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“And so we pass to t’other side, and leave them to

their glory, To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for

song and story; These honeyed words of compliment may possibly

bamboozle 'em, But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in


“Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hope

less desolation, Till wolves troop round the cottage door, in one and

t'other nation, Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove

no more refractory, And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee


“Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of

Carolina, And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of


1; Till War has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's

knavery Has put an end in all the land to Freedom and to

Slavery :

“The grim Bastille, the rack, the wheel, without

remorse or pity, May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee

city, No matter should Old Abe revive the brazen bull of

Phalaris, 'Tis no concern at all of ours -(sensation in the


“So shall our “merrie England' thrive on trans

Atlantic troubles,
While India on her distant plains her crop

of cotton doubles; And so as long as North or South shall show the

least vitality, We can not swerve, we must preserve our rigorous


Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon

legislator, When the “fine old English gentleman" lived in a

state of natur', When vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery

draughts of honey mead, Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John

at Runnymede

But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may

understand it, And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee

bandit, Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our

nationality, Without the help of Britain's arm—in spite of her


The Fancy Shot. (will.)

"RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot,

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot,

That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

“Ah! Captain, here goes for a fine-drawn bead;

There's music around, when my barrel's in tune." Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

“Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first

blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch,

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud.”

O Captain ! I staggered and sunk in my track,

When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette; For he looked so like you as he lay on his back, That


heart rose upon me and masters me yet.

“ But I snatched off the trinket—this locket of

goldAn inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”

“Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket_tis she !

My brother's young bride—and the fallen dragoon Was her husband-hush! soldier, 'twas heaven's

decree; We must bury him there by the light of the moon!

“But hark! the far bugles their warning unite;

War is a virtue, weakness a sin.
There's lurking and loping around us to-night:

Load again, rifleman-keep your hand in!”

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