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The national banners leaning from ten thousand windows in your city to-day, proclaim your affection and reverence for the Union. The ministers of religion, the priests of literature, the historians of the past, the illustrators of the present, capital, science, art, invention, discoveries, the works of genius—all these will attend us in our march, and we will conquer. And if, from the far Pacific, a voice feebler than the feeblest murmur upon its shore may be heard to give you courage and hope in the contest, that voice is yours to-day; and if a man whose hair is gray, who is well-nigh worn out in the battle and toil of life, may pledge himself on such an occasion and in such an audience, let me say as my last word, that when, amid sheeted fire and flame, I saw and led the hosts of New York as they charged in contest upon a foreign soil for the honor of your flag; so again, if Providence shall will it, this feeble hand shall draw a sword, never yet dishonored-not to fight for distant honor in a foreign land, but to fight for country, for home, for law, for government, for constitution, for right, for freedom, for humanity, and in the hope that the banner of my country may advance, and wheresoever that banner waves there glory may pursue and freedom be established.


RIGHTE learned is ye Pedagogue,

Fulle apt to reade and spelle,
And eke to teach ye parts of speeche,

And strap ye urchins well.

For as 't is meete to soake ye feete,

Ye ailing heade to mende,
Ye younker's pate to stimulate,

He beates yo other ende!

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And one,-ye fairest maide of all,

To cheer his wayning life,
Shall be, when Springe ye flowers shall bringe,

Ye Pedagogue his wife !


God makes sech nights, all white an' stil.

Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,

All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown

And peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'Ith no one nigh to hender.

The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out

Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' little flames danced all about

The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,

An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen’s-arm that gran’ther Young

Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full az rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, First this one, an' then thet, by spells

All is, he couldn't love 'em.

She thought no v'ice hed such a swing

Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,

She knowed the Lord was nigher.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,

A-raspin' on the scraper, -
All ways to once her feelins flew

Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

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Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys ?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite !
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more ?
He's tipsy,-young jackanapes !-show him the door!
“Gray temples at twenty ?"--Yes! white if we please ;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake !
Look close, -you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have sheds -
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old:-
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge";
It's a neat little fiction,-of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the “Speaker,"—the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
That's our “Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
There's the "Reverend” What's his name ?-don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true !
So they chose him right in,-a good joke it was too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-décker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,-
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith:
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free:-
Just read on his medal, “ My country,” “ of thee !"

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