Perchance it may be taken prisoner,
And down into Rebeldom borne;
Peradventure-alas! the poor stocking-
It may by some rebel be worn!

It may be cut through with a sabre;

Its white top-woe 's me !-be dyed red, And on the cold field of a battle

May cover the foot of the dead.
How weirdly the needles are working-
Click, click-as they knit up the toe:
O stocking, you look to me ghostly,

In this question of where you shall go.

I see them flash down like a whirlwind,
Their long sabres gleaming on high;
The Stars and Stripes waving among them,
"For the Nation!" their fierce battle-cry;
I see them all pallid and drooping,

In sickness, in wounds, or in death;
And yet the faint pulses are loyal,

And yet Freedom nerves every breath.

The firelight wavers and trembles

With its shadowy, fitful glance, Till the very coals and the ashes Seem to look at me half askance ; And I in the chimney corner

In silence and solitude sit, And work up an army of fancies, In the volunteer sock that I knit.

It is all full of prayers and good wishes;

Stitch by stitch, as I knit, they're wrought in; In my heart burns the love of the UnionOn my breast is a Stars-and-Stripes pin; So if ever a sock could be loyal,

And for a brave volunteer fit, As well as soft, warm, and elastic, It must be this sock that I knit.

Ah, if I could only make blankets!

They should be of the warmest and best; No night-wind should trouble the soldier,

While my blankets lay light on his breast. And I wish that my hands could work faster, And for every gray sock could knit two,— You men who go forth to the battle

Don't know what the women would do.

And perchance-who can tell?--the young soldier
May turn out a hero, and fight
His way to the heart of the Nation,

As well as to glory's grand height;

And then, when his camp-chest is treasured,
And his uniform hung up with care,
Like Washington's, guarded and cherished,
My gray woollen sock may be there!
November, 1861.

THE SWELL'S SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR.

I don't appwove this hawid waw ;

Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;
And guns and dwums are such a baw,-
Why don't the pawties compwamise?

Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;
But why must all the vulgah cwowd
Pawsist in spawting unifawms

In cullaws so extwemely loud?

And then the ladies-pwecious deahs!—
I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;
Bai Jove! I weally have my feahs
They wathah like the hawid wow!

To heah the chawming cweatures talk, Like patwons of the bloody wing, Of waw and all its dawty wawk,

It doesn't seem a pwappah thing!

I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night,
To see her niece, Miss Mawy Hertz,
And found her making-cwushing sight!—
The weddest kind of flannel shirts!

Of cawce I wose and sought the daw,
With fewy flashing from my eyes!

I can't appwove this hawid waw ;
Why don't the pawties compwamise?
-Vanity Fair.

GRANDPA NATHAN.

Respectfully Inscribed to Gen. Leslie Combs.

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

I.

By the beach and hickory fire Grandpa Nathan sat at night, With details of marching armies, And the news of many a fight, When he laid aside the paper,

Though its contents he had told, He was plied with many questions By the young and by the old. It's a war the most infernal, (Grandpa Nathan made reply,) But the legions of the Union Soon will crush it out, or die! If I only had the vigor

Of just twenty years ago, How I'd leap into my saddle! How I'd fly to meet the foe!

II.

Nannie Hardin, dearest daughter,
There's a spirit now abroad
That's akin to whatsoever
Is at enmity with God.
It has wrought upon a portion

Of the people of the land,

Till they almost think they're honest
In the treason they have plann'd.
It has struck the sea with rapine,
It has tinged its shores with blood,
And it rolls and surges inland

Like a desolating flood.

It has rent the nearest kindred-
E'en the mother and the son;
But, as God's a God of Justice,
Its career will soon be run.

III.

There's a camp in Wickliffe's meadow,
Less than eighteen miles away-
John, at your age I could make it
Twice 'twixt now and break of day;
Fill your buggy up with baskets,
Fill each basket to the brim,

Sweep the pantry of its choicest,
Till the shelves are lean and slim ;
Take a jug or two of apple,

For these chill November damps Oft benumb the weary sentries

As they guard the sleeping camps. Drive the pet of old SarpedonFor the glory of his sires He will make the camp at Wickliffe Ere they stir the morning fires.

IV.

Tell the soldier of Kentucky,
And the soldier from abroad
Who has come to fight the battle
Of his country and his God-
Tell them one who on the Wabash

Fought with Daviess when he fell,
And who bled at Meigs, where Dudley
Met the painted hosts of hell-
One who fought with Hart at Raisin,
And with Johnson on the Thames,
And with Jackson at New Orleans,

Where we won immortal names, Sends them from his chimney corner Such fair greeting as he may, With a few small creature-comforts For this drear November day.

V.

Tell them he has watched this quarrel
From its outbreak until now,
And, with hand upon his heart beat,
And God's light upon his brow,
He invokes their truest manhood,
The full prowess of their youth,
In this battle of the Nation

For the right and for the truth.
Tell them one whose years are sinking
To the quiet of the grave,
Thus enjoins each valiant spirit

That would scorn to be a slave"By the toil and blood your fathers In the cause of Freedom spent, By the memory of your mothers, And the noble aid they lent

VI.

By the blessings God has showered
On this birthright of the free,
Give to Heaven a reverent spirit,
Bend to Heaven a willing knee,
And in silence, 'mid the pauses

Of the hymn and of the prayer,
To the God of Hosts appealing,

By the God of Battles swearSwear to rally round the standard

With our nation that was born, With its Stars of world-wide glory,

And its Stripes that none may scorn! Swear to fight the fight forced on us, While an armed foe stirs abroad; Swear to fight the fight of Freedom, Of the Union, and of God!"

VII.

Ah! he drives the young Sarpedon-
Drives the son of glorious sires,
And he'll make the camp at Wickliffe's
Ere they build the morning fires.

Do you know, child, I am prouder
Of the spirit of your boy,
Than of any other grandson

That e'er brought his mother joy?
And so now, good Nannie Hardin,
For the night you'd best retire;
As for me, my child, I'm wakeful,
And I'll still sit by the fire.
Oh, my soul is in the battles

Of the Wabash and the Thames, Where the prowess of Kentucky Won imperishable names!

VIII.

I must see the camp at Wickliffe's
Nannie, you as well can go;
I must mingle with the soldiers
Who have come to meet our foe;
I must talk to them of battles
By the ranks of Freedom won,
And of acts of valor ventured,

And of deeds of daring done.
Ah, I'll take them to the ramparts
Where their fathers fought of old,-
For my spirit now surveys them,

As a chart that is unrolled,And I'll show them in the mirror Of the clouds and of the skies, Where the hosts of glory marshal, And the flag of glory flies

IX.

Take a blanket, dear, from Effie,

And a comfort here and there,
And from my good bed and wardrobe
Strip whatever I can sparc.

Hunt the house from top to bottom,
And let the neighbors know

What they need, the men who shield them
From the fury of the foe.

Be up early in the morning;

Ask of all what they will send To the camp in Wickliffe's meadow, Where each soldier is a friend. "Twere a sin, whilst there is plenty, (Let us never feel the taunt,) That the legions of the Union, Braving danger, were in want. were

X.

Write at once to Hatty Shelby,
And-for both of them are there-

Send a line to Alice Dudley,

And a word for Ruth Adair;

Then to-morrow write to Dorcas,

And anon to Mollie Todd,

Say they've work now for their country, For their freedom, and their God; And if only half the spirit

That their mother had is theirs,
There'll be rapid work with needles,
And sharp rummaging up stairs.
Oh, it stirs the blood of seventy,
Wherever it survives,

Just to touch the chain of memory
Of the old Kentucky wives!

XI.

In a day or two-at farthest

When the present rain is done

You and I will take the carriage,

With the rising of the sun, And we'll spend a day, or longer,

With the soldiers in their camps, Taking stores that best may shield them From the chill November damps. Oh, I'll cheer them on to battleAnd I'll stir each lofty soul, As I paint the fields of honor

Where the drums of glory roll! And I'll bid them never falter, While there's treason still abroad, In this battle of the Nation,

For our Union, and for God.

XII.

One who fought upon the Wabash
By Joe Daviess when he fell,
And who bled at Meigs with Dudley,

Where we met the hosts of hell; One who fought with Hart at Raisin, And with Johnson on the Thames, And with Jackson at New Orleans,

Where we won immortal names, Will be listened to with patience

By the heroes now at hand, Who have rushed on to our rescue, In this peril of the land. By the memory of our fathers,

By the brave, and by the just, This rebellion shall be vanquished, Though each traitor bite the dust!

SONGS OF THE REBELS.

THE DEAD.

BY AYMER.

On the field of battle lying,
Was a youthful hero dying,

On the cold, damp ground; And his twin companions stood, Wiping off the oozing blood From the deathly wound.

"Alfred, bid my father joy,
When you tell him of his boy,
At Manassas gory;

Tell him how his darling child
Won in death"-and here he smiled-
"A soldier's proudest glory.

"Tell him how I learned to stifle,
With my bright, unerring rifle,

The base invader's cheer;
Tell my sister and my mother
Not to weep, but learn to smother
Each sigh and loving tear."

Here he whispered still more lowly,
For his life was ebbing slowly,
"Remember me to her."

He ceased-his friend, with anxious start,
Placed his hand upon his heart,

But all was quiet there.

BY A SOUTHERN RIGHTS WOMAN.

Sons of Kentucky, arise from your dreaming! Awake, and to arms! for the foe draweth nigh; Must ye wait till our land with their legions are teeming,

Ere ye rise in your might to battle or die?

Oh, list to the wail from Missouri's heart coming,
As trampled and bleeding she shrinks from the foe;
Oh, such is our fate if thus ye lie sleeping;

Then wake from your slumbers, and shield us from

woe.

The spirits of those who in battle have fallen,
Are weeping in shame at your cowardly fear;
The watchword of fiends hath already been given
To crush and destroy all your loved ones so dear.

Has the day gone fore'er, when 'twere nobler to be
A son of Kentucky than diadems wear?
Be ye cowards and slaves? Are ye no longer free,
That thus with your traitorous tyrants ye bear!

Then rise in your might, and repel each invader,

Nor let our loved land be disgraced by their tread; Let the watchword be, "Freedom and States' Rights forever!"

Nor cease till each foe shall lie low with the dead. LOUISVILLE, Kr., June 24, 1861.

SOUTHERN WAR-SONG.

BY "N. P. W."

To horse! to horse! our standard flies,
The bugles sound the call;
An alien navy stems our seas―
The voice of battle's on the breeze;
Arouse ye, one and all!

From beauteous Southern homes we come,
A band of brothers true,
Resolved to fight for liberty,
And live or perish with our flag-
The noble red and blue.

Though tamely crouch to Northern frown, Kentucky's tardy train;

Though invaded soil, Maryland mourns, Though brave Missouri vainly spurns,

And foaming gnaws the chain.
Oh! had they marked the avenging call
Their brethren's insults gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valor, desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave.

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born?-

Dress our pale cheek in timid smiles, To hail a master in our house,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood;
The sun that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabre's deadly sway,
And set that night in blood!

For gold let Northern legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain;

Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our homes, to fence our law,
Nor shall their edge be vain.

And now that breath of Northern gale
Has fanned the stars and bars,

And footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,
Us rights and liberty debars.

Then farewell home, and farewell friends;
Adieu each tender tie;

Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer or to die.

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;
High sounds our bugle call;
Combined by honor's sacred tie,
Our word is, Rights and Liberty!
March forward, one and all!

-Louisville Courier.

SONG ON GEN. SCOTT.

BY N. B. J****.

TUNE-" Poor Old Horse, Let Him Die."

Virginia had a son,

Who gathered up some fame;

He many battles won,

And thereby won a name;

But now he's growing old,
And nature doth decay,
Virginia she does scold,
And all can hear her say,
Poor old Scott, let him dic.

He is old, and very mean, sir;
He is dull, and very slow;
And it can now be seen, sir,

He still does meaner grow;

He is not fit to fight,

Nor will he ever pray;
Then kick him out of sight,
And let Virginia say,
Poor old Scott, let him die.

The sound of his war-whoop
No one again will hear;
In dread laps he his hasty soup,
With hell-fire in his rear;
I had rather be a hog,
And wallow in the mud,
Than be old Lincoln's dog,
Or be his warrior stud.

Poor old Scott, let him die.

I had rather be a dog,

And bay the stars and moon;
I had sooner be a frog,
With a dungeon for my doom,
Than to be poor old Scott,

To fill a traitor's grave,
And there in silence rot,
Without a soul to save.
Poor old Scott, let him die.
-Richmond Dispatch, Aug. 27.

ANOTHER YANKEE DOODLE

Yankee Doodle had a mind

To whip the Southern traitors,
Because they didn't choose to live
On codfish and potatoes.

Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy ;-
And so, to keep his courage up,
He took a drink of brandy.

Yankee Doodle said he found,
By all the census figures,
That he could starve the rebels out,
If he could steal their niggers.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy ;-
And then he took another drink
Of gunpowder and brandy.

Yankee Doodle made a speech;

'Twas very full of feeling: "I fear," says he, "I cannot fight, But I am good at stealing." Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo, Yankee Doodle dandy ;Hurrah for Lincoln-he's the boy To take a drop of brandy.