"As I am a soldier, I ne'er dance a jig, But he was a rebel disguised as a pig!

"I've brought into court, to confirm phat Oi say, These bristles, that prove he was wearin' the 'gray!' ""Twas all that was left me, I'm sad to relate, Fur the rest of the pig, sirs, you officers ate!

"I'll spake out me moind—sire I'll die but it's true— There's many a pig here that's wearin' the 'blue!'"

THE GRAND ARMY BUTTON.

How dear to my heart are the comrades I cherish,
Who stood by my side in the battle's dark hour;
Who offered their lives that the land should not perish,
The nation our fathers had left us for dower;
Who stayed not to question the right to defend her,
The mother who bore them, when enemies pres'd,
But, foremost in battle, scorned coward surrender,
And earned there the signet that shines on their breast—
The little bronze button, the veteran's button,

The Grand Army button that shines on their breast!

"Tis the token of deeds of true patriot daring;

'Tis the pledge of high courage in battle's affray;
There earned they the right to the honor of wearing
The symbol whose glory grows brighter each day.
No jewelled insignia, with diamonds entwining,
No cross of the Legion, by princes possess'd,

Can ennoble the bosom on which it is shining

Like the little bronze button they wear on their breastThe eloquent button, the deed-telling button,

The Grand Army button that shines on their breast.

Wherever I see one, 'mid plainness or splendor,

In the garments of wealth or of poverty dres'd,

I know that the heart of a soldier is under

If the little bronze button but shines on the breast.

MOTHER'S FOOL.

So in life will I cherish, all honors exceeding,

And when, the march past, they shall lay me to rest,
Like a soldier I'll slumber, earth's tumult unheeding,
And the little bronze button shall sleep on my breast-
The Grand Army button, the heart cherished button,
The battle won button shall sleep on my breast.

แ

MOTHER'S FOOL.

""TIS plain to me," said the farmer's wife,
"These boys will make their marks in life.
They never were made to handle a hoe,
And at once to college they ought to go.
Yes, John and Henry,-'tis clear to me,—
Great men in this world are sure to be;
But Tom, he's little above a fool.
So John and Henry must go to school."

"Now, really wife," quoth Farmer Brown,
As he set his mug of cider down,

"Tom does more work in a day, for me,
Than both of his brothers do in three.
Book learnin' will never plant beans or corn,
Nor hoe potatoes-sure as you're born-
Nor mend a rood of broken fence;
For my part give me common sense."

But his wife the roost was bound to rule,
And so "the boys" were sent to school;
While Tom, of course, was left behind,
For his mother said he had no mind.

Five years at school the students spent,
Then each one into business went.
John learned to play the flute and fiddle,
And parted his hair (of course) in the middle;

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Though his brother looked rather higher than he,
And hung out his shingle,-"H. Brown, M. D.”
Meanwhile at home, their brother Tom

Had taken a "notion" into his head;

Though he said not a word, but trimmed his trees,
And hoed his corn and sowed his

peas.

But somehow, either "by hook or crook,"

He managed to read full many a book.

Well, the war broke out, and "Captain Tom"
To battle a hundred soldiers led;
And when the rebel flag went down,

Came marching home as "General Brown."
But he went to work on the farm again,
Planted his corn and sowed his grain,
Repaired the house and broken fence;
And people said he had common sense.
Now, common sense was rather rare,
And the state house needed a portion there.
So our "family dunce" moved into town,
And people called him "Governor Brown";
And his brothers, that went to the city school,
Came home to live with mother's fool.

NOBODY'S CHILD.

[The following poem was written by Miss Phila H. Case, and originally appeared in the Schoolday Magazine, in March, 1867. It has been noticed and copied and sung and spoken almost everywhere, even finding its way into more than one English publication, and has really become a little nobody's child," so far as its authorship and due credit are concerned.

Two years ago the poem was set to music and published, in St. Louis, ascribed to "E. D." Later it appeared in books of selections under the name of "Phila H. Child," but has very often appeared without credit whatever.]

ALONE in the dreary, pitiless street,

With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet,
All day I have wandered to and fro,
Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go;

NOBODY'S CHILD

The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head.
Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
Is it because I am nobody's child?

Just over the way there's a flood of light,
And warmth and beauty, and all things bright;
Beautiful children, in robes so fair,

Are carolling songs in their rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me,
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down,
In its terrible blackness all over the town?
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,

On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die,

When the beautiful children their prayers have said,

And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed?

For no dear mother on me ever smiled,-
Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child?

No father, no mother, no sister, not one

In all the world loves me, e'en the little dogs run
When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see,
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!
Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky,
Watching for hours, some large, bright star,
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

And a host of white-robed nameless things,
Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings;
A hand that is strangely soft and fair

Caresses gently my tangled hair,

And a voice like the carol of some wild bird

The sweetest voice that was ever heard

Calls me many a dear, pet name,

Till my heart and spirit are all aflame.

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They tell me of such unbounded love,
And bid me come up to their home above;
And then with such pitiful, sad surprise,

They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes,
And it seems to me, out of the dreary night,
I am going up to that world of light;
And away from the hunger and storm so wild,
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.

'OSTLER JOE.

I STOOD at eve, as the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,

Who lured men's souls to the shores of sin with the light of her

wanton eyes,

Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurely

height,

Whose face was as fair as a summer day, and whose heart was black as night.

Yet a blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above

her dust;

Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of

lust,

But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green

spot

In the arid desert of Phyrne's life, where all was parched and hot.

In the summer when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,

Joe, the 'ostler of the Magpie, and fair Annie Smith were wed. Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a cheek as white as

snow;

He was anything but handsome, was the Magpie's 'ostler, Joe.

But he won the winsome lassie. They'd a cottage and a cow,
And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty's brow.