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Then, brothers, fearful though the toil be,
Strain every nerve to bear the weight;
Think what reward will a free soil be,

Beyond the battle's lurid strait;
Though unexampled, long, the moil be,
Joys just as vast your labors wait:
To arms and fight!

DON'T MEDDLE WITH THE YANKEES,
JOHN BULL.

BY JAMES S. WATKINS.

Written while the fever ran high on recognition by England and France, during the first year of the unnatural war, and inscribed to the English secessionists of to-day.

Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,

66

They'll teach you a thing, now, or two;" Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,

Roll back, O weary years! and bring
Again the gay and cloudless morn,

Though fierce and strong the war-whirl's boil be, When every bird was on the wing,

True to the end there can no foil be:
We war for right.

And my blithe summer boys were born!
My Courtney fair, my Philip bold,

With his laughing eyes and his locks of gold!
No nested bird in the valley wide
Sang as my heart that eventide.

Don't meddle, whatever you do!
They are ten times as strong, Johnny Bull,

And a hundred more daring to kill,
Than, when in their weakness, John Bull,
Your "hirelings" besieged Bunker Hill.
Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,
They've Freedom and Liberty's might;
Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,

Or else you may force them to fight.
And then, when in their strength, John Bull,
They cross the St. Lawrence, “mi boy,"
Look out to be served, Johnny Bull,

As you treated the captured Sepoy.

They despise our Republic, John Bull,

And curse the whole "Yankeedom race;" But we hold, with your subjects, John Bull, To quarrel, were a double disgrace.

The Yankees don't boast, Johnny Bull,

They but speak out their mind as it is; Then I pray you don't meddle, John Bull,

For "the Yankees are awful when riz!"
They had hoped to be friendly, John Bull,

At least to have lived that profession;
But if meddled with, mark it, John Bull,
They'll serve you, as of old, with the "Hessian."

We've "a 'ost hov your 'eroes," John Bull,

Growing fat from the wealth of our land, Who profess to be loyal, John Bull,

When, in fact, they're a treacherous band: VOL. VIII.-POETRY 5

Therefore, don't you meddle, John Bull,

Don't meddle with the Yankees, I pray;
Or else "they may lam you," John Bull,

And that, at no far distant day.
They're "a nation all mighty," John Bull,
Teaching right to the whimsical South:
Therefore, I would pray you, John Bull,
Put a stop to your meddling mouth.
BALTIMORE, MD., 1862.

THE VIRGINIA MOTHER.
BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

My home is drear and still to-night,
Where Shenandoah murmuring flows;
The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight,
And balmily the south wind blows;
But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall
Black as the pines the shadows fall;
And the only friend within my door
Is the sleeping hound on the moonlit floor.

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"D'ye see, lad, that black-looking peak?" said a sergeant, scarred over and gray,

To a boy, both in glow of a camp-fire, whence wavered their shadows away;

"Strap tightly your drum, or you'll lose it when climbing yon hill; for the word

Is to take that pricked ear of old Lookout, where
Bragg's shots so often we've heard;
Our noble commander has said it, and we all should
be minding our prayers,

By dawn we must plant the old flag where the rebels now shame us with theirs ;

Hurrah for bold General Hooker, the leader that never knew fear,

He's to lead us! now, comrades, be ready and give at the rolls a good cheer!

I look for the time at each moment!"--just then the long-rolls swelled about,

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That the rebels still cling to their stronghold, and hope for the moment dispels.

But the roll of the thunder seems louder, flame angrier smites on the eye,

The scene from the fog is laid open-a battle-field fought in the sky!

Eye to eye, hand to hand, all are struggling-ha!
traitors, ha! rebels, ye know

Now the might in the arm of our heroes! dare ye bide
their roused terrible blow?
They drive them, our braves drive the rebels! they
flee, and our heroes pursue!
We scale rock and trunk-from their breastworks they
run! oh! the joy of the view!

Hurrah! how they drive them! hurrah! how they
drive the fierce rebels along!
One more cheer-still another! each lip seems as ready
to burst into song.

On, on, ye bold blue-coated heroes! thrust, strike,
pour your shots in amain!
Banners fly, columns rush, seen and lost in the quick,
fitful gauzes of rain.

O boys! how your young blood is streaming! but falter not, drive them to rout!

No, no, for the battle is ending; the ranks on the slope of the crest

Are the true Union blue, and our banners alone catch the gleams of the west;

Though the Cross-bar still flies from the summit, we roll out our cheering of pride!

Not in vain, O ye heroes of Lookout! O brave Union boys! have ye died!

One brief struggle more sees the banner, that blot on
the sky, brushed away,
When the broad moon now basking upon us shall
yield her rich lustre to-day:

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Hurrah! peals from glad Chattanooga! bliss seems

every bosom to fill !

From barricade, breastwork, and rifle-pit, how the scourged rebels pour out!

We see the swift plunge of the caisson within the dim background of haze,

With the shreds of platoons inward scudding, and fainter their batteries blaze;

As the mist-curtain falls all is blank; as it lifts, a wild picture out glares,

A wild shifting picture of battle, and dread our warm hopefulness shares;

But never the braves of the White Star have sullied their fame in defeat,

And they will not to-day see the triumph pass by them Shall be told the proud deeds of the White Star, the the foeman to greet!

cloup-treading host of the free! The camp-fire shall blaze to the chorus, the picketpost peal it on high,

Thanks, thanks, O ye heroes of Lookout! O brave
Union boys! during time

Shall stand this your column of glory, shall shine this
your triumph sublime!

To the deep mountain den of the panther the hunter climbed, drove him to bay,

Then fought the fierce foe till he turned and fled, bleeding and gnashing away!

Fled away from the scene where so late broke his growls and he shot down his glare,

As he paced to and fro, for the hunter his wild craggy cavern to dare!

Thanks, thanks, O ye heroes of Lookout! ye girded your souls to the fight,

Drew the sword, dropped the scabbard, and went in the full conscious strength of your might!

Now climbing o'er rock and o'er tree-mound, up, up, by the hemlock ye swung!

plunging through thicket and swamp, on the edge of the hollow ye hung!

hand grasped the musket, the other clutched ladder of root and of bough:

trunk the tornado had shivered, the landmark pale glimmering now,

Now

One

The

And

now the mad torrent's white lightning; no drum tapped, no bugle was blown

To the words that encouraged each other, and quick breaths, ye toiled up alone!

Oh! long as the mountains shall rise o'er the waters of bright Tennessee,

How was fought the fierce battle of Lookout-how won THE GRAND FIGHT OF THE SKY!

THE CHILDREN'S TABLE.

M. J. M. SWEAT.

While the wise men are all seeking
How to save our native land;
And the brave men are all fighting,
Heart to heart and hand to hand:

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