With bayonet at the charge I wait-
The corporal gives the mystic spell;
With arms aport I charge my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well.

But in the tent that night awake,
I ask, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make
When the angelic sentries call?
And pray that Heaven may so ordain,
Whene'er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain,

I still may have the countersign

[Southern.]

[This poem is a part of the second series of "The Bigelow Papers," a work wholly unmatched in the literature of humor, that has an earnest purpose and well matured thought for its sources of inspiration. The poem was called forth by what is known as "the Trent affair." Captain Wilkes, commanding the United States man-of-war, San Jacinto, boarded the British mail steamer Trent on the 8th of November, 1861, and took from her the Confederate commissioners Mason and Slidell. Great Britain resented the act, and for a time there was serious apprehension of war between that country and the United States; but as the seizure of the commissioners on board a neutral vessel was deemed to be an act in violation of international law, the Government at Washington, after inquiry into the facts,

surrendered the prisoners. The version of the poem here given is a correct one, taken from the collected edition of Mr. Lowell's poems. An abridged and otherwise imperfect version is given in many collections.— EDITOR.]

IT

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

T don't seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John,—
Your cousin, tu, John Bull !
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
We know it now," sez he,
"The Lion's paw is all the law,
Accordin' to J. B.,

Thet 's fit for you an' me!"

You wonder why we 're hot, John?
Your mark wuz on the guns,
The neutral guns, thet shot, John,
Our brothers an' our sons:
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
There's human blood," sez he,
"By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts,
Though 't may surprise J. B.
More 'n it would you an' me."

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,
On your front parlor stairs,
Would it just meet your views, John,
To wait an' sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess,

I on'y guess," sez he,
"Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell,
'T would kind o' rile J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Who made the law thet hurts, John,
Heads I win-ditto tails?
"J. B." was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess

(I'm good at thet)," sez he,

"Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice For ganders with J. B.,

No more 'n with you or me!"

When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You did n't stop for fuss,-
Brittany's trident prongs, John,

Was good 'nough law for us.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess,

Though physic 's good," sez he, "It does n't foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.'

Put up by you an' me."