In vain the bells of war shall ring
Of triumphs and revenges,
While still is spared the evil thing
That severs and estranges.
But, blest the ear

That yet shall hear
The jubilant bell
That rings the knell
Of Slavery forever!

Then let the selfish lip be dumb,

And hushed the breath of sighing;
Before the joy of peace must come
The pains of purifying.

God give us grace,
Each in his place

To bear his lot,

And, murmuring not,
Endure, and wait, and labor!

JEFF DAVIS,

ON HIS ELECTION AS PRESIDENT FOR SIX YEARS.*

SATAN was chained a thousand years,

We learn from Revelation ·
That he might not, as it appears,
Longer "deceive the nation."
'T is hard to say, between the two,
Which is the greater evil,

Six years of liberty, for you
A thousand for the devil!

*November 9, 1861.

JEFF DAVIS.

'Tis passing strange, if you've no fears, Of being hanged within six years!

A hundred thousand rebels' ears
Would not one half repay
The widows' and the orphans' tears,
Shed for the slain to-day :

The blood of all those gallant braves,
Whom Southern traitors slew,
Cries sternly, from their loyal graves,
For vengeance upon you;

And if you're not prepared to die
The death of Haman, fly, Jeff, fly!

Fly, traitor, to some lonely niche,
Far, far beyond the billow;
Thy grave an ill-constructed ditch -
Thy sexton General Pillow.
There may you turn to rottenness,
By mortal unannoyed,

Your ashes undisturbed, unless

Your grave is known by Floyd.

He'll surely trouble your repose,
And come to steal your burial-clothes.

EPITAPH.

Pause for an instant, loyal reader.
Here lies Jeff, the great seceder.
Above, he always lied, you know,
And now the traitor lies below.
His bow was furnished with two strings,
He flattered crowds, and fawned on kings;

Repaid his country's care with evil,

And prayed to God, and served the devil.
The South could whip the Yankee nation,
So he proposed humiliation!

Their blessings were so everlasting,

63

'Twas just the time for prayer and fasting!
The record may be searched in vain,
From West-Point Benedict to Cain,
To find a more atrocious knave,
Unless in Cæsar Borgia's grave.

YANKEE PRIDE.

BY BRIG.-GENERAL LANDER.

On hearing that the Confederate troops had said that "Fewer of the Massachusetts officers would have been killed if they had not been too proud to surrender."

AY, deem us proud! for we are more
Than proud of all our mighty dead;
Proud of the bleak and rock-bound shore
A crowned oppressor cannot tread.

Proud of each rock and wood and glen,
Of every river, lake, and plain ;
Proud of the calm and earnest men
Who claim the right and will to reign.

Proud of the men who gave us birth,

Who battled with the stormy wave,
To sweep the red man from the earth,
And build their homes upon his grave.

Proud of the holy summer morn,

They traced in blood upon its sod;
The rights of freemen yet unborn,

Proud of their language and their God.

Proud, that beneath our proudest dome,
And round the cottage-cradled hearth,

There is a welcome and a home

For every stricken race on earth.

PACIFIC MACARONICS.

Proud that yon slowly sinking sun
Saw drowning lips grow white in prayer,
O'er such brief acts of duty done

As honor gathers from despair.

Pride,

- 't is our watchword, "Clear the boats! Holmes, Putnam, Bartlett, Pierson - here!" And while this crazy wherry floats,

66

"Let's save our wounded!" cries Revere.

Old State · some souls are rudely sped
This record for thy Twentieth corps,
Imprisoned, wounded, dying, dead,
It only asks," Has Sparta more?"

65

Boston Post, Nov. 23, 1861.

PACIFIC MACARONICS.

SEWARD, qui est Rerum cantor
Publicarum, atque Lincoln,
Vir excelsior, mitigantur –

A delightful thing to think on.

Blatat Plebs Americana,

Quite impossible to bridle.

Nihil refert; navis cana

Brings back Mason atque Slidell.

JOHN BROWN'S SONG.*

John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave ;
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
His soul is marching on!

CHORUS.

Glory, halle hallelujah! Glory, halle hallelujah! Glory, halle hallelujah!

His soul is marching on!

He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!
He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!
He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord!
His soul is marching on!

CHORUS.

Glory, halle hallelujah! Glory, halle hallelujah! Glory, halle — hallelujah !

His soul is marching on!

John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back!
John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back!
John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back!
His soul is marching on!

*The origin of this senseless farrago as senseless as the equally popular "Lillibulero" of the times of the great civil commotion in England — is, I believe, quite unknown. But sung to a degraded and jiggish form of a grand and simple old air, it was a great favorite in the early part of the war. It was heard everywhere in the streets; regiments marched to it, and the air had its place in the programme of every barrel-organ grinder. In fact no song was sung so much during the rebellion. Its popularity was doubtless due to its presentation of a single idea, and in great measure to the very marked rhythm of the air to which it was adapted, or rather, which had been adapted to it.