FORCEYTHE WILLSON. [Born 18. Died 1867.] "THE OLD SERGEANT, AND OTHER POEMS." 1867. But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, To tell the story as if what it speaks of "Come a little nearer, Doctor,-thank you,let me take the cup: Draw your chair up,-draw it closer, -just another little sup! May-be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well used up, Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a going up! "Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to try "Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh; "It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!" "What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you come to die." Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that countersign!' And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine! "As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave; But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive: That's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' What Head-quarters! - Of the Brave.' 'But the great Tower?'-That,' he answered, 'Is the way, sir, of the Brave!' "Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light; At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright; Ah!' said he, you have forgotten the New Uniform to-night, Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night!' "And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I— Doctor-did you hear a footstep? Hark!-God bless you all! Good-by! Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I die, To my Son-my Son that's coming, he won't get here till I die! "Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did before, And to carry that old musket "-Hark! a knock is at the door! "Till the Union-" See! it opens !—“ Father! Father! speak once more!""Bless you!"-gasped the old, gray Sergeant, and he lay and said no more! AUTUMN SONG. IN Spring the Poet is glad, And has something sad to say: For the Wind moans in the Wood, And the Leaf drops from the Tree; And the cold Rain falls on the graves of the Good, And the cold Mist comes up from the Sea: And the Autumn Songs of the Poet's soul JOHN HAY. [Born 1839.] "PIKE COUNTY BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS." 1871. LITTLE BREECHES. I DON'T go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, And free-will, and that sort of thing,But I b'lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring. I come into town with some turnips, Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight,And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. The snow come down like a blanket And left the team at the door. Went team, Little Breeches and all. Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck horses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,-but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found. And here all hope soured on me, I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, By this the torches was played out, Went off for some wood to a sheepfold We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And THAR Sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me." How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm. Is a derned sight better business JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. WALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Whar have you been for the last three year He weren't no saint,-them engineers And another one here, in Pike; And this was all the religion he had,To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank All boats has their day on the Mississip, The Movaster was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And quick as a flash she turned, and made There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS. [Born 1840.] "EPISODES AND LYRIC PIECES." 1870. THE RETURN OF PARIS. I STUMBLED thrice, and twice I fell and lay Fallen once again-this time against the goal. A song, love;-but my singing voice is gone-- (A marvellous thing to have made no other song!) The only one-which, many months ago, Of threatening banners where the camp-fires were And then I thought-if only for a day Ah! why indeed? And yet, love, let me dare Not even, indeed, when in the early May We will not ask: we have attained to Love- No sound floats hither from the smoky plain : I never loved it, and it loved me not- And tried to quench and could not-there it smokes ! And there the shed blood of its people soaks |