Raged for hours the heady fight,

Thundered the battery's double bass-
Difficult music for men to face;

While on the left-where now the graves
Undulate like the living waves,
That all day unceasing swept,
Up to the pits the rebels kept-
Round shot plowed the upland glades,
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;
Shattered fences here and there
Tossed their splinters in the air;

The very trees were stripped and bare;
The barns that once held yellow grain
Were heaped with harvests of the slain,
The cattle bellowed on the plain,
The turkeys screamed with might and main
And brooding barn-fowl left their rest
With strange shells bursting in each nest.

Just where the tide of battle turns,

Erect and lonely stood old John Burns.

How do you think the man was dressed?
He wore an ancient long buff vest,
Yellow as saffron-but his best;
And buttoned over his manly breast,
Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar
And large gilt buttons-size of a dollar—
With tails that country-folk call "swaller."
He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat,
White as the locks on which it sat.

35

JOHN BURNS, OF GETTYSBURG.

Never had such a sight been seen,

For forty years on the village green,

Since old John Burns was a country beau,
And went to the "quiltings" long ago.

Close at his elbows all that day,
Veterans of the Peninsula,

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away;
And striplings, downy of lip and chin-
Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in-
Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore,
Then at the rifle his right hand bore;
And hailed him from out their youthful lore,
With scraps of a slangy repertoire:

"How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through!"
"Your head's level," and "Bully for you!"
Called him "Daddy "—begged he'd disclose
The name of the tailor who made his clothes,
And what was the value he set on those;
While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff,
Stood there picking the rebels off-

With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat,
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

'Twas but a moment, for that respect

Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand,
Spake in the old man's strong right hand;
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown

Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;
Until as they gazed, there crept an awe

Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw
In the antique vestments and long white hair,

The Past of the Nation in battle there.

And some of the soldiers since declare

That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their oriflamme of war.

Thus raged the battle. You know the rest:
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed.
Broke at the final charge, and ran.

At which John Burns-a practical man

Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,
And then went back to his bees and cows.

This is the story of old John Burns;

This is the moral the reader learns:

In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather!

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.-GEO. H. BOKER.

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done;
What to him is friend or foeman,

Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;

Let him sleep in solemn right,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley;
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the hand that made him,

Mortal love sweeps idly by

God alone has power to aid him.

ON THE WAR.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

ON THE WAR-BIGLOW PAPERS.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

YOU'RE in want o' sunthin' light an' cute,
Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish,

An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit,
I'd take an' citify my English.
I ken write long-tailed, ef I please,—
But when I'm jokin', no, I thankee;
Then, 'fore I know it, my idees

Run helter-skelter into Yankee.

Time wuz, the rhymes came crowdin' thick
Ez office-seekers arter 'lection,

An' into ary place 'ould stick

Without no bother nor objection;

But sence the war my thoughts hang back

Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em,

An' subs'tutes,-they don't never lack,

But then they'll slope afore you've mist 'em.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street

I hear the drummers makin' riot,
An' I set thinkin' o' the feet

Thet follered once an' now are quiet,

White feet as snowdrops innercent,

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan,
Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't,
No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'.

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee?
Didn't I love to see 'em growin',

Three likely lads ez wal could be,

Hansome an' brave an' not tu knowin'?

I set an' look into the blaze

Whose natur, jes' like theirn, keeps climbin',

Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,

An' half despise myself for rhymin'.

37

Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth
On War's red techstone rang true metal,
Who ventered life an' love an' youth

For the gret prize o' death in battle?
To him who, deadly hurt, agen

Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, Tippin' with fire the bolt of men

Thet rived the Rebel line asunder?

"T ain't right to hev the young go fust, All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust

To try an' make b'lieve fill their places: Nothin' but tells us wut we miss,

Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, An' thet world seems so far from this

Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in!

My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth
Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners;

I pity mothers, tu, down South,

For all they sot among the scorners:

I'd sooner take my chance to stan'

At Jedgment where your meanest slave is,

Than at God's bar hol' up a han'

Ez drippin' red as yourn, Jeff Davis!

Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed
For houor lost an' dear ones wasted,

But proud, to meet a people proud,
With eyes that tell o' triumph tasted!
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt,

An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter!
Longin' for you, our sperits wilt

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water.

Come, while our country feels the lift
Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards,

An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift

Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards!

Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when

They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered,

An' bring fair wages for brave men,

A nation saved, a race delivered!