THE RIVER FIGHT.

All outworn on our cruel Land, —
The withered hand of a slave!

But all along the Levee,

In a dark and drenching rain,
(By this, 't was pouring heavy,)
Stood a fierce and sullen train.
A strange and frenzied time!

There were scowling rage and pain,
Curses, howls and hisses,

Out of hate's black abysses,
Their courage and their crime

All in vain all in vain!

For from the hour that the Rebel Stream,
With the Crescent City lying abeam,
Shuddered under our keel,
Smit to the heart with self-struck sting,
Slavery died in her scorpion-ring,
And Murder fell on his steel.

'Tis well to do and dare;
But ever may grateful prayer
Follow, as aye it ought,
When the good fight is fought,

When the true deed is done.
Aloft in heaven's pure light,
(Deep azure crossed on white,)
Our fair Church pennant waves
O'er a thousand thankful braves,
Bareheaded in God's bright sun.

Lord of mercy and frown,

Ruling o'er sea and shore,
Send us such scene once more!

All in line of battle

When the black ships bear down

107

On tyrant fort and town,

Mid cannon cloud and rattle;
And the great guns once more
Thunder back the roar

Of the traitor walls ashore,

And the traitor flags come down!

New Orleans Era.

THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY.

I.

IN the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi's waves, Dwells the haughty Creole matron with her daughters and her slaves;

Round her throng the rebel knighthood, fierce of word and proud of crest,

Slightly redolent of julep, cocktail, cobbler, and the rest Of those miscellaneous tipples that the Southern heart

impel

To the mighty threats of prowess, whose dread fruits we know so well.*

Round the matron and her daughters ring chivalric voices

high:

Not the meanest soul among them but is sworn to do or

die!

"Never to the Yankee Vandal, foul and hornéd thing of mud,

Will they leave their maids and matrons while a single vein holds blood!

* It is singular that the juleps, cocktails, and "miscellaneous tipples" which European writers continually ridicule as a trait of Yankee life, are all, as we know, of Southern invention.

THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 109 Death? They crave it

Perish every Southron sooner!

as a boon !"

Then each desperate knight retires to his favorite Quadroon!

II.

In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi's waves, Sits the haughty Creole matron with her daughters and her slaves;

But her eye no longer flashes with the fire it held of late, For, alas! the Yankee Vandals thunder at the city gate. Proud on Mississippi's waters, looming o'er the dark levée, Ride the gallant Northern war-ships, floats the Banner of the Free!

While a calm-eyed Captain paces through a sea of scowling men,

To demand the full surrender of the city, there and then. Yet the haughty Creole lady's sorest sorrow lies not there: 'Tis not that the Yankee mudsills will pollute her sacred

air;

Though her delicate fibres shudder doubtless at the dreadful thought

That her soft and fragrant breathings may by Yankee lips

be caught;

No! the cut of all unkindest that which makes her

heart dilate

Is, her knights have all "skedaddled," and have left her to her fate!

Yes; no strength of smash or julep, nor the cocktail's bitterest heat,

Kept those recreant warriors steady when they saw the Yankee fleet;

All their desperate prowess vanished like a mist before

the moon,

Left the Creole maid and matron, even left the dear Quadroon!

III.

In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi's waves, Walks the haughty Creole matron with her daughters and her slaves;

Freedom's flag is floating o'er her, Freedom's sons she passes by,

And the olden scornful fire burns rekindled in her

eye.

How dare Freedom thus insult her? How dare mudsills walk the pave

Whose each stone to her is hallowed by the toil-sweat of the slave?

"What? you call that rag your banner? You, sir, hireling, hound, I mean!

Thus I spit upon your emblem! Let your churl's blood wash it clean!

Well you wear your liveried jacket, hireling bravo that

you are!

Lackey, paid to rob and murder in a thin disguise of war!"

Thus, with many a taunting gesture, speaks she to the Northern braves,

As she flaunts along the sidewalk with her daughters and her slaves!

Naught reply the Northern soldiers, smiling, though they feel the stings

Of the foul and meretricious taunts the Southern lady

flings;

So she passes, while the venom from her fragrant mouth

still slips

Like the loathsome toads and lizards from the enchanted maiden's lips;

And her spotless soul joys, doubtless, soft her modest bosom beats,

That she so has aped the harlot in her city's public streets!

THE BALLAD OF THE CRESCENT CITY. 111

IV.

In the City of the Crescent, by red Mississippi's waves, Walks the haughty Creole lady with her daughters and her slaves;

But her eye no longer flashes with its wonted fire of hate; Her tongue is strangely silent now, and modest is her

gait;

With quiet mien and humble she passes soldiers by,
Nor ever on our country's flag turns a defiant eye.
What wondrous glamour so hath changed the haughty
lady's mien ?

The crime of her rebellious heart hath she in sorrow

seen?

Or has her spotless bosom owned that Yankees there may be

Worthy of even a Creole's love? Is hers no longer free? No; it is none of these have tamed the lady's rebel soul; On each mudsill she, certes, still breathes inward curse and dole!

And as for love, save for her knight, no love her heart can stir,

Since o'er a julep's sugared brink he swore to die for her; For though he died not, but preferred another field to

seek,

'Twas only, as she knows, because the julep was too weak!

'Twas none of these! A sterner cause for change of

mien had she!

For spitting once too often at the Banner of the Free, And once too oft through her pure lips the venom letting