SONG OF THE COPPERHEAD.

Grow black with gloom, and from its thunder-lair
Let lightning leap, and scorch th' accursed air;
Until the suffering earth,

Of treason sick, shall spew the monster forth,
And each regenerate sod

Be consecrate anew, to Freedom and to God!

157

Delia R. German.

SONG OF THE COPPERHEAD.

THERE was glorious news, for our arms were victorious 'T was sometime ago and 't was somewhere out

West;

The big guns were booming,

But one man was gloomy, and glad all the rest!

Intending emotions delightful to damp,

He hummed and he hawed, and he sneered and he

sighed,

A snake in the grass, and a spy in the camp,

While the honest were laughing, the Copperhead cried!

There was news of a battle, and sad souls were aching
The fate of their brave and beloved ones to learn;
Pale wives stood all tearless, their tender hearts breaking
For the gallant good-man who would never return!
We had lost all but honor, so ran the sad story,
Oh! bitter the cup that the Patriot quaffed!
He had tears for our flag, he had sighs for our glory,
He had groans for our dead, — but the Copperhead
laughed !

The traitor! the sneak! say, what fate shall await him, Who forgets his fair land, and who spits on her fame? Let no woman love him! Let honest men hate him!

Let his children refuse to be known by his name!

In the hour of our sorrow all recreant we found him,
In the hour of his woe may he sigh for a friend!
Let his conscience upbraid, let his memory hound him,
And no man take note of the Copperhead's end!
Vanity Fair.

AT GETTYSBURG.*

LIKE a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer sun
When to saddle we leaped at the order,
Spurred on by the boom of the deep-throated gun,
That told of the foe on our border.

A mist in our rear lay Antietam's dark plain,
And thoughts of its carnage came o'er us;
But smiling before us surged fields of ripe grain,
And we swore none should reap it before us.

That night, with the ensign who rode by my side,
On the camp's dreary edge I stood picket;
Our ears intent, lest every wind-rustle should hide
A spy's stealthy tread in the thicket;

And, there, while we watched the first arrows of dawn
Through the veil of the rising mist's quiver,
He told how the foeman had closed in upon
His home by the Tennessee River.

He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down,
With last breath the traitor flag scorning,
(And his brow at the mem'ry grew dark with a frown
That paled the red light of the morning.)

For days he had followed the cowardly band;
And when one lagged to forage or trifle,

Had seared in his forehead the deep Minié brand,
And scored a fresh notch on his rifle.

*The Battle of Gettysburg was fought July 1st, 2d, and 3d, 1863.

AT GETTYSBURG.

"But one of the rangers had cheated his fate, -
For him he would search the world over."
Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate,
Ne'er saw I in woman-scorned lover.

159

O, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle!

Or fancied those dreamy eyes - soft as a girl's

Could light with the fury of battle?

To horse! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell
Overhead through the forest were crashing.

A cheer for the flag! and the summer light fell
On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing.
As mad ocean waves to the storm-revel flock,

So on we dashed, heedless of dangers;

A moment our long line surged back at the shock
Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers.

I looked for our ensign: ahead of his troop,
Pressing on through the conflict infernal,

His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop,
He spurred to the side of his Colonel.

And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright sword
Through shako and gaudy plume shiver,

With "this for the last of the murderous horde!"
And "this for the home by the river!"

At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe,
By a shell-shattered caisson we found him;
And we buried him there in the sunset glow,
With the dear old flag knotted around him.

Yet how could we mourn, when every proud strain
Told of foemen hurled back in disorder;

When we knew that the North reaped her rich harvest

grain

Unharmed by a foe on her border!

Harpers' Weekly.

HOW ARE YOU, GENERAL LEE?

OF General Lee, the Rebel chief, you all perhaps du know

How he canie North, a short time since, to spend a month

or so ?

But soon he found the climate warm, although a Southern

man,

And quickly hurried up his cakes,* and toddled home

again.

Chorus — How are you, General Lee? it is; why don't you longer stay?

How are your friends in Maryland and Pennsylvani-a?

Jeff. Davis met him coming back: " Why, General Lee," he said,

"What makes you look and stagger so? there's whiskey in your head."

"Not much, I think," says General Lee; "No whiskey's there, indeed;

What makes me feel so giddy is, I've taken too much Meade!"

"But you seem ill yourself, dear Jeff.

sad enough;

You look quite

I think, while I've been gone, Old Abe has used you

rather rough."

"Well, yes, he has, and that's a fact; it makes me feel downcast,

As long as the importance of hurrying buckwheat pancakes from the griddle to the table is impressed upon the American mind, this vile slang will need no explanation. But the fame of the rebel march into Pennsylvania and of the victory of Gettysburg will probably outlive even the taste for those alluring compounds.

For they've bothered us at Vicksburg, so 't is Granted

them at last."

Chorus — Then, how are you, Jeff. Davis? What is it makes you sigh?

How are your friends at Vicksburg and in
Mississippi-i?

“Yes, Vicksburg they have got quite sure, and Richmond soon they'll take;

At Port Hudson, too, they have some Banks I fear we cannot break :

While Rosecrans, in Tennessee, swears he'll our army

flog,

And prove if Bragg's a terrier good, Holdfast's a better dog."

How are you, Jeff. Davis? Would you not

like to be

A long way out of Richmond and the Confede-ra-cy?

For, with "Porter" on the river, and "Meade upon the land,

I guess you'll find that these mixed drinks are more than you can stand.

HYMN

FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1863.

BY GEORGE II. BOKER.

LORD, the people of the land
In Thy presence humbly stand;
On this day, when Thou didst free
Men of old from tyranny,
We, their children, bow to Thee.

Help us, Lord, our only trust!
We are helpless, we are dust!