ye cities and churches and castles that gleam; Ye grain-fields of gold in the valley so blue; Ye vineyards that glow in the sun-shimmered dew; Ye forests and caverns and cliffs that were mine! Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine.

I hail thee, O life of the soul-stirring song, Of waltz and of wine, with a yearning so strong, Hail, ye stout race of heroes, so brave and so true. Ye blue-eyed, gay maidens, a greeting to you! Your life and your aims and your efforts be mine; Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine.

My heart's on the Rhine—in the old Father-land, Where my cradle was rocked by a dear mother's hand; My youth and my friends—they are there yet, I know, And my love dreams of me with her cheeks all aglow: Be thou ever the same to me, Land of the Vine! Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine.



THE MINSTREL

[From the German of Goethe]

[Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship, Book 2, Chap. 2.]

"What hear I at the gateway ringing? What bard upon the drawbridge singing? Go bid him to repeat his song Here, in the hall amid the throng," The monarch cried; The little page hied; As back he sped, The monarch said— "Bring in the gray-haired minstrel."

"I greet you, noble lords and peers; I greet you, lovely dames. O heaven begemmed with golden spheres! Who knows your noble names? In hall of splendor so sublime, Close ye, mine eyes—'tis not the time To gaze in idle wonder."

The gray-haired minstrel closed his eyes; He struck his wildest air; Brave faces glowed like sunset skies; Cast down their eyes the fair. The king well pleased with the minstrel's song, Sent the little page through the wondering throng A chain of gold to bear him.

"O give not me the chain of gold; Award it to thy braves, Before whose faces fierce and bold Quail foes when battle raves; Or give it thy chancellor of state, And let him wear its golden weight With his official burdens.

"I sing, I sing as the wild birds sing That in the forest dwell; The songs that from my bosom spring Alone reward me well: But may I ask that page of thine To bring me one good cup of wine In golden goblet sparkling?"

He took the cup; he drank it all: "O soothing nectar thine! Thrice bless'd the highly favored hall Where flows such glorious wine: If thou farest well, then think of me, And thank thy God, as I thank thee For this inspiring goblet."



HOPE

[From the German of Schiller.]

Men talk and dream of better days— Of a golden time to come; Toward a happy and shining goal They run with a ceaseless hum. The world grows old and grows young again, Still hope of the better is bright to men.

Hope leads us in at the gate of life; She crowns the boyish head; Her bright lamp lures the stalwart youth, Nor burns out with the gray-haired dead; For the grave closes over his trouble and care, But see—on the grave—Hope is planted there!

'Tis not an empty and flattering deceit, Begot in a foolish brain; For the heart speaks loud with its ceaseless throbs, "We are not born in vain"; And the words that out of the heart-throbs roll, They cannot deceive the hoping soul.



MRS. MCNAIR

Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem.—Horace.

Mrs. McNair Was tall and fair; Mrs. McNair was slim; She had flashing black eyes and raven hair; But a very remarkably modest air; And her only care was for Mr. McNair; She was exceedingly fond of him.

He sold "notions" and lace With wonderful grace, And kept everything neatly displayed in its place: The red, curly hair on his head and his face He always persisted Should be oiled and twisted; He was the sleekest young husband that ever existed.

Precisely at four He would leave his store; And Mr. McNair with his modest bride Seated snugly and lovingly by his side, On the rural Broadway, Every pleasant day, In his spick-span carriage would rattle away.

Though it must be allowed The lady was proud, She'd have no maid about her the dear lady vowed: So for Mr. McNair The wear and the fare She made it a care of her own to prepare. I think I may guess, being married myself, That the cause was not solely the saving of pelf.

As for her, I'll declare, Though raven her hair, Though her eyes were so dark and her body so slim, She hadn't a thought for a man but him.

From three to nine, Invited to dine, Oft met at the house of the pair divine: Her husband—and who, by the way, was well able— Did all the "agreeable" done at the table; While she—most remarkably loving bride— Sat snugly and modestly down by his side. And when they went out It was whispered about, "She's the lovingest wife in the town beyond doubt;" And every one swore, from pastor to clown, They were the most affectionate couple in town.

Yes; Mrs McNair Was modest and fair; She never fell into a pout or a fret; And Mr. McNair Was her only care And indeed her only pet. The few short hours he spent at his store She spent sewing or reading the romancers' lore; And whoever came It was always the same With the modest lady that opened the door.

But there came to town One Captain Brown To spend a month or more. Now this same Captain Brown Was a man of renown, And a dashing blue coat he wore; And a bright, brass star. And a visible scar On his brow—that he said he had got in the war As he led the van: (He never ran!) In short, he was the "General's" right-hand man, And had written his name on the pages of fame. He was smooth as an eel, And rode so genteel That in less than a week every old maid and dame Was constantly lisping the bold Captain's name.

Now Mr. McNair, As well as the fair, Had a "bump of reverence" as big as a pear, And whoever like Brown Had a little renown, And happened to visit that rural town, Was invited of course by McNair—to "go down."

So merely by chance, The son of the lance Became the bold hero of quite a romance: For Mrs. McNair thought him wonderful fair, And that none but her husband could with him compare. Half her timidity vanished in air The first time he dined with herself and McNair. Now the Captain was arch In whiskers and starch And preferred, now and then, a gay waltz to a march. A man, too, he was of uncommon good taste; Always "at home" and never in haste, And his manners and speech were remarkably chaste. To tell you in short His daily resort He made at the house of "his good friend McNair," Who ('twas really too bad) was so frequently out When the Captain called in "just to see him" (no doubt) But Mrs. McNair was so lonely—too bad; So he chatted and chattered and made her look glad. And many a view Of his coat of blue, All studded with buttons gilt, spangled and new, The dear lady took Half askance from her book, As she modestly sat in the opposite nook. Familiarly he And modestly she Talked nonsense and sense so strangely commingled, That the dear lady's heart was delighted and tingled. A man of sobriety Renown and variety It could not be wrong to enjoy his society: O was it a sin For him to "drop in," And sometimes to pat her in sport on the chin?

Dear Ladies, beware; Dear Ladies, take care— How you play with a lion asleep in his lair: "Mere trifling flirtations"—these arts you employ? Flirtations once led to the siege of old Troy; And a woman was in For the sorrow and sin And slaughter that fell when the Greeks tumbled in; Nor is there a doubt, my dears, under the sun, But they've led to the sack of more cities than one. I would we were all As pure as Saint Paul That we touched not the goblet whose lees are but gall; But if so we must know where a flirtation leads; Beware of the fair and look out for our heads. Remember the odious, Frail woman, Herodias Sent old Baptist John to a place incommodious, And prevailed on her husband to cut off his head For an indiscreet thing the old Nazarite said.

Day in and day out The blue coat was about; And the dear little lady was glad when he came And began to be talkative, tender and tame. Then he gave her a ring, begged a curl of her hair, And smilingly whispered her—"don't tell McNair." She dropped her dark eyes And with two little sighs Sent the bold Captain's heart fluttering up to the skies.

Then alas— What a pass! He fell at the feet of the lady so sweet, And swore that he loved her beyond his control— With all his humanity—body and soul! The lady so frail Turned suddenly pale, Then—sighed that his love was of little avail; For alas, the dear Captain—he must have forgot— She was tied to McNair with a conjugal knot. But indeed She agreed— Were she only a maid he alone could succeed; But she prayed him by all that is sacred and fair, Not to rouse the suspicion of Mr. McNair.

'Twas really too bad, For the lady was sad: And a terrible night o't the poor lady had, While Mr. McNair wondered what was the matter, And endeavored to coax, to console and to flatter. Many tears she shed That night while in bed For she had such a terrible pain in her head! "My dear little pet, where's the camphor?" he said; "I'll go for the doctor—you'll have to be bled; I declare, my dear wife, you are just about dead."

"O no, my dear; I pray you don't fear, Though the pain, I'll admit, is exceeding severe. I know what it is—I have had it before— It's only neuralgia: please go to the store And bring me a bottle of 'Davis's Pain- Killer,' and I shall be better again." He sprang out of bed And away he sped In his gown for the cordial to cure her head, Not dreaming that Cupid had played her a trick— The blind little rogue with a sharpened stick. I confess on my knees I have had the disease; It is worse than the bites of a thousand fleas; And the only cure I have found for these ills Is a double dose of "Purgative Pills." He rubbed her head— And eased it, she said; And he shrugged and shivered and got into bed. He slept and he snored, but the poor lady's pain, When her lord slept soundly, came on again. It wore away However by day And when Brown called again she was smiling and gay; But alas, he must say—to the lady's dismay— In the town of his heart he had staid out his stay, And must leave for his regiment with little delay.

Now Mrs. McNair Was tall and fair, Mrs. McNair was slim, But the like of Brown was so wonderful rare That she could not part with him. Indeed you can see it was truly a pity, For her husband was just going down to the city, And Captain Brown— The man of renown— Could console her indeed were he only in town. So McNair to the city the next Monday hied, And left bold Captain Brown with his modest young bride.

As the serpent did Eve Most sorely deceive— Causing old father Adam to sorrow and grieve, And us, his frail children, tho' punished and chidden, To hanker for things that are sweet but forbidden— The Captain so fair, With his genius so rare, Wound the web of enchantment round Mrs. McNair; And alas, fickle Helen, ere three days were over, She had sworn to elope with her brass-buttoned lover. Like Helen, the Greek, She was modest and meek, And as fair as a rose, but a trifle too weak. When a maid she had suitors as proud as Ulysses, But she ne'er bent her neck to their arms or their kisses, Till McNair he came in With a brush on his chin— It was love at first sight—but a trifle too thin; For, married, the dreams of her girlhood fell short all, And she found that her husband was only a mortal.

Dear ladies, betray us— Fast and loose play us— We'll follow you still like bereaved Menelaus, Till the little blind god with his cruel shafts slay us. Cold-blooded as I am, If a son of old Priam Should break the Mosaic commands and defy 'em, And elope with my "pet," and moreover my riches, I would follow the rogue if I went upon crutches To the plains of old Troy without jacket or breeches. But then I'm so funny If he'd give up the money, He might go to the dogs with himself and his "Honey."

The lovers agreed That the hazardous deed Should be done in the dark and with very great speed, For Mr. McNair—when the fellow came back— Might go crazy and foolishly follow their track. So at midnight should wait At her garden-gate A carriage to carry the dear, precious freight Of Mrs. McNair who should meet Captain Brown At the Globe Hotel in a neighboring town. A man should be hired To convey the admired. And keep mum as a mouse, and do what was desired.

Wearily, wearily half the night The lady watched away; At times in a spirit of sadness quite, But fully resolved on her amorous flight, She longed to be under way; Yet with sad heaving heart and a tear, I declare, As she sorrowfully thought of poor Mr. McNair.

"Poor fellow," she sighed, "I wish he had died Last spring when he had his complaint in the side For I know—I am sure—it will terribly grieve him To have me elope with the Captain and leave him. But the Captain—dear me! I hardly can see Why I love the brave Captain to such a degree: But see—there's the carriage, I vow, at the gate! I must go—'tis the law of inveterate fate." So a parting look At her home she took, While a terrible conflict her timid soul shook; Then turned to the carriage heart-stricken and sore, Stepped hastily in and closed up the door. "Crack!" went the whip; She bit her white lip, And away she flew on her desperate trip. She thought of dear Brown; and poor Mr. McNair— She knew he would hang himself straight in despair.

She sighed And she cried All during the ride, And endeavored—alas, but she could not decide. Three times she prayed; Three times she essayed To call to the driver for pity and aid— To drive her straight To her garden-gate, And break the spell of her terrible fate. But her tongue was tied— She couldn't decide, And she only moaned at a wonderful rate.

No mortal can tell "What might have befell," Had it been a mile more to the Globe Hotel; But as they approached it she broke from her spell. A single hair For Mr. McNair She vowed to herself that she did not care; But the Captain so true In his coat of blue— To his loving arms in her fancy she flew. In a moment or more They drove up to the door, And she felt that her trials and troubles were o'er. The landlord came hastily out in his slippers, For late he had sat with some smokers and sippers. As the lady stepped down With a fret and a frown, She sighed half aloud, "Where is dear Captain Brown?" "This way, my dear madam," politely he said, And straightway to the parlor the lady he led.

Now the light was dim Where she followed him, And the dingy old parlor looked gloomy and grim. As she entered, behold, in contemplative mood, In the farther corner the bold Captain stood In his coat of blue: To his arms she flew; She buried her face in his bosom so true: "Dear Captain!—my Darling!" sighed Mrs. McNair; Then she raised her dark eyes and—Good Heavens' I declare!—- Instead of the Captain 'twas—Mr. McNair! She threw up her arms—she screamed—and she fainted; Such a scene!—Ah the like of it never was painted.

Of repentance and pardon I need not tell; Her vows I will not relate, For every man must guess them well Who knows much of the "married state." Of the sad mischance suffice it to say That McNair had suspected the Captain's "foul play;" So he laid a snare For the bold and the fair, But he captured, alas, only Mrs. McNair; And the brass-buttoned lover—bold Captain Brown— Was nevermore seen in that rural town.

Mrs. McNair Is tall and fair; Mrs. McNair is slim; And her husband again is her only care— She is wonderfully fond of him; For now he is all the dear lady can wish—he Is a captain himself—in the State militia.

1859.



THE DRAFT

[January, 1865.]

Old Father Abe has issued his "Call" For Three Hundred Thousand more! By Jupiter, boys, he is after you all— Lamed and maimed—tall and small— With his drag-net spread for a general haul Of the "suckers" uncaught before.

I am sorry to see such a woeful change In the health of the hardiest; It is wonderful odd—it is "passing strange"— As over the country you travel and range, To behold such a sudden, lamentable change All over the East and the West.

"Blades" tough and hearty a week ago, Who tippled and danced and laughed, Are "suddenly taken," and some quite low With an epidemical illness, you know: "What!—Zounds!—the cholera?" you quiz;—no—no— The doctors call it the "Draft."

What a blessed thing it were to be old— A little past "forty-five;" 'Twere better indeed than a purse of gold At a premium yet unwritten, untold, For what poor devil that's now "enrolled" Expects to get off alive?

There's a miracle wrought in the Democrats; They swore it was murder and sin To put in the "Niggers," like Kilkenny cats, To clear the ship of the rebel rats, But now I notice they swing their hats And shout to the "Niggers"—"Go in!"



THE DEVIL AND THE MONK

Once Satan and a monk went on a "drunk," And Satan struck a bargain with the monk, Whereby the Devil's crew was much increased By penceless poor and now and then a priest Who, lacking cunning or good common sense, Got caught in flagrante and out of pence. Then in high glee the Devil filled a cup And drank a brimming bumper to the pope: Then—"Here's to you," he said, "sober or drunk, In cowl or corsets, every monk's a punk. Whate'er they preach unto the common breed, At heart the priests and I are well agreed. Justice is blind we see, and deaf and old, But in her scales can hear the clink of gold. The convent is a harem in disguise, And virtue is a fig-leaf for the wise To hide the naked truth of lust and lecheries.

"And still the toilers feed the pious breed, And pin their faith upon the bishop's sleeve; Hungry for hope they gulp a moldy creed And dine on faith. 'Tis easier to believe An old-time fiction than to wear a tooth In gnawing bones to reach the marrow truth. Priests murder Truth and with her gory ghost They frighten fools and give the rogues a roast Until without or pounds or pence or price— Free as the fabled wine of paradise— They furnish priestly plates with buttered toast. Your priests of superstition stalk the land With Jacob's winning voice and Esau's hand; Sinners to hell and saints to heaven they call, And eat the fattest fodder in the stall. They, versed in dead rituals in dead language deep, Talk Greek to th' grex and Latin to their sheep, And feed their flocks a flood of cant and college For every drop of sense or useful knowledge."

"I beg your pardon," softly said the monk, "I fear your Majesty is raving drunk. I would be courteous." But the Devil laughed And slyly winked and sagely shook his head. "My fawning dog," the sage satanic said, "Wags not his tail for me but for my bread. Brains rule to day as they have ruled for aye, And craft grown craftier in this modern day Still rides the fools, but in a craftier way; And priestcraft lingers and survives its use; What was a blessing once is now abuse: Grown fat and arrogant on power and pelf, The old-time shepherd has become a wolf And only feeds his flocks to feast himself. To clink of coin the pious juggler jumps, For still he thinks, as in the days of old, The key to holy heaven is made of gold, That in the game of mortals money is trumps, That golden darts will pierce e'en Virtue's shield, And by the salve of gold all sins are healed. So old Saint Peter stands outside the fence With hand outstretched for toll of Peter-pence, And sinners' souls must groan in Purgatory Until they pay the admission-fee to glory.

"There was an honest poet once on earth Who beat all other bardies at a canter; Rob' Burns his mother called him at his birth. Though handicapped by rum and much a ranter, He won the madcap race in Tam O'Shanter. He drove a spanking span from Scottish heather, Strong-limbed, but light of foot as flea or feather— Rhyme and Reason, matched and yoked together, And reined them with light hand and limber leather. He wrote to me once on a time—I mind it— A bold epistle and the poet signed it. He thought to cheat "Auld Nickie" of his dues, But who outruns the Devil casts his shoes; And so at last from frolicking and drinkin', 'Some luckless hour' sent him to Hell 'alinkin'![CW] Times had been rather dull in my dominion, And all my imps like lubbers lay a snoring, But Burns began to rhyme us his opinion, And in ten minutes had all Hell aroaring. Then Robbie pulled his book of poems out And read us sundry satires from the book; 'Death and Doctor Hornbook' raised a shout Till all the roof-tin on the rafters shook; And when his 'Unco Guid' the bardie read The crew all clapped their hands and yelled like mad; But 'Holy Willie's Prayer' 'brought down the house'. So I was glad to give the bard a pass And a few pence for toll at Peter's gate; For if the roof of Hell were made of brass Bob Burns would shake it off as sure as fate. I mind it well—that poem on a louse! 'O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us,' Monk, 'To see oursels as others see us'—drunk; 'It wad frae monie a blunder free us'—list!— 'And foolish notion.' Abbot, bishop, priest, 'What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e' you all, 'And ev'n devotion.' Cowls and robes would fall, And sometimes leave a bishop but a beast, And show a leper sore where erst they made a priest."

[CW] Tripping. See Burns' "Address to the Deil"

Not to be beat the jolly monk filled up His silver mug with rare old Burgundy; "Here's to your health," he said, "your Majesty"— And drained the brimming goblet at a gulp— "'For when the Devil was sick the Devil a monk would be; But when the Devil got well a devil a monk was he.' In vino veritas is true, no doubt— When wine goes in teetotal truth comes out. To shake a little Shakespeare in the wine: 'Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall'; But in the realm of Fate, as I opine, A devil a virtue is or sin at all. 'The Devil be damned' is what we preach, you know it— At mass and vespers, holy-bread and dinner: From priest to pope, from pedagogue to poet, We sanctify the sin and damn the sinner. This poet Shakespeare, whom I read with pleasure, Wrote once—I think, in taking his own 'Measure':— 'They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad.' The reason halts: If read between the lines—not by the letter— 'Tis plain enough that Shakespeare was atrimmin' His own unruly ship and furling sail To meet a British tempest or a gale, And keep cold water from his wine and women. Now I'll admit, when he's a little mellow, The Devil himself's a devilish clever fellow, And, though his cheeks and paunch are somewhat shrunk, He only lacks a cowl to make a monk. Time is the mother of twins et hic et nunc; Come, hood your horns and fill the mug abrimmin', For we are cheek by jowl on wit and wine and women."

And so the monk and Devil filled the mug, And quaffed and chaffed and laughed the night away; And when the "wee sma" hours of night had come, The monk slipped out and stole the abbot's rum; And when the abbot came at break of day, There cheek by jowl—horns, hoofs, and hood—they lay, With open missal and an empty jug, And broken beads and badly battered mug— In fond embrace—dead drunk upon the rug.

Think not, wise reader, that the bard hath drunk The wine that fumed these vagaries from the monk; Nor, in the devil ethics thou hast read, There spake the poet in the Devil's stead. Let Virtue be our helmet and our shield, And Truth our weapon—weapon sharp and strong And deadly to all error and all wrong. Yea, armed with Truth, though rogues and rascals throng The citadel of Virtue shall not yield, For God's right arm of Truth prevails in every field.



THE TARIFF ON TIN

Monarch of Hannah's rocking-chair, With unclipped beard and unkempt hair, Sitting at ease by the kitchen fire, Nor heeding the wind and the driving sleet, Jo Lumpkin perused the Daily Liar— A leading and stanch Democratic sheet, While Hannah, his wife, in her calico, Sat knitting a pair of mittens for Jo.

"Hanner," he said, and he raised his eyes And looked exceedingly grave and wise, "The kentry's agoin, I guess, tu the dogs: Them durned Republikins, they air hogs: A dev'lish purty fix we air in; They've gone un riz the teriff on tin."

"How's thet?" said Hannah, and turned her eyes With a look of wonder and vague surprise.

"Why them confoundered Congriss chaps Hez knocked the prices out uv our craps: We can't sell butter ner beans no more Tu enny furren ship er shore, Becuz them durned Republikins Hez gone un riz the teriff on tins."

Hannah dropped her knitting-work on her knees, And looked very solemn and ill-at-ease: She gazed profoundly into the fire, Then hitched her chair a little bit nigher, And said as she glanced at the Daily Liar With a sad, wan look in her buttermilk eyes: "I vum thet's a tax on punkin-pies, Fer they know we allers bakes 'em in Pans un platters un plates uv tin."

"I wouldn't agrumbled a bit," said Jo, "Et a tax on sugar un salt un sich; But I swow it's a morul political sin Tu drive the farmer intu the ditch With thet pesky teriff on tin. Ef they'd a put a teriff on irn un coal Un hides un taller un hemlock bark, Why thet might a helped us out uv a hole By buildin uv mills un givin uv work, Un gladd'nin many a farmer's soul By raisin the price of pertaters un pork: But durn their eyes, it's a morul sin— They've gone un riz the teriff on tin. I wouldn't wonder a bit ef Blaine Hed diskivered a tin mine over in Maine; Er else he hez foundered a combinashin Tu gobble the tin uv the hull creashin. I'll bet Jay Gould is intu the'trust,' Un they've gone in tergether tu make er bust; Un tu keep the British frum crowdin in They've gone un riz the teriff on tin. What'll we du fer pans un pails When the cow comes in un the old uns fails? Tu borrer a word frum Scripter, Hanner, Un du it, tu, in pious manner, You'll hev tu go down in yer sock fer a ducat, Er milk old Roan in a wooden bucket: Fer them Republikins—durn their skin— Hez riz sich a turrible teriff on tin. Tu cents a pound on British tin-plate! Why, Hanner, you see, at thet air rate, Accordin tu this ere newspaper-print— Un it mus be so er it wouldn't' be in't— It's a dollar un a half on one tin pan, Un about six shillin on a coffee-can, Un ten shillin, Hanner, on a dinner-pail! Gol! won't it make the workin men squeal— Thet durned Republikin tax un steal! They call it Protecshin, but blast my skin Ef it aint a morul political sin— Thet durned Republikin teriff on tin.

"Un then they hev put a teriff on silk Un satin un velvit un thet air ilk, Un broadcloth un brandy un Havanny cigars, Un them slick silk hats thet our preacher wears; Un he'll hev tu wear humspun un drink skim milk. Un, Hanner, you see we'll hev tu be savin, Un whittle our store-bill down tu a shavin; You can't go tu meetin in silks; I vum You'll hev tu wear ging-um er stay tu hum." But Hannah said sharply—"I won't though, I swum!" And Hannah gazed wistfully on her Jo As he rocked himself mournfully to and fro, And then she looked thoughtfully into the fire, While the sleet fell faster and the wind blew higher, And Jo took a turn at the Daily Liar.

1890.



PAT AND THE PIG

Old Deutchland's the country for sauerkraut and beer, Old England's the land of roast beef and good cheer, Auld Scotland's the mother of gristle and grit, But Ireland, my boy, is the mother of wit. Once Pat was indicted for stealing a pig, And brought into court to the man in the wig. The indictment was long and so lumbered with Latin That Pat hardly knew what a pickle was Pat in; But at last it was read to the end, and the wig Said: "Pat, are you guilty of stealing the pig?" Pat looked very wise, though a trifle forlorn, And he asked of milord that the witness be sworn. "Bless yer sowl," stammered Pat, "an' the day ye was born! Faith how in the divil d'ye think Oi can tell Till Oi hear the ividince?" Pat reckoned well; For the witness was sworn and the facts he revealed— How Pat stole the piggy and how the pig squealed, Whose piggy the pig was and what he was worth, And the slits in his ears and his tail and—so forth; But he never once said, 'in the county of Meath,'[CX] So Pat he escaped by the skin of his teeth.