Chapter IX: Part 9

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.

[CX] In criminal cases it is necessary to prove that the crime was committed in the county where the venue is laid.

NOTES

[1] Called in the Dakota tongue "_Hok-see-win-na-pee Wo-han-pee_"--Virgins' Dance (or Feast).