We own the ocean, tu, John, Ef we can't think with you, John, Why talk so dreffle big, John, Ez wal ez t' you an' me! We give the critters back, John, Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess "To hoe just now; but thet, somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!” Our folks believe in Law, John; Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess, "There'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me !)” We know we've got a cause, John, We thought 't would win applause, John, Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess His love of right," sez he, "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton; There's natur' in J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, An' "All men up!" say we, White, yaller, black, an' brown, John; Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess John preaches wal,” sez he ; But, sermon thru, an' come to du, Shall it be love or hate, John? Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess "But not ferget; an' some time yet God means to make this laud, John, Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess God's price is high," sez he; "But nothin' else than wut he sells THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET. BY JAMES R. RANDALL. [First printed in the Richmond Examiner. Written while the author was in prison.] B Y the blue Patapsco's billowy dash Along with cymbal's fitful clash, And the growl of his sullen drums. We hear it, we heed it with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget; There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, There's life in the old land yet! Minions! we sleep but we are not dead; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred; We crouch-'t is to welcome the triumph tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There's faith in the victor's stainless sword, There's life in the old land yet! Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The spirit of freedom sings in the wind, O'er Merriman, Thomas, and Kane ; And we, though we smile not, are not thralls,— Are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry's dungeon walls There's life in the old land yet! Our women have hung their harps away, They will strip their tresses to string our bows, There's faith in their unrelenting woes, There's life in the old land yet! There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,— 'Tis vocal without noise; It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains, From the blood of the MARYLAND BOYS! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat; By the death of the brave, by the GOD in the skies, There's life in the old land yet! [Southern.] |