m 1 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 D 
 
 I 
 
. , . -. 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 .UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE 
 
 (MILES O'REILLY). 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 ODES, POEMS, SONNETS, EPICS, AND LYRICAL EFFUSIONS 
 
 WHICH HAVE NOT HERETOFORE BEEN 
 
 COLLECTED TOGETHER. 
 
 WITH 
 
 A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH AND EXPLANATORY NOTES. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 ROBERT B. ROOSEVELT. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 1869. 
 
 TOTVEP.STTY OF CAT 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 186S, by 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THIS is not intended to be a complete collection 
 of the poetical works of Charles G. Halpine. Some 
 of these are already before the public in "Miles 
 OKeilly His Book" and " Baked Meats of the Fu 
 neral," from which it is not desirable to copy them, 
 as much of their significance, in many instances, de 
 pends upon their connection with the prose matter 
 with which they are interwoven. It would be im 
 possible, if it were desirable, to make any extended 
 extracts from those two books without explanations 
 that would render this compilation cumbersome. 
 Some of his earlier productions have been taken from 
 the volume entitled " Lyrics by the Letter H," which 
 he published in the year 1854, and which is out 
 of print, but the great body of the following effu 
 sions are now for the first time collected. They are 
 followed by notes describing the circumstances un 
 der which some of them were written, and giving 
 personal reminiscences of the author that will grow 
 in interest daily. 
 
 The habits, mode of thought, manner of work, and 
 many individual peculiarities, although of no import- 
 
iv Preface. 
 
 ance when they concern an unknown person, are of 
 interest to the public when they affect a great man, 
 one of the bright lights of his day and generation ; 
 and that Charles G. Halpine was a great man, a bril 
 liant genius, and an uncommon intellect, his contem 
 poraries have conceded, and posterity will confirm by 
 more deliberate decision. The success of one labor 
 er in the literary vineyard encourages others, and the 
 life under consideration is a wonderful example of 
 the effect of hard work when united with great gifts ; 
 for it is a remarkable fact that this talented writer 
 invariably denied that he possessed any peculiar ge 
 nius, and attributed his success simply to hard work 
 and indomitable energy. His career is well worth 
 studying to all those who are wearily toiling along 
 the same hard path, and even the sketch of it which 
 can be given in the narrow limits of this volume 
 teaches a valuable lesson. 
 
 That this collection will not be as full as it should 
 be is accounted for by the suddenness of the decease 
 of the author, by the confusion in which his papers 
 w^ere necessarily left, and by the haste with which 
 circumstances have compelled this compilation to be 
 made. For the same and other reasons, no attempt 
 has been made at classification, and it may be that 
 omitted poems will have to be added at the last mo 
 ment. General Halpine had never been in the habit 
 of collecting or preserving his w r orks ; his pen was so 
 busy, his brain so fertile, his time so fully occupied, 
 
Preface. 
 
 that such an attempt would nave been a severe tax 
 upon him; and although he had before his death 
 commenced getting together his poetical efforts, the 
 collection, so far as it had proceeded, being incom 
 plete and unfinished, was of little assistance. Al 
 though his memory was wonderful, yet his writings 
 were so voluminous that he actually could not re 
 member them all. For any deficiencies, therefore, 
 this explanation must be the excuse of 
 
 THE EDITCE. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE was born near the town of Old- 
 castle, in the county of Meath, Ireland, in the year 1829. 
 His father, the Rev. Nicholas J. Halpine, was- an Epis 
 copal clergyman of the Established Church, and a man 
 of extraordinary abilities. A remarkable aptitude for 
 literature, and especially that peculiar branch of it con 
 nected with the life of a journalist, existed in the fam 
 ily. The father was editor of the Dublin Evening 
 Mail, and an uncle, Wm. Henry Halpine, was proprietor 
 and editor of the Cheltenham Mail. Charles G. Hal- 
 pine was the favorite son of his father, and early gave 
 evidences of those abilities which brought him such 
 distinguished honor in later years. At as early an age 
 as the rules of the college allowed he was admitted to 
 Trinity, from which he subsequently graduated with 
 distinction,. having won the affection of his fellow-stu 
 dents and the respect of his instructors. Subsequently 
 he commenced the study of medicine, and obtained a 
 superficial but not thorough knowledge of that science, 
 when he surrendered it for the more congenial pursuit 
 of journalism. He contributed to the Irish, and subse 
 quently to the English press, spending sqveral years in 
 London; but feeling that his talents were kept down 
 by the want of a proper opportunity, he determined 
 upon emigration to the United States. 
 
viii Biographical Sketch. 
 
 He came alone to this country, although he had been 
 married some years previous to his departure from 
 England ; but so soon as he was fairly established, he 
 sent for his young wife, who joined him immediately. 
 He established himself in Boston, where for some years 
 he was connected with the Boston Post, and subse 
 quently became leading editor of a paper called the 
 Carpet Sag, which had but a short existence in spite 
 of the talent of its conductors, who were Mr. Shillaber 
 (known under the soubriquet of Mrs. Partington), Dr. 
 Shepley, and Chas. G. Halpine. After its failure he re 
 moved to New York, where he became associate editor 
 of the Times, with Henry J. Raymond, and shortly aft 
 erward acquired an interest in the New York Leader. 
 with John Clancy. To this latter paper he devoted 
 his best efforts; he not only furnished the political 
 matter, but gave sketches and stories, which were so 
 well appreciated that the circulation of the Leader rap 
 idly increased from a few hundred to eleven thousand, 
 and it became a power in the land. At that period he 
 commenced to exhibit his talent for fictitious inven 
 tions ; and, under a wager that he would produce a 
 sensation at a time when literary matters were excess 
 ively dull, he wrote a long account of the resuscitation 
 of Hicks, the pirate, who was executed on Bedloe's Isl 
 and a short time before. By this production, which 
 was most adroitly done and complete in all minutiae of 
 detail, for which his medical knowledge furnished a 
 good basis, he attained his object, and not only set the 
 city wild with excitement, but originated a blind sus 
 picion which was not allayed for many years. 
 
 He did not, however, restrict his pen to any single 
 
Biographical Sketch. ix 
 
 journal, but contributed to almost all of importance 
 that were published in the metropolis a story for one, 
 an editorial for another, a poem for a third, on any 
 subject and in various styles adapted to each publica 
 tion. In fact, his very first article for the American 
 press appeared in the Tribune ; and it was shortly aft 
 er his arrival, when he was strongly alive to the wrongs 
 of his native country, and naturally sympathetic with 
 the down-trodden of every land, that he wrote for that 
 journal a famous poem, the authorship of which has 
 long been falsely attributed to Mr.-Greeley, containing 
 the lines, 
 
 "Tear down the flaunting lie, 
 
 Half mast the starry flag, 
 Insult no sunny sky 
 
 With hate's polluted rag." 
 
 This remarkable versatility has led to the charge 
 against him that he possessed no literary conscience. 
 But this accusation was most 'false. His temper, it is 
 true, was mercurial, and his views would occasionally 
 vary, but he never prostituted his powers to sustain a 
 lie or to do an injustice. He had no control of many 
 of the papers for which he contributed, and was re 
 quired to furnish matter that accorded with the views 
 and purposes of each, and so far he had to modify his 
 own sentiments ; but nothing that he ever wrote was 
 in a bad cause or for an unworthy object, and his course 
 of action was invariably the best that he could follow 
 under the circumstances; but when he was his own 
 master, and in such publications as he controlled, his 
 conduct was guided by the highest sense of duty, often 
 at great pecuniary loss to himself, and invariably to the 
 A2 
 
Biographical Sketch. 
 
 disgust of those who would 4 have warped him to their 
 meaner views. When the war against the Union broke 
 out he laid down the pen and took up the sword. 
 Giving up all his connection with the press, surrender 
 ing the liberal income which his literary gifts secured 
 to him, he accepted the moderate pay of a lieutenant 
 in the Sixty-ninth Regiment, commanded by Colonel 
 Corcoran. He rapidly mastered the details of military 
 service, and his peculiar talents led to his promotion to 
 the staff of General Hunter, with whom he served 
 throughout the greater part of the war. His duties as 
 adjutant general, both with General David Hunter, 
 and subsequently with Major General Halleck when 
 he was general in chief, were very arduous. Not 
 only did he have the preparation of all the official cor 
 respondence, but he had to perform much literary work 
 for the papers in moulding the public mind to military 
 necessities. At that period the North was in uncertain 
 humor^and the government had to feel its way care 
 fully, and watch, and, so far as in its power lay, guide, 
 public opinion. In his capacity as adjutant general 
 he prepared for General Hunter's signature the first or 
 der ever issued directing the enrollment of a negro reg 
 iment, for which he was honored by the rebels by being 
 included in the outlawry which was declared against 
 that intrepid soldier, and which directed the immediate 
 execution of both general and adjutant, if they were 
 captured. 
 
 Both the commanding officers with whom General 
 Halpine had served recognized his eminent merits, and 
 strongly urged upon the government that his rank 
 should be advanced, but the Secretary of War utterly 
 
Biographical Sketch. xi 
 
 ignored their applications, and left this patriot to the 
 last a simple major. The reason for this action the 
 party most aifected by it could never clearly under 
 stand, but he supposed it was due to some informality ; 
 that the application was addressed to the President in 
 stead of to the Secretary of War, or for some other 
 such trivial error, if error it could be called ; for his 
 final interview with the great organizer of the war dis 
 pelled many of his prejudices, and caused a thorough 
 revulsion of sentiment toward one whom he regarded 
 as his enemy for political reasons. His eyesight, which 
 was always weak, having failed from exposure and ex 
 cessive labor, he had twice sent in his resignation, ac 
 companied with the certificate of the surgeon that far 
 ther service would probably result in total blindness. 
 These resignations were not accepted, although a fur 
 lough was granted him on the latter a furlough which, 
 before it was half expired, he surrendered, that he might 
 accompany General Hunter in his perilous expedition 
 down the Shenandoah Valley. When that expedition 
 returned, after enduring incredible hardships, he again 
 applied to be permitted to resign, and obtained an hon 
 orable and complimentary acceptance of his resignation 
 at once. The last of his doubts were removed when, in 
 spite of his earnest support of M'Clellan as the presi 
 dential candidate of the Democrats against Abraham 
 Lincoln, he was breveted lieutenant colonel, colonel, 
 and brigadier general. 
 
 Few men sacrificed more for the cause ; few men 
 made less by it. If he had been a son of the soil he 
 could have done no more, and was baptized in fire and 
 blood as an American. Forever afterward he regarded 
 
xii Biographical Sketch. 
 
 himself as a citizen by birthright and inheritance in 
 stead of by adoption, for he had helped to save what 
 came to others in .the natural way and by accident. 
 He had " paid a great price," and was entitled to all 
 the rights of one "born free." His last connection 
 with the army was under General Dix in the city of 
 New York, where he had the congenial duty of arrest 
 ing and punishing bounty swindlers. The frequenters 
 of Lafayette Hall had deep cause to lament his fearless 
 ness, unwearying resolution, and irrepressible energy. 
 He worked night and day to bring the rascals to their 
 deserts, and his skill in ferreting out fraud and in hunt 
 ing down corrupt politicians which he had obtained in 
 other walks of life was of vast service to him. 
 
 It was while he was on the staff of General Dix that 
 the articles from his pen in the daily papers, exposing 
 the corruptions of the municipal government, attracted 
 the attention of the Citizens' Association, .which had 
 then just inaugurated its reform movements in that city. 
 As soon as he was released from the army, application 
 was made to him to assume the conduct of THE CITI 
 ZEN newspaper, which had been started by the Associa 
 tion. He accepted the position, and finally purchased 
 the entire journal and conducted it until the time of 
 his death. He used it not only as a vehicle for reform 
 in municipal affairs, but as an organ in party politics. 
 With its aid and his own exertions he built up under 
 the name of the Democratic Union an organization op 
 posed to political corruption, and strengthened it by 
 his personal popularity till it> became more powerful 
 within the sphere of its action than Tammany Hall it 
 self. But, even when giving the larger part of his at- 
 
Biographical Sketch. xiii 
 
 tention to THE CITIZEN, he still found time to contrib 
 ute many articles to other papers. One of his earliest 
 connections with the press was as French translator for 
 the Herald, and from that period to the close of his ca 
 reer he had relations of the most intimate character 
 with that journal and its editor, who from the first ap 
 preciated his remarkable and striking genius. 
 
 Such is a brief outline of his career as a journalist. 
 His success as a politician was equally brilliant. In 
 London he had connected himself with the "Young Ire 
 land party." In this country his first essay in politics 
 was as the private secretary of Stephen A. Douglas, 
 and by virtue of that position he became identified with 
 the leading political events of that exciting period. In 
 consequence of his position toward Douglas, he natural 
 ly became the embassador between him and Buchanan 
 in the negotiations for a settlement of their difficulties. 
 The cunning sage of Wheatland, however, deceived him 
 and his employer, and never did he forgive the baseness 
 of that treachery toward the beloved leader of the Free- 
 soil faction. It rankled in his heart, and he could not 
 help expressing it when a thoughtless Republican Sen 
 ate were offering incense on the grave of a double-dyed 
 traitor a traitor to his friends and his country. 
 
 For many years he was a member, and of course a 
 most actively influential one, of the Tammany Hall 
 General Committee. He was soon engaged in a reform 
 movement, and his object of attack was no other than 
 Fernando Wood, so notorious as the organizer and lead 
 er of corruption in the city of New York, and who, by 
 his skillful combinations, maintained a bad eminence 
 in that city. The struggle was fierce and bitter, but 
 
xiv Biographical Sketch. 
 
 courage and honesty conquered duplicity and venality, 
 and Halpine lived to rout his opponent and break his 
 power. His admission to the army removed him in a 
 great measure from the political arena ; but no sooner 
 was he free from military duties and trammels than he 
 returned to an employment that gave especial scope to 
 his talents. His fertility of resource was wonderful, 
 his combinations beautiful and effective, and his grasp 
 of the entire subject most masterly. At the period of 
 his return to civil life, Tammany Hall had again fallen 
 into the slough of iniquity, and, true to his nature, he 
 commenced a battle against an organization that had 
 once been his political home. The first brilliant suc 
 cess of this new combination was his ,own election to 
 the Registership, a very lucrative office, against an ad 
 verse majority on other candidates of nearly fifty thou 
 sand. This was quickly followed by other triumphs, 
 and at the time of his decease he was elaborating 
 schemes and perfecting plans which would have ren 
 dered inevitable the defeat of his adversaries in the 
 then approaching election. 
 
 But Charles G. Halpine was more than a journalist, 
 more than a politician ; he was a poet and an author 
 whose writings were entitled to no mere fleeting popu 
 larity. So occupied was he, however, that he had neg 
 lected putting the great body of these productions in 
 permanent form. He was so hidden under the imper 
 sonality of newspaper literature that he was hardly 
 known to the public at large until the year 1862, when 
 he assumed the nom de plume of Miles O'Reilly. His 
 assumption of this soubriquet was merely accidental, 
 and the rank of " private in the Forty-seventh New 
 
Biographical Sketch. xv 
 
 York," instead of a similar place in the Sixty-ninth, to 
 which he had belonged, came from the fact that the 
 Forty-seventh was the only Irish regiment at Hilton 
 Head at the date of his military lyrical effusions, and 
 it was essential to his purpose to assume the character 
 of an ignorant but well-meaning Irishman. His series 
 of amusing poems referring to matters at Beaufort or 
 pretending to be connected therewith were an im 
 mense success, and made his soubriquet a household 
 word throughout the land far more so than his own 
 true appellation. But it is not generally known that 
 they were written with a praiseworthy object, and for 
 the good of the service. They were followed by his 
 imaginary banquets and other fancy sketches, the force 
 and purpose of which can only be fully appreciated by 
 politicians versed in t"he mysteries of New York poli 
 tics. 
 
 These entertaining and amusing poetic effusions, al 
 though so effective, were the least finished of his metric 
 al efforts. Many of his amatory sonnets were exqui 
 site as works of art, and in their delicacy and force of 
 sentiment. He never ignored the passion which rules 
 the world, but never made it gross or prominent. His 
 admiration for woman was too pure and refined to make 
 such a degradation of her possible to his thoughts or 
 pen. Many of the finest of these are almost lost to the 
 world, and are only preserved in albums and scrap- 
 books, his life being too full to allow him time to at 
 tend to the collection of his productions. Even more 
 beautiful than his love-songs were his poems in memo 
 ry of the dead who fell in the War for the Union. 
 These were the natural outpourings of his heart ; as no 
 
xvi Biographical Sketch. 
 
 soldier crippled, sick, or out of work, ever applied to 
 him in vain for assistance, so his regard for the dead 
 was simple reverence. The poem on the dedication of 
 Gettysburg is thrilling, and only surpassed in vigor by 
 the grand lines of his latest work in commemoration 
 of the Irish Legion a work which gives evidences of 
 greater capacity than he had then developed, and was 
 the promise of even a higher career for the future, had 
 his life not been brought to its sudden termination. 
 The circumstances under which most of his productions 
 were presented had possibly made him occasionally 
 careless, and it was only for a worthy occasion that he 
 exerted his full powers. 
 
 He had a slight knowledge of law, having been ad 
 mitted to the bar, and having for some time held the 
 position of assistant district atforney ; but his knowl 
 edge was not thorough, and was rarely, except in this 
 instance,, put to any practical use. His mastery of a 
 subject or a profession was, by the aid of his powerful 
 memory, easy and rapid ; but, unless he had sounded 
 it to the bottom, he laid it aside entirely. 
 
 As for the circumstances of his death, although most 
 deplorable, they are perfectly simple of explanation. 
 He had always suffered at times from insomnia, or want 
 of ability to sleep. It had been his habit to write 
 without cessation for many hours, often for several days 
 and nights in succession, without rest, until his brain 
 was in so nervously excited a condition that sleep was 
 absolutely banished. Then a nervine or sudorific was 
 absolutely necessary to produce a normal condition of 
 his system. At times he took opiates, but of late he 
 had used ether or chloroform. His medical studies 
 
Biographical Sketch. xvii 
 
 gave, him some knowledge of the power of these dan 
 gerous drugs, he had seen them applied to Mrs. Halpine 
 when suffering from violent hysterical attacks, and he 
 used them upon himself to produce lethargy and sleep, 
 or even to dull pain. 
 
 For some two weeks before his death he had been in 
 perfect health, in excellent spirits, and in capital work 
 ing condition. Early in the last week of his life he had 
 written his poem commemorative of the Irish Legion, 
 and on his final Saturday he was at the office of THE 
 CITIZEN until about two o'clock, in gayer humor and 
 more genial mood than usual, although he was invaria 
 bly a charming companion. Later he was attacked 
 with violent pain in the head, and he had recourse to 
 chloroform. The apothecary, by a well-intentioned but 
 unfortunate error, gave him a diluted article which had 
 no eifect, and which he detected as deficient in strength. 
 Then he sent for more, and under the delusion that it 
 also was weak or adulterated, while it was actually of 
 full strength, inhaled too much of it and became insen 
 sible. Thus, by a mere accident, a most important life 
 was taken away from the public at its period of great 
 est usefulness. He died ere more than half his natural 
 term of activity had run, at the age of thirty-nine, at 
 a period when his faculties were in their most perfect 
 development. 
 
 Such is a brief outline of the life and death of a man 
 who had few equals among his contemporaries. The 
 details are meagre, the statements bald, but they are 
 such as our limits will alone permit. The description 
 of the character of him who has gone from among us 
 is far more difficult ; friendship and affection may guide 
 2 
 
xviii Biographical Sketch. 
 
 the pen, but will scarcely prove equal to the task ; they 
 will fail not from claiming too much, but by doing too 
 little for one who had great talents, many virtues, and 
 few faults. With the public he was a favorite, among 
 his intimates he was beloved. He had a thousand 
 qualities to win esteem, not one to cause dislike or even 
 coldness. His imperfections, and they were but as the 
 spots on the sun, brought suffering to himself alone. 
 He possessed the largest generosity, the strongest af 
 fection, the most faithful friendship, the most unsullied 
 honor, and not a single meanness. He was candid, 
 straightforward, honorable, and upright ; contact with 
 the world had not dimmed the purity of his soul. He 
 was kind, thoughtful, gentle, considerate to those un 
 der him, frank and honest with his comrades. 
 
 Charles G. Halpine from his earliest youth possessed 
 a power of fascination, was surrounded with an atmo 
 sphere of electrical sympathy which it was impossible 
 for man or woman to resist. He won his way to every 
 heart without an effort. Kind to others, he never for 
 got a kindness to himself; open and frank, he recog 
 nized honesty and openness in others. He had a won 
 derful gift for creating friendship, and never in the course 
 of his laborious life did he fall into difficulty but some 
 one was near who gladly reached him a helping hand. 
 If wronged, he was easily appeased. He was generous 
 to an adversary, was merciful to those who were down ; 
 and never, in all his many contests and bitter political 
 feuds, *did " he strike below the belt," take an unfair ad 
 vantage, or pursue a victory into revengefulness. He 
 died almost without an enemy, and the press united as 
 with one voice in expressions of affection to his memory. 
 
Biographical Sketch. xix 
 
 It was innate with him, a part of himself that he 
 could not escape from, to oppose fraud, venality, and 
 corruption. Whether he was contending for reform in 
 city politics, or ferreting out bounty swindles, or guard 
 ing against the corruptions of the quartermaster's de 
 partments, he was only obeying a law of his existence. 
 He was once offered a fortune by a quartermaster at 
 Hilton Head, when he was adjutant general, and he had 
 but to shut his eyes and come home rich. The gov 
 ernment had utterly ignored his services, and he was 
 retained against his will in the army, and prevented 
 from earning a suitable income by his independent ex 
 ertions. It was a sore temptation, or wo^uld have been 
 to most men, but he simply ordered the tempter under 
 arrest, and presented charges at Washington. So he 
 could at any time have made terms with his political 
 opponents in this city, and secured any office he want 
 ed ; and yet he never swerved from his course, nor 
 even hesitated as to his action. 
 
 He was generous to a fault. Appeals for charity 
 were almost irresistible, although he might have little 
 evidence that the object was worthy. In this, as in 
 many other matters, he was a representative a high- 
 toned and noble one of his race. Lively, kind-hearted, 
 grateful, extravagant, versatile, inconsequent, mercuri 
 al, easily guided by his friends, he was a thorough Irish 
 gentleman. Endowed with a wonderful memory, facile 
 as wax to acquire an impression, like adamant to retain 
 it, and possessed of a superior classical education, he 
 had the groundwork for his genius to go upon. 
 
 The style of his writings has been praised, but in re 
 ality he cared nothing for style. He worked for a pur- 
 
xx biographical Sketch. 
 
 pose. He used his pen to carve out a certain result, 
 and wonderful was the skill with which he proceeded. 
 This perception was intuitive, and the most effective 
 plans seemed to present themselves of their own voli 
 tion. He made no pretense to finish and adorn his 
 style, and rarely read his productions except to correct 
 the proof. But he was wonderfully fertile in argument 
 and exhaustless in variety of mode of presenting a 
 point. The most remarkable evidence of his ability to 
 effect a purpose, even when that purpose was an entire 
 revulsion of public sentiment, is furnished by his song 
 " Sambo's Right to be Kilt." That was written to ac 
 custom the Irish- who had so great a prejudice against 
 a negro that they did not like him even to be killed in 
 the company of white soldiers to the idea of negro 
 regiments. Its effect was as astonishing as its argu 
 ments were unanswerable. Regiments of blacks were 
 directly and indirectly a necessity of Northern success, 
 and their possibility was mainly due to the wondrous- 
 ly skillful pen of General Halpine. 
 
 We have endeavored to give a slight insight into the 
 character of the deceased from the point of view of one 
 who knew him intimately, who understood him thor 
 oughly, and with whom he was in perfect sympathy ; 
 but the pen is feeble that attempts this last act of friend 
 ship. No power can bring the bright glance into the 
 eye that is dull forever ; the smile to the lip that is si 
 lent and closed ; the glow to the cheek that is cold as 
 marble. No words can describe the fascination of his 
 presence, nothing explain the force of his persuasive 
 eloquence, more powerful in conversation than in dec- 
 
Biographical Sketch. xxi 
 
 lamation. The death of no single individual in the 
 community would have reached so far, touched so many 
 hearts, and affected so many interests. His activity 
 had ramified into a thousand directions, and allied him 
 with hundreds of public matters, until his death became 
 a national calamity. 
 
THE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 
 
POETICAL WORKS,ETC, 
 
 . A VESPER HYMN. 1 
 
 THE -evening bells of Sabbath fill 
 
 The dusky silence of the night, 
 And through our gathering gloom distill 
 
 Sweet sparkles of immortal light ; 
 
 Such hours of peace as these requite 
 The labors of the weary week ; 
 
 When thus, with souls refreshed and bright, 
 Forgiveness of our sins we seek I 
 
 Oh ! help us, Jesus, to conform 
 
 Our spirits, thoughts, and lives to tjiine ! 
 Beyond this earthly strife and storm, 
 
 Oh ! make Thy star of Love to shine ! 
 
 When we are sinking in the brine 
 Of doubt and care oh come, that we, 
 
 As Peter did, may safe resign 
 Our sinking helplessness to thee ! 
 
 Thy Godhood whence all glory flows 
 
 Thou didst not scruple to abase, 
 To rescue from undying woes 
 
 The sons of a rebellious race ! 
 
 Who can, unmoved, unweeping, trace 
 Thy meek obedience to His will, 
 
 Whose sole appointed means of grace 
 Thou didst, even to the Cross, fulfill ! 
 
 Our wayward footsteps wander wide, 
 
 Pursuing Joy's delusive rays ; 
 And, in our hours of health and pride, 
 
 Too oft from Thee our spirit strays ; 
 
 But soon descend the darker days, 
 When youth and strength their lustre hide, 
 
 And, journeying through a pathless maze, 
 We turn to our neglected Guide ! 
 
 B 
 
26 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Lead back, oh Lord ! thy wandering sheep 
 
 Oh, guide us gently to thy fold ! 
 Instruct us all Thy laws to keep, 
 
 And unto Thine our lives to mould ! 
 
 For we are weak, and faith grows cold 
 Nor ever sleep the Tempter's powers ; 
 
 Thou art our only stay and hold 
 Through Thee alone can heaven be ours ! 
 
 A darker shade, a denser gloom 
 Descends on all the folded flowers, 
 
 While, silent as the voiceless tomb, 
 Above them roll the midnight hours : 
 To-morrow's dawn, and their perfume 
 
 Again will fill their glowing bowers 
 Lord, after death so bid us bloom, 
 
 Where no frost chills, no tempest lowers ! 
 
 ON RAISING A MONUMENT TO THE IRISH LEGION. 1 
 
 To raise a column o'er the dead, 
 
 To strew with flowers the graves of those 
 Who long ago, in storms of lead, 
 And where the bolts of battle sped, 
 
 Beside us faced our Southern foes ; 
 To honor these the unshriven, unhearsed 
 
 To-day we sad survivors come, 
 With colors draped, and arms reversed, 
 And all our souls in gloom immersed, 
 
 With silent fife and muffled drum. 
 
 In mournful guise our banners wave, 
 
 Black clouds above the " sun-burst" lower ; 
 We mourn the true, the young, the brave, 
 Who for this land that shelter gave, 
 
 Drew swords in peril's deadliest hour 
 For Irish soldiers, fighting here 
 
 As when Lord Clare was bid advance, 
 
 And Cumberland beheld with fear 
 The old green banner swinging clear 
 
 To shield the broken lines of France. 
 
 We mourn them ; not because they die<J 
 
 In battle, for our destined race, 
 In every field of warlike pride, 
 From Limerick's wall to India's tide, 
 
 Have borne our flag to foremost place ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 27 
 
 As if each sought the soldier's trade, 
 While some dim hope within him glows, 
 
 Before he dies, in line arrayed, 
 
 To see the old green flag displayed 
 For final fight with Ireland's foes. 
 
 For such a race the soldier's death 
 
 Seems not a cruel death to die, 
 Around their names a laurel wreath, 
 A wild cheer as the parting breath, 
 
 On which their spirits mount the sky : 
 Oh, had their hope been only won 
 
 On Irish soil their final fight, 
 And had they seen, ere sinking down, 
 Our Emerald torn from England's crown, . 
 
 Each dead face would have flashed with light ! 
 
 But vain are words to check the tide 
 
 Of widowed grief and orphaned woe : 
 Again we see them by our side, 
 As full of youth, and strength, and pride 
 
 They first went forth to meet the foe ! 
 Their kindling eyes, their steps elate, 
 
 Their grief at parting hid in mirth ; 
 Against our foes no spark of hate 
 No wish but to preserve the state 
 
 That welcomes all the oppressed of earth. 
 
 Not a new Ireland to invoke 
 
 To guard the flag was all they sought ; 
 
 Not to make others feel the yoke 
 
 Of Poland, fell the shot and stroke 
 Of those who in the Legion fought : 
 
 Upon our great flag's azure field 
 . To hold unharmed each starry gem 
 
 This cause on many a bloody field, 
 
 Thinned out by death, they would not yield 
 It was the world's last hope to them. 
 
 O ye, the small surviving band, 
 
 Oh Irish race wherever spread, 
 With wailing voice and wringing hand, 
 And the wild kaoine of the old dear land, 
 
 Think of her Legion's countless dead ! 
 Struck out of life by ball or blade, 
 
 Or torn in fragments by the shell, 
 With briefest prayer by brother made, 
 And rudely in their blankets laid, 
 
 Now sleep the brave who fought so well. 
 
28 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Their widows tell not them of pride, 
 No laurel checks the orphan's tear ; 
 They only feel the world is wide. 
 And dark, and hard nor help nor guide- 
 No husband's arm, no father near ; 
 But at their woe our fields were won, 
 
 And pious pity for their loss 
 In streams of generous aid should run 
 To help them say " Thy will be done," 
 As bent in grief they kiss the Cross. 
 
 Then for the soldiers and their chief 
 
 Let all combine a shaft to raise 
 The double type of pride and grief, 
 With many a sculpture and relief 
 
 To tell their tale to after days ; 
 And here will shine our proudest boast 
 
 While one of Irish blood survives 
 " Sacred to that unfaltering host 
 Of soldiers from a distant coast, 
 
 Who for the Union gave their lives : 
 
 "Welcomed they were with generous hand ; 
 
 And to that welcome nobly true, 
 When War's dread tocsin filled the land, 
 With sinewy arm and swinging brand, 
 
 These exiles to the rescue flew ; 
 Their fealty to the flag they gave, 
 
 And for the Union, daring death, 
 Foremost among the foremost brave, 
 They welcomed victoiy and the grave 
 
 In the same sigh of parting breath. " 
 
 Thus be their modest history penned, 
 
 But not with this our love must cease ; 
 Let prayers from pious hearts ascend, 
 And o'er their ashes let us blend 
 
 All feuds and factions into peace : 
 Oh men of Ireland ! here unite 
 
 Around the graves of these we love, 
 And from their homes of endless light 
 The Legion's dead will bless the sight, 
 
 And rain down anthems from above ! 
 
 Here to this shrine by reverence led, 
 Let Love her sacred lessons teach ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder rise the dead, 
 From many a trench with battle red, 
 And thus I hear their ghostly speech : 
 
Charles Graham Halpine, 29 
 
 " Oh for. the old earth, and our sake, 
 
 Renounce all feuds, engendering fear, 
 And Ireland from her trance shall wake, 
 Striving once more her chains to break 
 When all her sons are brothers here. 
 
 I see our Meagher's plume of green 
 
 Approving nod to hear the words, 
 And Corcoran's wraith applauds the scene, 
 And bold Mat. Murphy smiles, I ween 
 
 All three with hands on ghostly swords 
 Oh for their sake, whose names of light 
 
 Flash out like beacons from dark shores 
 Men of the old race ! in your might, 
 All factions quelled, again unite 
 
 With you the Green Flag sinks or soars ! 
 
 AFTER THE BATH. 3 
 
 A PIOTUKE IN WATER OOLOB8. 
 
 Her skin is moist, and cold, and pink, 
 
 But warm and red the lips I press, 
 And all her beauty seems to shrink 
 
 Compacter in her clinging dress ; 
 While o'er her shoulders to the hip, 
 
 O'er swelling bust and far adown, 
 In trailing gold the tresses drip 
 
 Which form at night her braided crown. 
 
 No more her eyes in languor swim, 
 
 But kindle with coquettish strife, 
 And every pulse in every limb 
 
 Seems throbbing into radiant life ; 
 Her cheek hath caught a ruddier stain, 
 
 And her small feet in sand that sink 
 Are marble-white, with many a vein 
 
 Down to the almond-nails of pink. 
 
 Her teeth are white as the flashing surf, 
 
 Her eyes are blue as the bay in calm, 
 And her breath to the new-mown clover turf 
 
 Is a rival in its fragrant balm ; 
 Oh happy sea that has held her form, 
 
 Oh happy sands by her white feet pressed 
 With her beauty the whole bright scene is warm, 
 
 Her beauty of gesture, and face, and breast ! 
 
30 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Proudly she stands in her scarlet dress, 
 
 And my eyes give a quiver and then grow dim 
 As I gaze on her infinite loveliness 
 
 Of delicate color and rounded limb ; 
 And the bright blue bay with its flitting sails, 
 
 And the silver sands, and the rocks of brown, 
 And the woods that are dark on the distant hills, 
 
 And the broad green meadows that slope adown, 
 
 All seem but a frame for my lady bright 
 
 A frame not worthy her matchless grace 
 Her lips of red, and her eyes of light, 
 
 And the wonderful charm of her winsome face ; 
 . Oh, here let me lie and die at her feet, 
 
 Let my soul in its sighs for her pass away 
 For my life hath its climax, and death were sweet 
 
 With her eyes gazing down on me here to-day ! 
 
 My senses swoon into blissful trance 
 
 As her small, cool fingers touch my palm, 
 And through all of my veins the currents dance 
 
 As I feel on my cheek her breath of balm ; 
 All the springs of my life are in her control, 
 
 For though faces more perfect I know full well 
 In rich, womanly beauty of body and soul 
 
 There are none to compare with my seaside belle. 
 
 The brown rocks glow as she bounds along, 
 
 And the black weeds thrill in the silver spray, 
 And the birds in the blue sing a gladder song 
 
 As my lady walks by the shining bay ; 
 The waves that have shrined her glowing form 
 
 Have been humanized by the saintly touch, 
 And will spare for her sake in the next great storm 
 
 Some proud ship from their clutch. 
 
 THE MAN OF THREESCORE .< 
 
 A PHILOSOPHIC BANT. 
 
 Never grieve that youth flies ! 
 
 So the wise 
 
 Mortal cries. 
 All the pleasure of life 
 In this one maxim lies. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 31 
 
 Our youth is most dear ; 
 
 But does not the lover 
 
 A pleasing pain suffer, 
 And is not his smile ever steeped in a tear ? 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 To love is to see 
 
 New charms every hour ; 
 
 But is there a bower 
 
 Where sweet roses bloom that a thorn will not be ? 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 Our spring time departs 
 
 Let us laugh and not rage ; 
 
 For the laughter of age 
 
 Brings the sunshine of youth once again to our hearts. 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 Sixty summers have fled 
 
 Poor, idle, and gay, 
 
 I am wasting away 
 
 But you can not find thirty gray hairs in my head. 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 With a girl to adore, 
 
 My godson, at twenty, 
 
 Is satisfied plenty 
 
 My grandmother lives, and I'm glad at threescore. 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 Some people assever, 
 
 As I have been told, 
 
 That the world's growing old ; 
 But, to my eyes, the world is more merry than ever. 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 Old Momus, whose birth 
 
 May be traced back for ages, 
 
 Still laughs on our pages, 
 And reigns o'er us all as the monarch of mirth. 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 Would not grief be destroyed 
 
 Could we rest us content 
 
 That our pleasures are spent, 
 
 And that, though we have lost them, they have been enjoyed ? 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
32 The Poetical Works of 
 
 If my limbs grow so weak 
 
 That I can not walk fast, 
 
 Then I hope at the last 
 
 That the end of my term will be reached the less quick. 
 Never grieve, etc. 
 
 And whene'er Death is pleased 
 To forbid our delay, 
 Let us hasten away 
 As an epicure runs from a fast to a feast ! 
 
 Never grieve that youth flies ! 
 So the wise 
 Mortal cries ; 
 All the pleasure of life 
 In this one maxim lies. 
 
 FAKEWELL TO CLUB COMPANIONS. 
 
 Adieu to the glory of bachelor parties, 
 
 The looseness of latch-keys, the cards, and the cup; 
 Old Hymen has caught me so farewell, my hearties ! 
 
 The game, as we say in the vulgate, is up. 
 No more shall my voice, when 'tis mellowed by sherry. 
 
 Troll out the wild glee of the " Grape and the Boar ;" 
 Henceforward, without me, be social and merry, 
 
 My voice shall be heard in your circle no more. 
 
 Yet sometimes, when Joy her white curtain is flinging 
 
 Between your rapt eyes and the shadows of care 
 When gaming, and dancing, and drinking, and singing 
 
 Usurp the bronze of the giant Despair 
 Let memory paint me as once, in your middle, 
 
 I brimmed a full glass to the toast of "The Fair ;" 
 When, with trumpet and gong, the cornopean and fiddle, 
 
 We made the dull folk of our neighborhood stare. 
 
 Oh, of Hymen beware ! Like a lion he's waiting 
 
 To pounce on the careless who saunter along ; 
 He sends a young Cupid, who, laughing and prating, 
 
 Decoys us aw r ay with a smile and a song ; 
 He leads up a path that is bordered with roses, 
 
 A garden with every thing beautiful rife ; 
 At the end of the vista a Venus reposes 
 
 We clasp her and Hymen has noosed us for life ! 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 33 
 
 Henceforward the fair one, whose mystical beauty 
 
 Entranced every fibre and thrilled every bone, 
 Is ours by the law, and our business and duty 
 
 Becomes to love her, and to love her alone ; 
 But, you see, to the heart so abhorrent is bondage, 
 
 It hates because right what 'twould love were it wrong ; 
 And the path, all so green in our youth and our fond age 
 
 Grows thorny, and tedious, and dreary, and long. 
 
 I'm married, alas ! and, of course, I am happy 
 
 The married, you know, they must "all happy be ;" 
 But I think of the nights when we "bowsed at the nappy," 
 
 And drop a few tears in my third cup of tea ; 
 No more shall the polka's bewildering gyrations 
 
 Inspire the warm lips till they whisper of love ; 
 I must sit down sedately and shun such temptations, 
 
 With my thoughts or my eyes, at least fastened above ! 
 
 And don't, if you call this for my sake, remember! 
 
 Don't whisper a word of the nights we have had ; 
 Declare I was always as cold as December, 
 
 A youth much religious, and gentle, and sad ; 
 A man who detested all noise and confusion, 
 
 Who cried that a polka was flagrant and vain, 
 And would never permit even the slightest infusion 
 
 Of brandy or wine the pure element stain. 
 
 Above all, not a word of the girl of the ballet 
 
 You found in my rooms when you called rather late ; 
 Never venture a hint about Laura or Sally 
 
 Be silent, in mercy, and "mum" about Kate ! 
 But tell her I loved still to linger and dandle 
 
 The whole evening long o'er religion and tea ; 
 Describe me a pattern young man, and a model 
 
 Of all that a husband should properly be ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON BEADING IN A LETTER FROM PAEI8 THAT "LOUIS NAPOLEON SPENDS HIS 
 EVENINGS EITHER PLAYING BACKGAMMON WITH THE EMPBESS, OR EXAMIN 
 ING THE PRIVATE REPORTS OF THE CHIEF OF POLICE." 
 
 Spirit of him who drove afar 
 
 Rebellion's hydra-headed brood, 
 And quenched the torch of civil war 
 
 In tides of foreign blood ! 
 
 3 B 2 
 
34 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Thou, in whose ears the dying groans 
 
 Of old Tradition ever sounded,. 
 Thou, at whose step the reeling thrones 
 
 Of Europe fell confounded ! 
 
 Spirit of him whose mind did forge 
 
 At once the weapon and the chain 
 The prince of princes, and the scourge 
 
 Of all who were too weak to reign ; 
 Behold this jackal of renown, 
 
 Who from your name its glory snatches . 
 This mannikin beneath your crown 
 
 This " king of shreds and patches !" 
 
 France weeps beneath the idiot sway 
 
 Of shaveling priests and jeweled fools ; 
 The Cross of Honor is the pay 
 
 For Tyranny's most abject toojs ; 
 The land that couched the freest lance 
 
 Now fears the informer's sightless arrow; 
 The eagle of imperial France 
 
 Has dwindled to a sparrow ! 
 
 And he who staggered to a throne 
 
 Through broken oaths and civic broil, 
 * Who sought his perjury to atone 
 
 By drenching red the Roman soil ; 
 This dwarf, tricked out with seven-league boots, 
 
 This king of thimble-rigging science 
 This rat, who gnaws the hoarded fruits 
 
 Designed to foster lions. 
 
 This perjurer, robber, murderer, all 
 
 Religion's curse and manhood's jibe, 
 Whose only battle is a ball, 
 
 Whose only victory is a bribe 
 This rushlight that would be a star 
 
 (Oh, Jupiter ! Immortal Ammon ! ) 
 Foregoes the glorious game of war 
 
 For one of mild backgammon. 
 
 His bulletins police reports, 
 
 His aid-de-camp the mousing spy, 
 Falsehood the passport to his courts, 
 
 His life one long-continued lie ; 
 And this was all the First did win 
 
 By Titan toil and daily battles, 
 And such " the pea. that now within 
 
 The giant's helmet rattles!" 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. ( 35 
 
 QUAKERDOM. 
 
 THE FORMAL CALL. 
 
 Through her forced, abnormal quiet, 
 
 Flashed the soul of frolic riot, 
 And a most malicious laughter lighted up her downcast eyes ; 
 
 All in vain I tried each topic, 
 
 Ranged from polar climes to tropic 
 Every commonplace I started met with yes-or-no replies. 
 
 For her mother stiff and stately, 
 
 As if starched and ironed lately 
 Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in curving palms ; 
 
 There she sat on guard before us, 
 
 And in words precise, decorous, 
 
 And most calm, reviewed the weather, and recited several psalms.. 
 
 How without abruptly ending 
 
 This my visit, and offending 
 Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which employed my mental care ; 
 
 When the butler, bowing lowly, 
 
 Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly, 
 
 "Madam, please, the gardener wants you" Heaven, I thought, has 
 heard my prayer. 
 
 " Pardon me !" she grandly uttered ; 
 
 Bowing low, I gladly muttered, 
 "Surely, madam !" and, relieved, I turned to scan the daughter's face : 
 
 Ha ! what pent-up mirth outflashes 
 
 From beneath those penciled lashes ! 
 
 How the drill of Quaker custom yields to Nature's brilliant grace. 
 
 
 Brightly springs the prisoned fountain 
 
 From the side of Delphi's mountain 
 When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant life is thrust aside ; 
 
 So the long-enforced stagnation 
 
 Of the maiden's conversation 
 Now imparted five-fold brilliance to its ever-varying tide. 
 
 Widely ranging, quickly changing, 
 
 Witty, winning, from beginning 
 Unto end I listened, merely flinging in a casual word ; 
 
 Eloquent, and yet how simple ! 
 
 Hand and eye, and eddying dimple, 
 Tongue and lip together made a music seen as well as heard. 
 
36 The Poetical Works of 
 
 When the noonday woods are ringing, 
 
 All the birds of summer singing, 
 Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a serpent nigh : 
 
 So upon the door a rattle 
 
 Stopped our animated tattle, 
 And the stately mother found us prim enough to suit her eye. 
 
 MY TOAST. 5 
 
 "THE FIRST, LAST, AND ONLY GIBL i EVER LOVED." 
 
 Her hair is like a field of wheat 
 
 By autumn tinged with glistening yellows ; 
 Her clear blonde face is always sweet, 
 Her little waist is round and neat, 
 And plump her bust, and small her feet 
 Come, boys ! " To Lucie Ellice !" 
 
 Her gentle hands of tapering white 
 
 The rings that touch them make me jealous ! 
 Her ripe red lips are with smiles bedight, 
 Her large blue eyes have a swimming light. 
 And her fair soft skin with health is bright 
 We drink to Lucie Ellice ! 
 
 Elastic as the delicate vine 
 
 That sways in June from the vineyard trellis ; 
 Her step is dainty, her touch is fine, 
 And her breath is sweet as the perfumed wine 
 Which the votarist kisses before the shrine 
 Even such is Lucie Ellice ! 
 
 And then her voice ! You mayhap have heard, 
 
 As dawn in the East to crimson mellows 
 (While the dews on the roses are yet unblurred, 
 And the gossamer web on the grass unstirred), 
 The song of the lark as aloft it whirred 
 'Twas the voice of Lucie Ellice ! 
 
 And her soul 'tis a spirit of subtle flame, 
 
 That kindles and softens, illumes and mellows - r 
 'Tis an essence pervading and thrilling her frame, 
 And 'tis from it her wonderful gentleness came 
 Her grace, and her beauty, and all that I name, 
 When we drink to Lucie Ellice ! 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 37 
 
 But Fortune is cruel, and Love is blind 
 
 Cruel and blinded the fables tell us ; 
 For with hearts revolting are hands resigned, 
 And the flowers are sundered that should have twined, 
 And darkly we drift on the path assigned, 
 As I drift from Lucie Ellice ! 
 
 Oh, give me a ruff that once touched her throat, 
 
 And I ask no gems from a royal palace j 
 
 Give me a ribbon that once did float 
 
 Where the swelling lines her form denote, 
 
 Then send me to die in some land remote, 
 
 My last thought "Lucie Ellice!" 
 
 But why should I offer so pure a toast 
 
 To the grosser ears of my feasting fellows ? 
 To have seen her but twice is all my boast ; 
 So back to our euchre, and call the host, 
 And that lad shall be king who can drink the most 
 To the health of my Lucie Ellice ! 
 
 BELLE OF THE BALL. 
 
 Oh, Lady of Kinsa ! 
 
 Dear girl of my heart, 
 With your teeth of cut pearl 
 
 Where the crimson lips part ; 
 And a breast o'er whose white hills 
 
 With beauty aglow 
 The blue veinlets wander 
 
 Like streams through the snow. 
 How proud is her glance, 
 
 Yet how kindly to all, 
 As they halt in the dance 
 
 For my Belle of the Ball. 
 
 My Lady of Kinsa ! 
 
 How royal her grace, 
 Yet how bright and how gentle, 
 
 And winsome her face ; 
 And her eyes, large and blue, 
 
 Are as soft as a fawn's, 
 And her smile is as genial 
 
 As midsummer dawns ; 
 
38 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And her wealth of brown hair- 
 See its hues rise and fall, 
 
 Golden, chestnut, and fair 
 In my Belle of the Ball. 
 
 My Lady of Kinsa ! 
 
 In silver and green, 
 By the sceptre of beauty 
 
 A true Irish queen ; 
 As she raises her train, 
 
 For the dancers are fleet, 
 See how small in their white 
 * Satin buskins her feet ; 
 Oh ! to be but caressed 
 
 By the white arms that fall 
 To the partner now blessed 
 
 By my Belle of the Ball ! 
 
 My Lady of Kinsa! 
 
 The clover that dips 
 To the scythe has no perfume 
 
 To equal your lips ; 
 And your little pink ears 
 
 Crown an ivory neck 
 Which the jewels of empire 
 
 Might worthily deck ; 
 And your voice is as bland 
 
 As the murmur of streams, 
 And the touch of your hand 
 
 Is the thrill of my dreams ; 
 And I glow in each pulse 
 
 As I bow to the thrall 
 Of my beauty of Kinsa 
 
 My Belle of the BaU. 
 
 TO SHERIDAN. 
 
 FROM ONE WHO LOVES HIM VERY DEABLY. 
 
 Phil Sherry was of knightly build, 
 
 A soldier of renown, 
 His sabre flashed on many a field, 
 
 His flag o'er many a town ; 
 And when the limbs to weakness grow 
 
 Now filled with youthful flame, 
 Our children's children yet shall glow 
 
 To bold Phil Sherry's name. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 39 
 
 With stormy oath and bugle-blast, 
 
 And eyes of kindling fire", 
 When the skies of war were overcast, 
 
 And hope might well expire, 
 Our Phil with gleaming hand and heel 
 
 Led on his fiery flock, 
 And the victor foe would turn and reel 
 
 Beneath his desperate shock. 
 
 Who has not heard, with tears and smiles, 
 
 Of the hot and headlong ride, 
 When, after twenty galloping miles, 
 
 He checked the rebel tide ? 
 And how, when Lee was brought at length 
 
 To final bay or flight, 
 'Twas Phil that hurled our final strength, 
 
 And won our final fight ? 
 
 Oh, gallant leader of the brave, 
 
 Whose fame for aye endures, 
 Soil not the crest that victory gave 
 
 By work that is not yours. 
 Leap in the saddle once again, 
 
 Let your wild plumes outflow. 
 Nor help to crush the beaten men 
 
 Who sank beneath your blow. 
 
 To baser hands, to meaner souls, 
 
 Kesign the odious task 
 'Tis love this passionate cry controls, 
 
 'Tis for your fame I ask. 
 I want you still an image high, 
 
 Niched in my heart its king ; 
 Oh, once more let your pennons fly, 
 
 Let " boots and saddles" ring!" 
 
 You were not framed the soul God placed 
 
 Within your fiery clay 
 That rarest gift of heaven to waste 
 
 In the wranglings of to-day ; 
 The base intrigues, the ready lies, 
 
 The cold and coward hates: 
 The barb that in the darkness flies, 
 
 The pitfall at the gates 
 
 Thes,e form the politician's trade 
 
 Too base for you to know ; 
 To fight deceit you were not made 
 
 You need a manlier foe ; 
 
40 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And I tell you, Phil, I'd rather seek 
 For friends in the foes we fought, 
 
 Than trust any ' ' loyal" Southern sneak 
 Whom success to our side has brought. 
 
 TO RAYMOND ON HIS TRAVELS. 
 
 Oh, your boat is at the pier, 
 
 And your passage has been paid, 
 But before you go, my dearest dear, 
 
 Accept this serenade ! 
 For with friendliness we burn, 
 
 And rejoicing come the rhymes 
 To toast the health and safe return 
 
 Of him who rules the Times ! 
 
 To toast the health and safe return 
 Of him who rules the Times. 
 
 If we all could get away 
 
 From this town of cares and frets, 
 To wander round the Elysees, 
 
 And kiss the gay grisettes, 
 Such skedaddling there would be 
 
 As was never known before 
 Ten thousand steamers out at sea, 
 
 And not a man on shore ! 
 
 Ten thousand steamers out at sea, 
 And not a man on shore ! 
 
 But oh ! delusive dream, 
 
 For us no chance remains ; 
 Mere drudges of the desk we seem, 
 
 With dull and throbbing brains ; 
 But, though we must stay at home 
 
 To earn the painful dimes, 
 Let us all rejoice that he can roam 
 
 Our brother of the Times ! 
 
 Let us all rejoice that he can roam 
 Our brother of the Times ! 
 
 Oh, safely may he sail, 
 
 And safely sail he back ; 
 His virtue like a proof-of-mail, 
 
 To ward off each attack ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 41 
 
 No beauty of the Boulevard, 
 Or nymph of other climes, 
 To win even half a thought's regard 
 From him who rules the Times ! 
 
 To win even half a thought's regard 
 From him who rules the Times ! 
 
 Were I Marble of the World, 
 
 Or young Bennett debonair, 
 Do you think I'd see his sails unfurled, 
 
 And not his voyage share ? 
 By this wine-cup in my hand, 
 
 By my hope of famous rhymes, 
 My foot should tfuit Manhattan strand 
 
 With him who rules the Times ! 
 
 My foot should quit Manhattan strand 
 With him who rules the Times ! 
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 Of all light troubles to heart or head, 
 The lightest of troubles are from the dead. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 False teacher, no ! All griefs I crave, 
 
 Save the grief that whispers me from the grave. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 The grave is silent, and death is dumb ; 
 
 No hint of reproach from the dead may come. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 The living accuse us of folly or crime, 
 
 But the white ghosts whisper us all the time. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 The living can witness with threatening eyes, 
 But never a witness from death may rise. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Cruel and coldly your thoughts keep track, 
 But I'd give my life could the dead come back. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 A source of division, of care, and dread 
 Why seek to recall the now happy dead ? 
 
42 The Poetical Works of 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 To breathe a few farewell words in the ear, 
 " In heaven try forgive any wrongs done here." 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 Regrets for the dead can but torture the heart 
 Whether living or dead, you were forced to part. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Living, though seas might between us roll, 
 
 We would still have communion of soul with soul. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 And your life would wither, your head turn gray, 
 With the sorrows that Destiny cast in your way. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Oh, sainted and loved ! could I call back thine, 
 How gladly the burden of life I'd resign ! 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 The living may change, but the dead abide 
 In the passion that crowned them as they died. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Had the years estranged us and changed the heart, 
 It were gentle ; but death tore us roughly apart. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But a living change were a little woe ; 
 The love that died loving must ever glow. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Ob, friend ! that was thought in a kindlier vein 
 All my joys in the grave of the dead remain. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 The soul is immortal the body dies ; 
 The dead smile down pity with holy eyes. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 I try to believe it to see the dead stand 
 As my guardian angel in God's bright land. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 So think ! And, thinking it, henceforth move 
 That the dead beholding you may approve. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 43 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 I shall try, my friend ; but a cold, dumb pain 
 Swims up from the soul to the clouded brain ; 
 And I'd give had I power all beneath the sky 
 For the dead to revive, and myself to die ! 
 
 A BREEZY DISSERTATION. 
 
 Two breezes in the forest met 
 
 A little way from town, 
 The one was blowing up to it, 
 
 The other blowing down ; 
 They whispered kindly through the trees, 
 
 Through foliage, branch, and fork 
 And that one was a country breeze, 
 
 And this was from New York. 
 
 They tossed the crimson leaves about, 
 
 And whirling danced around, 
 They laughed to see the forest rout 
 
 Fall eddying to the ground ; 
 To shaking nests and stripping boughs, 
 
 And such like sports they fell, 
 Till, tired at last, one sajd, "Suppose 
 
 What each has seen we tell." 
 
 The country breeze the sweeter far 
 
 Full pleasantly replied, 
 "I've driven upon my cloudy car 
 
 O'er landscapes far and wide. 
 I've seen the harvest gathered home 
 
 By ruddy men and maids, 
 I've cooled me in the cascade's foam, 
 
 And slept in quiet glades. 
 
 "But most of all I loved to force 
 
 My way through those old woods, 
 Upon whose murmurs, warm and hoarse, 
 
 No human voice intrudes ; 
 "Pis pleasant, too, to breast the top 
 
 Of yonder snow-clad hills, 
 Then down into the valleys drop, 
 
 And chase the flying rills. 
 
 "O'er lakes that slumbered in the sun 
 Like mirrors broad and bright, 
 
 My path has been a pleasant one 
 Of perfume and of light. 
 
44 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And now I seek the city there 
 
 I hear are glorious tilings 
 Come, tell to me, my sister fair, 
 
 Where you have spread your wings." 
 
 So loudly then the other sighed, 
 
 She made the branches sway ; 
 The squirrel, perching overhead, 
 
 Affrighted, leaps away : 
 ' ' Oh, sister ! bless'd hath been your lot ; 
 
 Far different mine hath been ; 
 Now hear my tale, and you will not 
 
 Desert the forest green. 
 
 "Condemned by fate, I wandered round 
 
 Yon pile of smoky brick, 
 And men and mud were all I found, 
 
 And both have made me sick ; 
 The towering chimneys volumed forth 
 
 A choking cloud above, 
 And, looked I south, east, west, or north, 
 
 I saw not aught to love. 
 
 "I fanned the cheek of brilliant girls, 
 
 And kissed away their paint ; 
 I danced through many a dandy's curls, 
 
 And caught their soiling taint ; 
 From wretched rooms and filthy streets 
 
 One reeking vapor rose, 
 And, mingling with these city sweets, 
 
 The sound of shrieks and blows. 
 
 " At every corner hideous men 
 
 With curses rent the air 
 Creatures whom neither tongue nor pen 
 
 To paint in full would dare ; 
 I heard the wife's expiring shriek 
 
 As the wretch drove home his knife, 
 And saw some scenes I dare not speak 
 
 In yonder city's life." 
 
 The country breeze would hear no more 
 Away the sisters fled ; 
 
 The wood shook down o'er each a crown 
 Of foliage, brown and re*l : 
 
 And now round some primeval lake, 
 O'er hills and pastures bare, 
 
 Their freshening flight those breezes take- 
 Would I were with them there ! 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 45 
 
 A CALIFORNIAN DITTY. 
 
 When lovely Araminter Jones 
 She always was a gadder 
 
 Did marry, then I took my bones 
 To the Seeraw Neevadder. 
 
 My pick it seemed to have a charm, 
 
 So quickly did I pocket 
 Enough to buy a jolly farm, 
 
 To build a house and stock it. 
 
 The gold became my child apace, 
 
 And I did rock its cradle, 
 And for to clean its yaller face 
 
 I used both pan and ladle. 
 
 And day by day the bright sun rolled 
 
 Above a larger treasure, 
 And day by day, in gathering gold, 
 
 I took a wilder pleasure. 
 
 The miners called me stingy Sam 
 Because I played no euchre, 
 
 But yet I was not then, nor am 
 The slave of filthy lucre. 
 
 There's no man that can see the heart, 
 
 The bosom has no winder, 
 Else had they seen, from gold apart, 
 
 The love of Araminter. 
 
 I vowed revenge against that prig 
 Her husband, he Joe Slammers ; 
 
 He is a cove as wears a wig, 
 
 Is lame, and squints, and stammers. 
 
 I swore that Mrs. S. some day 
 Should envy me prodigious ; 
 
 I'd live beside her, and display 
 What might have been her riches. 
 
 I'd lend her husband money, and 
 I then would prosecute him : 
 
 Were he in that auriferous land, 
 'Twould be no sin to shoot him. 
 
46 The Poetical Works of 
 
 For this it was I drove my stakes 
 
 Away on Feather River 
 Lord ! but I had the ager shakes, 
 
 And suffered from my liver ! 
 
 At length, with forty thousand clear, 
 I shipped among the sailors ; 
 
 One April day I landed here, 
 And went into a tailor's. 
 
 I told him that I wanted all 
 My clothes of brightest colors, 
 
 The largest patterns nothing small 
 They cost two hundred dollars. 
 
 With brooches and with golden chains, 
 
 And rings upon my fingers, 
 I looked, as do upon the plains, 
 
 Them gaudy birds flamingers. 
 
 I started off, as luck did hap, 
 
 To see my Araminter 
 I seed her in a widder's cap, 
 
 A-sittin' at the winder ! 
 
 She told me that her husband, Joe, 
 
 The very morn of marriage, 
 Had tripped and broke his precious neck 
 
 A-gittin' in the carriage. 
 
 And how, although she bid me go 
 
 When the night was dark and clammy, 
 
 She always loved me more than Joe, 
 And then she called me " Sammy !" 
 
 DELMONICO'S DEE AM. 7 
 
 HIS APOLOGY ANJ> EXPLANATION TO BOYAL PHELPS AND THE SPOETSMEN'S 
 
 CLUB FOB SHEEIDAN'S TROUT OUT OF SEASON. 
 
 Alas ! my sin hath found me out, 
 For, while away, unhappy man ! 
 My caterer served unseasoned trout 
 
 To bold Phil Sheridan ! 
 And Roosevelt frowns, and Brady smiles, 
 
 And young "Jim Bennett," too, was there, 
 And Russell Young, and Private Miles, 
 * With Raymond in the chair. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 47 
 
 Since then, on all the winds about 
 
 The arch of heaven my crime is blown 
 "'Tis he that cooked the unseasoned trout 
 
 'Tis he, and he alone!" 
 That murdered fish pursues my sight, 
 
 Flapping its tail, and cries "False host!" 
 And, starting in cold sweats at night, 
 I see the troutly ghost. 
 
 Then other sights awake my fears, 
 
 For soon the Sportsmen's Club are out, 
 With gaffs, breech-loaders, rods, and spears, 
 
 In vengeance for the trout ! 
 For pardon, mercy, vain to wish, 
 
 For still they cry that vengeful train 
 " Remember, Del, this piteous fish 
 Was out of season slain !" 
 
 " In silver brook, in lilied pool, 
 
 Beneath brown boulders jutting out, 
 Where trees and tumbling rills were cool, 
 
 Dwelt happily our trout ; 
 A speckled beauty for his bride, 
 In orange silk and silver lawn, 
 With not one care beneath the tide 
 Except to love and spawn ! 
 
 *' But as on Denmark's royal prop, 
 Taking his orchard-sleep at noon, 
 False Claudius crept, and down did drop 
 
 The leprous hebenoon 
 So on our trout's unguarded hour 
 
 (Who deemed our game-laws were not vain) 
 Thy poacher crept, and sought the bower 
 Where dwelt this happy twain. 
 
 "How gleam their silver sides below, 
 
 How calm the kiss of throbbing gills, 
 As o'er the bank, with caution slow, 
 
 Thy peering poacher wheels ! 
 One splash ! the bride remains but oh ! 
 
 She sees the gaff her lord impale, 
 And now in weeds of troutly woe 
 She wags her futile tail. 
 
 "From March through all the breezy spring, 
 
 When violets first are leaping out, 
 
 'Twas thine, with flies upon the wing, 
 
 To tempt and slay our trout. 
 
4:8 The Poetical Works of 
 
 But in November ! oh, 'tis worse 
 
 Than all the crimes at which men flout ; 
 And cursed be he with Cromwell's curse 
 Who kills unseasoned trout ! 
 
 " The glorious summer days were thine, 
 Their crimson dawns and skies of blue, 
 With supple rod, and curling line, 
 
 And flies of varied hue 
 Yea ! till September browned the corn, 
 Rounding the golden pumpkins out, 
 'Twas thine without reproach or scorn 
 To chase the speckled trout. 
 
 ' ' But thou hast done a deed of woe 
 
 That sets a blister on thy fame, 
 If custom hath not brazed it so 
 That it be dead to shame ; 
 A deed that blurs the modest grace, 
 
 Plucks off the rose, bids virtue doubt ; 
 For it was here, Del, in this place, 
 You served unseasoned trout !" 
 
 From dreams like this I panting start 
 
 Oh, will the morning never come ? 
 And through the long, still night my heart 
 
 Beats like a Southern drum ! 
 Spare me ! 'tis at my caterer's door 
 
 The fault should lie, and not at mine, 
 And on unseasoned trout no more 
 Shall breakfast guest of mine ! 
 
 For I a sportsman am, as true 
 
 As Barrett, Beebe, or Seth Green, 
 And Walton's pleasure oft pursue 
 Where Islip's ponds are seen. 
 Besides and let each Cockney swell, 
 
 Who loves not sport, accept this reason 
 That bad for health, in taste and smell, 
 
 Are trout when out of season ! 
 By order of Major Gen. DELMONICO. 
 
 Commanding Caterer of Xew York. 
 MILES O'REILLY, 
 
 Asst. Bottle Opener and Chief of Staff. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 49 
 
 MY BROKEN MEERSCHAUM. 
 
 Old pipe, now battered, bruised, and brown, 
 With silver spliced and linked together, 
 
 With hopes high up and spirits down, 
 I've puffed thee in all kinds of weather ; 
 
 And still upon thy glowing lid, 
 'Mid carving quaint and curious tracing, 
 
 Beneath the dust of years half hid, 
 The giver's name mine eye is tracing. 
 
 When thou wert given we were as one, 
 
 Who now are two, and widely sundered 
 Our feud the worst beneath the sun, 
 
 Where each believed the other blundered. 
 No public squall of anger burst 
 
 The moorings of our choice relation 
 'Tis the dumb quarrel that is worst, 
 
 Where pride forbids an explanation. 
 
 Old pipe ! had then thy smoky bowl 
 
 A tongue that could to life have started 
 Knowing the secrets of my soul, 
 
 In many a midnight hour imparted 
 Thy speech, perchance, had then reknit 
 
 The ties of friendship rudely sundered, 
 And healed the feud of little wit, 
 
 In which each thinks the other blundered. 
 
 A DOLLAR IN HIS POUCH. 
 
 'Tis pleasant, when our friends are rich, 
 
 To meet them day by day, 
 Or good or ill, no matter which, 
 
 Provided they can pay ; 
 But is there one you answer not 
 
 Who would or could avouch 
 Esteem for one who hadn't got 
 
 A dollar in his pouch ? 
 
 'Tis pleasant with our friends to dine, 
 
 To see them well arrayed, 
 To bumper them in costly wine 
 
 For which themselves have paid ; 
 
 c 
 
50 The Poetical Works of 
 
 To smoke with them, to drive about, 
 
 Share cup, caress, and couch 
 But could we know a man without 
 A dollar in his pouch ? 
 
 The bride will love the pleading swain 
 
 Who holds at his command 
 A handsome house, a goodly train 
 
 Of equipage and land ; 
 But should his fortune cease to smile, 
 
 Even love away will slouch 
 Why can't the creature show a pile 
 
 Of dollars in his pouch ? 
 
 On sea, on shore, they seem to say 
 
 He is rich, and can't be dull ; 
 The gold within his porte-monnaie, 
 
 They think, can fill his skull. 
 Let mammon reign, let genius rot, 
 
 Let wit, love, valor crouch 
 Poor devil, if he has no got 
 
 A dollar in his pouch. 
 
 If Christ again should visit earth, 
 
 A man of toil and care, 
 Howe'er divine, whate'er his worth, 
 
 How, think you, would he fare ? 
 Hence with; this vagi-ant ! thrust him out! 
 
 Some swindler, I dare vouch 
 Think you God's Son would come without 
 
 A dollar in his pouch ? 
 
 AN ACEOSTIC BIETHDAY OFFERING. 
 
 Here on her happy day of birth, 
 
 Encircled by the loves and laughter, 
 No other thoughts but peace and mirth 
 
 Resounding from the gilded rafter, 
 It is no easy task to trace 
 
 Each trait of figure, voice, and gesture 
 The Eastern beauty of the face, 
 The large dark eyes, the regal grace, 
 
 And all the rich, good taste of vesture. 
 
Charles Graham Ilalpine. 51 
 
 A woman with all graces crowned, 
 
 Grand in her. style, yet keenly tender, 
 
 Needing a care we rarely render 
 Even where our love is most profound 
 She pines for Italy's classic ground. 
 
 Beneath her dark Circassian lashes 
 
 Each impulse in her eyes is shown ; 
 No feeling moves her but outflashes, 
 
 Needing no words or spoken tone, 
 Even as we gaze, to make it known ; 
 The flashing glance and changing cheek, 
 These show her varying thoughts, and eloquently speak ! 
 
 JAMES GOKDON BENNETT, JR." 
 
 Och, Jim avic ! you've done the thrick, 
 
 Our chord of manhood sthriking ; 
 An' now you stand before the land 
 
 Our young and laureled Viking. 
 An' it isn't bekase you won the race, 
 
 An' bate all them others hollow, 
 But, staunch and thrue to your hardy crew, 
 
 You didn't say "go, "but "follow!" 
 No men would you ask to face a task 
 
 That you dodged from your wealthy station, 
 An' this was the part that has touched the heart 
 Of this great Yankee nation. 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S ADDRESS. 10 
 
 ON CBOWNING THE LADY Of HIS CHOICE AS QTTEEN OF LOVE ANT) BEAUTY, AT 
 THE GBAND TOUENAMENT IN ST. CHAELE8 COUNTY, MAEYLAND. 
 
 The old chivalric days are gone 
 When beauty was by prowess won ; 
 But still though lost the feudal cause, 
 Its knightly faith and courteous laws 
 We here yet strive to keep aglow 
 
 The old chivalric tone of feeling, 
 Thus crowning beauty's radiant brow, 
 
 At beauty's feet thus humbly kneeling. 
 
 Oh, lady ! in the good old time 
 
 Your fame had lived in minstrel rhyme ; 
 
52 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And gallant knights, in gilded steel 
 From tossing plume to weaponed heel, 
 With lance in rest and whirling <=\vord, 
 
 To win your smile had dared all chances 
 Kepaid even by your slightest word, 
 
 Or by one flash of your bright glances. 
 
 But, ah ! the feudal cause is lost, 
 And palms must now with gold be crossed ; 
 And trade, and toil, and Yankee greed 
 To knightly faith and love succeed ; 
 But beauty still retains her power, 
 
 And knightly faith yet warmly lingers 
 Where History in this darkest hour 
 
 Writes the " Lost Cause" with nervous fingers. 
 
 I crown thee, lady, as my queen, 
 The loveliest earth has ever seen ; 
 My sole regret that on your brow 
 The chaplet which I offer now 
 Is not the crown of royal light, 
 
 Which beauty such as yours should wear, 
 And that, for your dear sake, your knight 
 
 Has had no olden risks to dare. 
 
 HONOR THE BRAVE. 
 
 Honor the brave who battle still 
 
 For Irish right in English lands ; 
 No rule except their quenchless will, 
 
 No power save in their naked hands ; 
 Who waged by day and waged by. night, 
 
 In groups of three or bands of ten, 
 Our savage, undespairing fight 
 
 Against two hundred thousand men. 
 
 No pomp of war their eyes to blind, 
 No blair of music as they go, 
 
 With just such weapons as they find, 
 In desperate onset on the foe. 
 
 They seize the pike, the torch, the scythe- 
 Unequal contest but what then? 
 
 With steadfast eyes and spirits blithe 
 Thev face two hundred thousand men. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 53 
 
 The jails are yawning through the land, 
 
 The scaffold's fatal click is heard, 
 But still moves on the scanty band, 
 
 By jail and scaffold undeterred. 
 A moment's pause to wail the last 
 
 Who fell in freedom's fight, and then, 
 With teeth firm set, and breathing fast, 
 
 They face two hundred thousand men. 
 
 Obscure, unmarked, with none to praise 
 
 Their fealty to a trampled land ; 
 Yet never knights in Arthur's days 
 
 For desperate cause made firmer stand. 
 They wage no public war, 'tis true ; 
 
 They strike and fly, and strike what then ? 
 'Tis only thus these faithful few 
 
 Can front two hundred thousand men. 
 
 You call them ignorant, rash, and wild ; 
 
 But who can tell how patriots feel 
 With centuries of torment piled 
 
 Above the land to which they kneel ? 
 And who has made them what we find 
 
 Like tigers lurking in their den, 
 And breaking forth with fury blind 
 
 To beard two hundred thousand men ? 
 
 Who made their lives so hard to bear 
 
 They care not how their lives are lost ? 
 Their land a symbol of despair 
 
 A wreck on ruin's ocean tossed. 
 We, happier here, may carp and sneer, 
 
 And judge them harshly but what then ? 
 No gloves for those who have as foes 
 
 To face two hundred thousand men. 
 
 Honor the brave ! Let England rave 
 
 Against them as a savage band : 
 We know their foes, we know their woes, 
 
 And hail them as a hero band. 
 With iron will they battle still, 
 
 In groups of three or files of ten, 
 Nor care we by what savage skill 
 
 They fight two hundred thousand men. 
 
54 The Poetical Works of 
 
 TO FORSYTHE FROM O'REILLY. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE RECENT DEPLORABLE FREQUENCY OF MATRIMONIAL 
 CASUALTIES TO YOUNG OFFICERS OF OUR ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 They fall, my friend ! the young, the proud, 
 
 The gay, the festive cusses fall 
 An orange wreath instead of shroud, 
 
 A ring in lieu of Minie ball ; 
 The men who faced a battle's roar 
 
 Now yield .to ruffled chemisettes, 
 And lion hearts bow down before 
 
 Some twilled, frilled pair of pantalettes. 
 
 And we, who with them marched and slept, 
 
 Sharing advance, retreat, attack 
 When revel on " salt horse" we kept, 
 
 Coifee, hard bread, and apple-jack 
 Shall we not heave one pitying breath 
 
 For these our comrades as they go, 
 Not happy to a sudden death, 
 
 But doomed to lingering lives of woe ? 
 
 " 'Twas their own fault," the cynic cries ; 
 
 "For if a moth will seek the flame, 
 And scorch his wing until he dies, 
 
 Is it moth, or lamp, or both we blame ?" 
 Ah ! true, my friend ; but think how long 
 
 These hapless moths through War's dark night 
 (When rains were chill, and winds were strong) 
 
 Had pushed their cold and lonely flight. 
 
 So when, at last, they saw the gleam, 
 
 And felt the warmth of woman's eyes, 
 Who blames them if they dreamed the dream 
 
 Which every moth in dreaming dies ? 
 They were the youngest, tenderest kids, 
 
 And saw no snake beneath the flowers, 
 Nor knew that under Beauty's lids 
 
 Dwelt bolts of more than Whit worth powers. 
 
 And now, my friend, with moaning sore, 
 
 They yield the latch-key, and resign 
 The sacred corkscrew which of yore 
 
 In every pocket used to shine ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 55 
 
 And henceforth, it is known to each 
 Of this once gay and festive band, 
 
 It matters not what rank they reach, 
 Their wives are in supreme command. 
 
 For them the idle badge of power, 
 
 The strap with bar, or leaf, or bird 
 But on the wives to whom they cower 
 
 Far higher brevets are conferred ; 
 The throated frill, the scented glove, 
 
 The crimson lip, the throbbing breast 
 These high commissions, signed by love, 
 
 What slave of Hymen dares contest ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; unhappy, it was theirs 
 
 To ride unhurt through fields of strife ; 
 But now like rabbits caught in snares 
 
 Each comrade yields him to a wife. 
 And henceforth epaulette or sash, 
 
 Or chapeau-bras, or baldric bright, 
 Are nothing more than empty trash* 
 
 Their rank and file (not wives) to fight. 
 
 For higher than all flags that float, 
 
 Or all the stars on straps conferred, 
 Is woman's deathless petticoat, 
 
 And woman's last appealing word ! 
 In vain they strive our comrades old 
 
 Against the sway when first 'tis felt, 
 'Tis beauty's dower as slaves to hold 
 
 The heart that once her power could melt. 
 
 And so they fall the young, the proud, 
 
 The gay and festive cusses fall 
 An orange wreath instead of shroud, 
 
 A ring in lieu of Minie ball ; 
 The men who faced a battle's roar 
 
 Now yield to broidered chemisettes, 
 And lion hearts bow down before 
 
 Some twilled, frilled pair of pantalettes. 
 
 ONLY SOME RELICS. 
 
 A ring she wore a jewel that pressed 
 The maiden beauty of her breast. 
 
 A glove our happy hands once drew 
 From her small fingers veined with blue. 
 
56 The Poetical Works of 
 
 A ribbon that around her throat 
 Loved in the dallying winds to float. 
 
 A golden clasp, that once had known 
 The silken pressure of her zone. 
 
 A little slipper with blue rosette, 
 In which her fairy foot was set. 
 
 And one brown tress, through happy years 
 Shading the shell-films of her ears 
 
 These, and an ivorytype's dull stain, 
 Are all of our dear one that now remain ; 
 
 All the dear relics that are left 
 
 Of her by whose loss our hearts are cleft ; 
 
 Leaving the world a dim, dead space 
 Of cares and duties with little grace 
 
 A dull, dead level of weary years, 
 In which no blossoming joy appears ; 
 
 No girl with teeth like the rows of corn 
 When you strip the ear as the summer is born ; 
 
 And tresses of changing gold and brown, 
 Over shoulders of ivory shaken down ; 
 
 And lips in whose arched and crimson bow 
 All the flushing balms of the tropics glow ; 
 
 And over whose dimpled cheeks, like light 
 
 And shade over meadows, the thoughts take flight ; 
 
 Winged by her innocent, dancing eyes, 
 With coyness and coquetry, smiles and sighs. 
 
 Her voice was the hum of a summer wind 
 
 When it breathes through a lattice with roses twined ; 
 
 Her soul was as pure, as unsullied and white, 
 As the chanting seraphs in robes of light ; 
 
 And the kindness that dwelt in her heart, I deem, 
 Of the heaven she now dwells in was some stray gleam. 
 
 Oh, loved and lost ! our soul's adored ! 
 Our dove with silver wings our bird ! 
 
 Beauty embodied, and joy, and peace, 
 
 Whose breath had a charm bidding sorrow cease. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 57 
 
 Best gift that heaven to bless us gave, 
 We cast this chaplet on thy grave. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 11 
 
 VOICE OP THE BOYS IN BLUE. 
 
 Be merciful to the South 
 Not with the empty word in your mouth, 
 But merciful be let your actions tell 
 To the men who were beaten, but fought so well : 
 Be merciful to the South ! 
 
 Be generous to the South, 
 Gentle in deed, and in word of mouth ; 
 
 For no craven brand on the forehead shines 
 Of the men who met us in volleying lines, 
 
 And fought for the flag of the South. 
 
 Be tender and just to the South, 
 For famine, and slaughter, and hunger, and drouth 
 They have suffered, who made such a gallant fight 
 For a cause that was wrong but they thought right- 
 Be just to the beaten South ! 
 
 Be just, and be something more, 
 Now that the hot days of battle are o'er ; 
 For brothers we were in the glorious past, 
 And brothers again we must be at last 
 
 Be merciful to the Sduth ! 
 
 We are all here once more, 
 The terrible days of our conflict o'er ; 
 And again the old flag floats elate 
 O'er the capital dome of each sister state 
 
 In the East, North, West, and South ! 
 
 Let us join hands once more, 
 
 Renewing the vows that our fathers swore ; 
 Forgetting all strife save the lesson it taught, 
 And meeting as reconciled brothers ought 
 
 A reconciled North and South. 
 
 Errors on both sides were, 
 
 But for these they are past, and we have no care ; 
 Let a sponge glide over the hideous years 
 Of terror and bloodshed, havoc and tears, 
 
 Dividing the North and South. 
 
 C 2 
 
58 The Poetical Works of 
 
 One destiny holds us yet, 
 
 We have common hopes and a common debt ; 
 For England was false to us both alike, 
 And against her power with strong arms should strike 
 
 The reconciled North and South. 
 
 Oh, 'tis a glorious hour, 
 That joins us again in imperial power ; 
 
 And long o'er the land of the free and the brave 
 May the Pine and Palmetto united wave 
 Fit emblems of North and South. 
 
 Again, like two parted friends, 
 With our 'quarrel fought out, the hatred ends; 
 And none more welcome this happy day 
 Than the Boys in Blue and the Boys in Gray, 
 
 Who fought for the North and the South. 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD TOMB. 
 
 The shafts of disappointment fall 
 
 Where most we build our pride, 
 And now the dearest loved of all 
 
 Their little ones had died ; 
 The tears they shed in silence fell 
 
 Like rain-drops through the gloom, 
 And unto him they loved so well 
 
 They reared this household tomb. 
 
 The little bird whose tender wing 
 
 Grew weak in winter tide, 
 Who seemed to strengthen in the spring, 
 
 And soared in summer's pride 
 Grew fainter as the autumn fell 
 
 On summer's withering bloom, 
 And unto him they loved so well 
 
 They built this household tomb. 
 
 He had a trick in sunny hours 
 
 To seek the garden walks, 
 And pluck from out the radiant flowers 
 
 The withered buds and stalks ; 
 He bore them in as if to tell 
 
 That canker-worms consume, 
 And soon to him, beloved so well, 
 
 They reared this household tomb. 
 
Charles Graham If alpine. 59 
 
 The church hath massive iron gates, 
 
 Six days 'tis cold and dim, 
 Till Sabbath fills the silken seats, 
 
 And the organ swells the hymn ; 
 Shall there a blazoned pillar tell 
 
 A child's so common doom ? 
 Ah ! no ; for him, beloved so well, 
 
 They built a household tomb. 
 
 On the mantle-piece all old and worn, 
 
 Where his childish toys are laid, 
 Where the withered buds he plucked were borne, 
 
 In the room where oft he played 
 A kneeling statue sheds a spell 
 
 Of prayer around the room, 
 And the little boy they loved so well 
 
 Has thus a household tomb. 
 
 Oh, friend, I've seen the tear-drops shine, 
 
 And 'watched your quivering lip, 
 I've felt your arm clutch closer mine 
 
 When a bright boy chanced to trip 
 Across our path, and though there fell 
 
 No tear, nor word of gloom, 
 I knew your spirit bowed before 
 
 That little household tomb. 
 
 But, comfort ! There's a higher sphere 
 
 Where the earth-lost reunite ; 
 The spirit of your boy seems near, 
 
 To prompt each word I write ; 
 He says he shares the loved ones' mirth 
 
 When they gather in the room, 
 And smiles down on the silent hearth, 
 
 Even from the household tomb. 
 
 IRELAND AND THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE BOYS IN GBEEN TO THE BOYS IN GBAY. 
 
 Air: "The Wearing of the Green" 
 
 Ring out from every steeple, 
 Call the clans from every fold, 
 
 We're a democratic people, 
 
 And our faith we mean to hold ; 
 
60 The Poetical Works of 
 
 We're for mercy to the beaten foe, 
 
 For brothers we have been, 
 And what oppression is we know, 
 
 All we who wear the Green 
 Ay, what oppression is we know, 
 
 All we who wear the Green 
 In our very bones what it is we know, 
 
 We boys who wear the Green. 
 
 We have felt it in our sire-land, 
 
 With its whip our backs are scored ; 
 Of the South we'll make no Ireland 
 
 Scourged with famine and the sword ; 
 'Tis true they tried the rebel game, 
 
 But punished they have been, 
 And I rather think we've done the same, 
 
 All we who wear the Green 
 We ourselves have done the very same, 
 
 All we who wear the Green, 
 And we hope again to do the same, 
 
 We boys who wear the Green. 
 
 Oh, manhood's proudest duty 
 
 1 Is to fight for manhood's faith ; 
 
 And true courage has a beauty 
 
 That not even crime can scathe ; 
 Into chaos they plunged headward, boys ; 
 
 Their guilt we do not screen ; 
 But our Emmet and Lord Edward, boys, 
 
 Did likewise for the Green 
 Ay ! Sheares, and Orr, and Edward, boys, 
 
 Were rebels for the Green ; 
 Wolfe Tone, and Bond, and Edward, boys, 
 
 Did likewise for the Green ! 
 
 And the day is not far distant 
 
 When our equal boast shall be 
 That our country's crown is glistened 
 
 With Grant, Farragut, and Lee ; 
 By Stonewall Jackson's front of flame, 
 
 And Sherman swift and keen, 
 And Meagher, who led on to fame 
 
 Us boys who wear the Green 
 Tom Meagher, whose brigade of fame 
 
 All wore the plumes of Green ; 
 And Sheridan, whose deathless name 
 
 Proclaims he wears the Green ! 
 
Charles Graham If alpine. 61 
 
 So/' Mercy" be the countersign, 
 
 And " Hoffman" the parole 
 Let the bugles ring along our line, 
 
 And the drums for battle roll. 
 And the cry shall swell from every mouth, 
 
 And on our flags be seen, 
 We're for mercy for the rebel South, 
 
 "We rebels of the Green" 
 We've a fellow feeling for the South, 
 
 We rebels of the Green 
 The boys who wore the Gray down South, 
 
 We boys who wore the Green. 
 
 A LITTLE RHYME OF LITTLE THINGS, 
 
 FOE VEKY LITTLE PEOPLE. 
 
 A curious thing it were to know, 
 
 And knowledge worth the winning, 
 How very big a fact may grow 
 
 From quite a small beginning ; 
 Tom treads on Freddy's tender toe, 
 And gives a curse, and then a blow 
 
 That sets poor Tommy spinning ; 
 Next knives are drawn, and blood must flow, 
 And Freddy to the gallows go 
 
 For homicidal sinning ; 
 And yet a corn upon the toe 
 
 A corn was the beginning. 
 
 A ripened apple fell one day 
 
 Where a wise man was walking 
 An accident, as some would say, 
 
 Not worth a moment's talking ; 
 But in a philosophic way 
 That apple called a mind in play 
 
 That was not easy balking ; 
 The secret of mechanics lay 
 Enshrined therein 'twas heaven's own ray 
 
 To us in darkness walking : 
 Yet trifles such as these, we say, 
 
 Scarce merit serious talking. 
 
 An idle man sat down one night 
 
 Before a boiling kettle, 
 
 And plugged the spout exceeding tight 
 With some soft kind of metal ; 
 
The Poetical Works of 
 
 Off went the lid ! a common sight, 
 But unto him 'twas different quite, 
 
 For he resolved to settle 
 What force this boiling water might 
 Possess ? and so there came to light 
 
 The steed of tireless mettle ; 
 The locomotive lay that night 
 
 Within a tap-room kettle. 
 
 A Yankee youth a sturdy chap 
 
 Was partial to kite flying, 
 And just to see what chance would hap, 
 
 A fork he took, and tying 
 The prongs above the peak, the trap 
 Caught, caged, and tamed the thunder-clap ! 
 
 A fact now patent, lying 
 In the electric wires which lap 
 Our country, and will soon enwrap 
 
 All climes and oceans lying 
 Upon the broad earth's mighty map 
 
 So much for his kite flying! 
 
 So don't despise the little things 
 
 Which happen daily round us, 
 For some of them may chance take wings 
 
 To startle and astound us. 
 Trace back the greatest deed it springs 
 From trifles which no poet sings 
 
 Some trifling change, which found us 
 Prepared to grasp and mount its wings ; 
 Then with our fame the wide earth rings, 
 
 And Fate's high hand hath crowned us, 
 Because we watched those little things 
 
 Which she made happen round us. 
 
 THE BETTEK CHOICE. 
 
 Too little do we gaze on Nature's face 
 Too much have dwelt in colleges and towns, 
 
 Where man pursues the miserable race 
 
 Of wealth and mere book-learning. The muse frowns 
 On him whose footsteps o'er the breezy downs 
 
 Seldom have pressed ; our need is solitude, 
 For thff harsh dissonance of the city drowns 
 
 Those dreams of virtue 1 , loveliness, and good, 
 
 Which in the breast of youth, however stifled, brood. 
 
Charles Graham, Halpine. 63 
 
 Let us arise, and shake away the dust 
 
 Of brick and pavement from our flying feet , 
 All former visions from remembrance thrust, 
 
 And even forget that once we trod the street. 
 
 Up in the mountains haply we may meet 
 Those glorious fancies that still shun the throng ; 
 
 The rill's wild music, tremulous and sweet, 
 Will lend a softer cadence to our song, 
 The cataract's curbless strength may teach us to be strong. 
 
 And flowers, and perfumes, and untainted air, 
 And forest green with dark cathedral glooms, 
 
 And the fleet birds, whose mission is to bear 
 Nature's true music on their outspread plumes, 
 And mossy banks, and overhanging blooms 
 
 Of trailing honeysuckle these shall teach 
 
 Our tongues to breathe the passion that consumes 
 
 The inmost spirit ; and we shall learn a speech 
 
 Wide-general enough all human hearts to reach. 
 
 All forms of art are transient, and they die 
 
 Even with the folly which conferred their birth. 
 Fashion deceives, but Nature can not lie 
 
 While the wide ocean cradles the green earth. 
 
 False are the echoes of conventional mirth, 
 Falser the semblance of conventional woe, 
 
 Mere puppet feelings cherished in the dearth 
 Of genuine passion ; for a while they glow 
 Like paint on death's shrunk cheek there is no life below. 
 
 The couch of velvet and the damask fold 
 
 May give luxurious languor some brief ease, 
 And mirror'd walls and cornices of gold 
 
 Afford good shelter, and a while may please ; 
 
 But look again, and tell me where are these ? 
 A heap of tatters and a tottering Avail ! 
 
 Not so this mossy bank, these sheltering trees ; 
 Nor fades fhe sun, nor does the green hill fall, 
 Nor fails the bright still pool to mirror back the whole. 
 
 Forms, books, and customs are the chains that bind 
 
 Our hearts to wretchedness. Whoe'er would be 
 Strong in himself, these fetters cast behind 
 
 'And seek the desert limbs and reason free ! 
 
 There let him ponder of his destiny, 
 Survey the mountain shrine, the starlit dome, 
 
 Hear Nature's prompting voice : " All this for thee 
 Was made and is sustained ; it is thy home ; 
 Be true to your own life, and here earth's monarch roam ! " 
 
64 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Oh, false conceit ! self-baffling avarice ! 
 
 That strives to grasp the mental riches earned 
 By former toilers ! Be assured of this 
 
 No ray of thought that erst in Goethe burned, 
 
 Through pedant-channel can to you be turned. 
 Each hand must pluck its individual fruit. 
 
 Books are the grave where knowledge is inurned ; 
 No second blossom from their clay can shoot ; 
 Yourself must sow the seed let them manure the root. 
 
 And we have idled our best years away 
 
 In gathering dead leaves. There yet is time 
 To plant a better harvest, such as may 
 
 In part compensate for wasted prime. 
 
 And though no forest, leafy and sublime, 
 Our wintering sun can hope to shake abroad, 
 
 Still may we graft some creepers that will climb 
 Round our old age, enlivening the green sod, 
 And breathing grateful praise to the benignant God, 
 
 Oh, mother earth ! to us estranged too long 
 Have been thy beauties not by our own will, 
 
 For with a passion blind as it was strong 
 Have we adored thy purity, and still 
 Would, ere the years our destiny fulfill, 
 
 Drink thy inspiring eloquence ; nor thou 
 This tardy homage to thy throne repel 
 
 Clouds may not always linger on heaven's brow, 
 
 And let the future speak the fervor of our vow. 
 
 DUET FOR THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
 
 KOMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 Thou art my love ! I have none other 
 But only thee but only thee. 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 Now, Charles, do stop this silly bother, 
 And drink your tea your cooling tea. 
 
 ROMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 Your eyes are diamonds, gems refined, 
 Your teeth are pearl, your hair is gold 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 Oh nonsense now ! I know you'll find 
 Your cutlets cold exceeding cold. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 65 
 
 ROMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 Where'er thou art, my passions burn ; 
 I envy not the monarch's crown 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 Put some hot water in the urn, 
 
 And toast this bread, and toast it brown. 
 
 ROMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 Had I Golconda's wealth, I say, 
 
 'Twere thind at will 'twere thine at will- 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 Then let me have a check to pay 
 
 The dry-goods bill that tedious bill ! 
 
 ROMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 Oh, heed it not, my trembling flower ; 
 If want should press us, let it come 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 And, apropos, the bill for flour 
 Is quite a sum. an unpaid sum. 
 
 ROMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 So rich in love, so rich in joy, 
 
 No change our cup of bliss can spill 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 Now do be quiet ! You destroy 
 
 My cambric frill my well-starched frill. 
 
 ROMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 Ha ! senseless, soulless, loveless girl, 
 To sympathy and passion dead ! 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 A moment since I was your "pearl," 
 Your " only love" at least you said. 
 
 ROMANTIC HUSBAND. 
 
 I spoke it in the bitter jest 
 
 Of one his own deep sadness scorning 
 
 SENSIBLE WIFE. 
 
 Well, candor is at all times best : 
 I wish you, sir, a fair good morning ! 
 
66 The Poetical Works of 
 
 THE NYMPH OF LURLEIBERGH. 
 
 In Lurleibergh's deep shadowed vale, 
 
 Where all the Rhine's blue waters meet, 
 A maiden sat, as fair and pale 
 
 As were the lilies at her feet ; 
 Her hair in wild profusion flowing 
 
 From roses richly wreathed above 
 To hide the gentle bosom, glowing 
 
 With mingled thoughts of fear and love. 
 Oh, Nymph of Lurleibergh ! thy lute, 
 Why stands it thus untouched and mute ? 
 What pensive shadows cloud thine eye, 
 And cheat the moments as they fly ? 
 Thou art too young, too fair for pain 
 To dim the smile or wring the brain ; 
 Too pure thou seem'st for thought of ill, 
 Yet sad thou art, and pensive still. 
 
 Yea, thou art sad, although no tear 
 
 Bedews thy silken-fringed lid, 
 And all the more will sorrow sear 
 
 When thus in mute endurance hid. 
 Thine eyes are fixed upon the river, 
 
 As past thy feet its waters roll, 
 And, swift as are its ripples, quiver 
 
 The tides of feeling in thy soul. 
 Oh, Nymph of Lurleibergh ! the crown 
 Of flowers you wear will wither soon, 
 The lute's harmonious chords will slack, 
 And youth, once flown, comes never back ; 
 The gushing waters, pure and sweet, 
 That pour their tribute to thy feet, 
 Soon pass the bowers of trellised vine, 
 And perish in the stormful brine. 
 
 We should not waste in tears the hours 
 
 Of youth, that all too fleetly flow ; 
 In spring the fields are decked with flowers, 
 
 And wintry age is capped with snow ; 
 And thou art in the spring of being, 
 
 And thou shouldst be as light and gay 
 As is the lark when upward fleeing 
 
 To bathe his pinions in the ray 
 That calls the bluebell from the meadow, 
 And steeps tne hill in sultry shadow ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 67 
 
 That bathes the morning lake in fire, 
 And tips with gold the village spire. 
 I too have felt the hopeless void 
 Of pleasures lost when most enjoyed, 
 And learned, alas ! that tears are vain 
 To wash such memories from the brain. 
 
 THE PAETING KISS. 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 One kiss before you go, love, 
 
 One kiss before we part, 
 Indeed you do not know, love, 
 
 The sadness of my heart. 
 The dawn that wakes the birds, love, 
 
 To joy, is pain to me ; 
 I hear your farewell words, love, 
 
 Nor care how bright it be. 
 
 Oh, softly down the stream, love, 
 
 Let your light oars be driven, 
 For I have dreamt a dream, love 
 
 Perchance a warning given ! 
 I dreamt my brother stood, love, 
 
 And saw our parting kiss ; 
 It can not bode us good, love, 
 
 Be sure, forget not this ! 
 
 Nor must thou yet forget, love, 
 
 At nightfall to return, 
 When o'er the parapet, love, 
 
 You see my signal burn. 
 Adieu ! we may not stay, love ; 
 
 Cease not to think of me ; 
 And through the weary day, love, 
 
 I'll pray for night and thee. 
 
 ROMEO. 
 
 Oh, hush ! your fears are vain, love. 
 
 Nor sire nor brother near ; 
 Indeed I may remain, love, 
 
 There is no danger here. 
 The prying dawn delays, love, 
 
 As loth to break our bliss ; 
 He did but peep to win from thee 
 
 The fond, the parting kiss. 
 
68 
 
 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The willows, bending deep, love, 
 
 In prudent awe look down ; 
 They will not raise their heads to peep 
 
 Lest you, my love, should frown. 
 The birds are all asleep, love 
 
 Oh, chide not my delay ; 
 For where thou art not is my night. 
 
 Where'er thou art, my day. 
 
 Alas ! the spell is riven, love, 
 
 I hear the bells afar ; 
 Dost thou not see in heaven, love, 
 
 Yon dimly-fading star ? 
 When in the dewy eve, love, 
 
 It rises o'er the hill, 
 You'll see my shallop on the stream, 
 
 And hear my bugle shrill. 
 
 Adieu ! it is the dawn, love, 
 
 I must I must away ; 
 The fading star hath gone, love, 
 
 The birds awake the day. 
 To part at all is pain, love, 
 
 To thee and me ; I wish 
 But, till we meet again, love, 
 
 Oh, keep my parting kiss. 
 
 ORIGINAL SIN. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF A SERMON ON T1II8 TEXT BY THE EEV. DR. BELLOWS, SENT 
 TO A LADY EQUALLY REMARKABLE FOR HER BEAUTY, WIT, BENEVOLENCE, AND 
 THE INTEREST SHE TOOK IN FAST HORSES AND DEMOCRATIC POLITICS. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Blank, for the excellent sermon 
 
 You led me to hear, I your debtor remain ; 
 And revolving the subject has made me determine 
 
 To sift the discourse'into language more plain. 
 Your pastor in me has now found a disciple 
 
 Who means to go into religion and win ; 
 But, in case he should fail, in the words of the Bible, 
 
 Impute his mishap to " original sin !" 
 
 That " man is not perfect" the excellent Bellows 
 
 Undoubtedly proves, and I boldly maintain ; 
 Whenever you show me " a prince of good fellows," 
 
 His sins will keep pace with the size of his brain. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 69 
 
 Your men of small natures are prim and decorous, 
 To prudery's domain their brief steps they confine, 
 
 While the " big hearted Indians" who truly rule o'er us, 
 Can't bring down their strides to the limiting line. 
 
 But woman ! dear woman ! the excellent Bellows, 
 
 In all his discourse, breathed no word about her ; 
 He was fearful, perhaps, Mrs. B. would grow jealous, 
 
 And therefore thought better that point to defer. 
 But that woman is perfect in all things becoming 
 
 A womanly nature, he could not deny, 
 And assuredly not, if this sermon while humming, 
 
 He chanced on our pew to direct his staid eye. 
 
 I heard his discourse with a kind of mixed notion 
 
 That "the bliss" he described was alh'ed to our pew 5. * 
 And whenever he spoke of "the need of devotion," 
 
 I felt most devoutly attracted to you. 
 That heaven has rewards " both in here and hereafter" 
 
 For those who 'tend meeting, I felt to be plain ; 
 For a pleasanter goblet of dreams than I quaffed there 
 
 Was never poured out labeled "Fancy's Champagne." 
 
 Oh, ne'er while I live be that sermon forgotten 
 
 It made an impression no years can efface ; 
 Your parson's the best horse I know of to trot on, 
 
 When girdling our loins for eternity's race. 
 " Two thirty" we got it the dull nags we " dish 'em," 
 
 Ne'er turning a hair, and ne'er casting a shoe ; 
 And the " Bloomingdale Road" which leads up to Elysium, 
 
 I am firmly convinced has its start from your pew. 
 
 STAMPING OUT. 12 
 
 Ay, stamp away ! Can you stamp it out 
 
 This quenchless fire of a nation's freedom ? 
 Your feet are broad and your legs are stout, 
 
 But stouter for this you'll need 'em ! 
 You have stamped away for six hundred years, 
 
 But again and again the old cause rallies, 
 Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineers, 
 
 And with scythes come the men from our valleys 
 
 The steel-clad Norman, as he roams, 
 Is faced by our naked gallowglasses, 
 
 We lost the plains and our pleasant homes, 
 But we held the hills and passes. 
 
TO The Poetical Works of 
 
 And still the beltane fires at night, 
 
 If not a man were left to feed 'em, 
 By widows' hands piled high and bright, 
 
 'Flashed far the flame of freedom. 
 
 Ay, stamp away ! Can you stamp it out, 
 
 Or how have your brutal arts been baffled ? 
 You have wielded the power of rope and knout, 
 
 Fire, dungeon, sword, and scaffold. 
 But still, as from each martyr's hand 
 
 The fiery cross fell down in fighting, 
 A thousand sprang to seize the brand, 
 
 Our beltane fires relighting. 
 And once again through Irish nights, 
 
 O'er every dark hill redly streaming, 
 And numerous as the heavenly lights 
 
 Our rebel fires were gleaming. 
 And though again might fail that flame, 
 
 Quenched in the blood of its devoted, 
 Fresh chieftains rose, fresh clansmen came, 
 
 And again the old flag floated. 
 
 That fire will burn, that flag will float, 
 
 By virtue nursed, by valor tended, 
 Till with one fierce clutch upon your throat 
 
 Your Moloch reign is ended. 
 It may be now, or it may be then, 
 
 That the hour will come we have hoped for ages, 
 But, failing and failing, we try again, 
 
 And again the conflict rages. 
 Our hate, though hot, is a patient hate, 
 
 Deadly and patient to catch you tripping, 
 And your years are many, your crimes are great, 
 
 And the sceptre is from you slipping. 
 But stamp away with your brutal hoof, 
 
 While the fires to scorch you are upward cleaving, 
 For with bloody shuttles, the Avarp and woof 
 
 Of your shroud the Fates are weaving. 
 
 THE LISPEK AND BOOTH. 
 
 " Come tell me, girls, and tell me truth, 
 Why are you all so in love with Booth ? 
 
 1 ' Has he given you filters, or mixed love-powders 
 In your breakfast coffee or luncheon chowders ?" 
 
Charles Graham Ilalpine. 71 
 
 Fast came the answer, clear and crisp, 
 
 From a young, plump blonde with a lovely lisp : 
 
 '' I'm thure, Mither Mileth, we love him tho, 
 Becauth he ith Booth-iful, you know!" 
 
 I caught the lisper and kissed her there : 
 
 "Kith me muth ath you pleath, but don't wumple my hair ; 
 
 "And fondle me, Mileth, juth ath muth ath you will, 
 If you only won't wuifle my Bwuthells fwill !" 
 
 So I drew her aside, and, with kiss and whisper, 
 
 There were high old times between Miles and the lisper ; 
 
 And let Booth be " boothiful" or no, 
 "fwas a beautiful girl that called him so. 
 
 THE OLD GREEN FLAG. 
 
 " The Fenian cause is dead," they say ; 
 " Clean crushed by Seward's craven sway !" 
 'Tis dead that is, for the present day 
 'Twill rise again. 
 
 That cause, in Irish lore appears 
 Has lived for full seven hundred years-r- 
 Oft quenched in blood, and quenched in tears, 
 It rose again. 
 
 The dying sire bequeathed his sword 
 To sons who then their life-blood poured, 
 And o'er their sons the Green Flag soared 
 'Twill soar again. 
 
 The Irish mother, as she pressed 
 The warm, full nipple of her breast, 
 Thus lullabied her babe to rest 
 " 'Twill rise again." 
 
 Despite rope, dungeon, famine, chains, 
 And bills of penalties and pains, 
 For all with Irish in their veins, 
 It rose again. 
 
 From Silken Thomas trace its flow 
 To Hugh O'Neil and Owen Roe ; 
 And though Lord Edward felt the blow, 
 It rose again. 
 
72 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And though Wolfe Tone in prison died, 
 And Emmet was siain on Liffy's side, 
 Despite all England's power and pride, 
 It rose again. 
 
 It crossed the sea. The Irish race, 
 Uprooted from their dwelling-place, 
 Came here new destinies to face 
 It rose again. 
 
 " Eternal hatred of the foe 
 Eternal warfare, blow for blow, 
 Till England's power in the dust lies low"- 
 This rose again. 
 
 "While Irish blood through our veins is led, 
 For the Cause and Flag shall our blood be shed, 
 Till the Green, high soaring above the Red, 
 Floats free again." 
 
 Despite of Seward's truckling fears, 
 And Irish slaves, with mocks and jeers 
 For those who hold the faith of years, 
 'Twill rise again. 
 
 By suffering taught to help the weak 
 For all the oppressed of earth we speak 
 For all the oppressed some hope we seek 
 To rise again. 
 
 Oh, generous, proud, and gallant race 
 So often rash, so rarely base 
 Sure as the bright sun holds her place, 
 'Twill rise again. 
 
 The old Green Flag, the good old Cause, 
 Despite the check of cramping laws, 
 Shall yet obtain the world's applause 
 When risen again. 
 
 Wherever England's flag may float, 
 Or slaves may wear her scarlet coat, 
 Leap, Fenians ! at the tyrant's throat, 
 And try again. 
 
 The great heart of the land, we claim, 
 Is thrilled with sympathetic flame, 
 For they, as we, hate England's name 
 'Twill rise again. 
 
GTiarles Graham Halpine. 73 
 
 For perjured faith for foulest blows 
 Struck when the rebel standard rose 
 England, even here, a deep debt owes : 
 'Twill rise again. 
 
 Let Seward curve his craven knee, 
 Yet, while America is free, 
 The flag we bore across the sea 
 Shall rise again 
 
 Will rise despite all human power 
 Will flame abroad in time's full hour 
 Till, high in air, o'er field and tower, 
 It floats again. 
 
 But, brethren, till that hour shall come, 
 Be busy with your hands bufr dumb ; 
 Nor speak till told by the rolling drum 
 "It floats again." 
 
 " It floats the good old Green Flag floats 
 Once more in the face of the scarlet coats" 
 Then fiercely and full at your foemen's throats 
 Spring once again. 
 
 God of our Fathers ! God of Peace ! 
 Grant us from factious feuds release, 
 For never until these shall cease 
 
 Can the old Flag, rise again. 
 
 LINES ON THE RUSSO-TURKISH . WAR. 
 
 So far as I can reason down 
 
 The complex Eastern question, 
 A Turkey done exceeding brown 
 
 Would suit the Czar's digestion. 
 Be trussed it must with bayonets first, 
 
 And peppered well with powder, 
 Then, sliced out into provinces, 
 
 'Twill make a famous chowder. 
 
 Poor Turkey can not bear a yolk, 
 
 Though turkey-eggs bear pullets, 
 Nor can the sultan see the joke 
 
 Of making his eggs bullets. 
 Though he has got a hundred wives, 
 
 He dearly loves Moll Davia, 
 And Galatz is the kind of " gal" 
 
 He wouldn't part to save you. 
 
 D 
 
74 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Though men-shake-off the Russian wiles, 
 
 Still Men-tshi-koff is great, sir, 
 And the Dardan-elles are crooked miles, 
 
 Although they call them " Strait," sir. 
 The sultan in his harem sits 
 
 While things go harum-scarum ; 
 He gets in-sultin' messages, 
 
 And can not choose but bear 'em. 
 
 The Turk appeals to God and Truth, 
 
 But suffers nevertheless he, 
 For Gortschakoff, beside the Pruth 
 
 At Jassy, gives him Jessy. 
 With Gortscha-koff and Mentschi-koff 
 
 His breast has got a-stuffin', 
 And, if he can not shake them off, 
 
 These koifs will nail his coffin. 
 
 The czar is clad in costly furs 
 
 From Vashka and Yakaka, 
 While Turkey's sole defense from koffs 
 
 Is Redschid Ali Pacha. 
 The sultan to the Prophet prays 
 
 No profit comes a-near him ; 
 And though his Porte be called sublime, 
 
 It has no strength to cheer him. 
 
 He prays to Mecca, but he finds 
 
 The mecha-nism rusty ; 
 His prayer can not unlock the gate, 
 
 And so the Porte grows crusty. 
 His viziers put their visors down, 
 
 And will not face the tussle ; 
 Alas ! the faithful Mussulmans 
 
 Have neither brain nor muscle. 
 
 Dis-turbin' hands his turban touch, 
 
 His hookah it is hooked, sir, 
 And soon before a Cossack fire 
 
 Will Turkey's goose be cooked, sir. 
 His Mamelukes to mammy look, . 
 
 Nor are for battle pressing ; 
 His pachas of a dozen tails 
 
 Have tales the most distressing. 
 
 His dragomans can't drag a man 
 To fight the Turks ain't stupid ; 
 
 His eunuchs are as impotent 
 For Mars as* eke for Cupid. 
 
diaries Graham Hal/pine. 75 
 
 There's not a man in his divan 
 In honor's van will die, sir ; 
 
 Before the storm that Bruin brews 
 The Turkey soon must fly, sir. 
 
 The Turks gave shelter to Kossuth 
 
 For this esteemed their souls are : 
 May they ne'er know a Hungary day, 
 
 Partitioned as the Poles are. 
 May Allah and the Christian's God 
 
 Confound unchristian czars, sir, 
 And may the Turkish moon be girt 
 
 With bright Columbian stars, sir. 
 
 TO LAURA. 
 
 We must not show the hidden bower, 
 Where love's high feasts are holden ; 
 
 We must not let another see 
 
 The secret flower, perfumed and golden, 
 
 That twinkles on the shadowy lea 
 For thee and me, 
 
 Dear Laura. 
 
 We must not show the priceless gem 
 That gleams in pleasure's casket ; 
 
 No jealous eye its light may see, 
 Lest those who envy us should ask it, 
 
 Or question how it came to be 
 With thee and me, 
 
 Dear Laura. 
 
 We must not show the hidden spring 
 Where passion cools its fever ; 
 
 We must not let the slightest sound 
 Betray our joy, but be forever 
 
 Mute as the woods that wave around 
 Our hallowed ground, 
 
 My Laura. 
 
 Oh, could we flee, like doves, afar 
 
 From custom's iron bondage, 
 To some rich isle in the Southern Sea, 
 
 There, in the wood's enwoven frondage, 
 With all our beings linked, to be 
 
 Unwatched and free, 
 
 Dear Laura. 
 
76 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Still, in the world be cold, reserved, 
 
 With social fetters laden ; 
 The humble minstrel, what were he 
 
 To win the heart of this proud maiden ? 
 But there are hours thank heaven there be 
 
 For thee and me, 
 
 My Laura. 
 
 I would not change my pride of song 
 
 For all a prince's treasure ; 
 Not all the wealth beneath the sea 
 
 Could yield its lord such passionate pleasure 
 As when, upon the shadowy lea, 
 
 I pluck the golden flower with thee, 
 And kiss the gem which none may see 
 
 Save thee and me, 
 
 My Laura. 
 
 AT THE SEA-SIDE. 
 
 The bay lay sobbing at our feet$ 
 
 The night was dark, and warm, and calm, 
 We felt the throbbing pulses beat 
 
 Each in the other's palm. 
 
 Behind us, crested on the Tbank, 
 
 Were great hotels a-gleam with lights, 
 
 Where youth and beauty, wealth and rank, 
 Held revel through the nights. 
 
 But round us all was hushed and dark 
 No sound except the sobbing bay 
 
 No light, save when some phosphor-spark 
 Flashed upward in the spray. 
 
 There on the rocks we talked of love 
 An old, lost love till on my breast 
 
 Her head, like some o'erwearied dove, 
 Came fluttering down to rest. 
 
 Between us and the anchored light 
 That marks the shoal beneath its lee, 
 
 We watched the white and ghostly flight 
 Of schooners out to sea. 
 
 We talked of freighted ships, that sailed 
 From bays like this with no return ; 
 
 We talked of many hopes that failed 
 To reach the promised bourne. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 77 
 
 We sat, recalling all the past 
 
 The march and camp in prairie lands, 
 
 Our canvas cities rising fast 
 Along the Southern sands. 
 
 Our canters through the scented pine, 
 The halts in many an orange grove, 
 
 The wreaths of yellow jessamine 
 That round our heads we wove. 
 
 And then came up, in sad review, 
 Full many a friend in battle slain, 
 
 And all the war that either knew 
 Before us passed again. 
 
 And tremulous grew the clasping palm, 
 And gentlier sank the fair dear head, 
 
 And o'er our souls a deeper calm 
 Than o'er the bay was spread 
 
 A calm of pained and softened thought, 
 A tender trance of vanished years 
 
 A ghostly mirror, quaintly wrought, 
 In which the past appears. 
 
 And still, as sadder grew the theme, 
 Her hand crept closelier into mine, 
 
 And on my breast, in deeper rest, 
 I felt her head decline. 
 
 Oh, dark blue bay, with your anchored light, 
 Your belt of hills and your silver shore, 
 
 For the freighted hearts relaunched to-night, 
 What harbor has Fate in store ? 
 
 WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY, 1865. 13 
 
 AN APPEAL TO THE PATRIOTIC AND BENEVOLENT FOB A SOLDIER'S HOME. 
 
 Forever past the days of gloom 
 
 The long, sad days of doubt and fear 
 When woman, by her idle loom, 
 Heard the dread battle's nearing boom 
 
 With clasped hands and straining ear ; 
 While each new hour the past pursues 
 
 With farther threat of loss and pain, 
 Till the sick senses would refuse 
 To longer drink the bloody news 
 
 That told of sons and brothers slain. 
 
78 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The days of calm at length are won, 
 
 And, sitting thus, with folded hands. 
 We talk of great deeds greatly done, 
 While all the future seems to run 
 
 A silvery tide o'er golden sands. 
 With pomp the votive sword and shield 
 
 The saviors of the land return, 
 And while new shrines to peace we build. 
 On our great banner's azure field 
 
 Yet larger constellations burn. 
 
 Who boi:e the flag who won the day ? 
 
 The young, proud manhood of the land. 
 Called from the forge and plow away, 
 They seized the weapons of the fray 
 
 With eager but untutored hand ; 
 They swarmed o'er all the roads that led 
 
 To where the peril hotliest burned 
 By night, by day, their hurrying tread 
 Still southward to the struggle sped, 
 
 Nor ever from their purpose turned. 
 
 Why tell how long the contest hung, 
 
 Now crowned with hope, and now depressed. 
 And now the varying balance swung^, 
 Until, like gold in furnace flung, 
 
 The truth grew stronger for the test ? 
 'Twas our own blood we had to meet ; 
 
 'Twas with full peers our swords were crossed. 
 Till in the march, assault, retreat, 
 And in the school of stern defeat, 
 
 We learned success at bloody cost. 
 
 Oh, comrades of the camp and deck, 
 
 All that is left by pitying Fate 
 Of those who bore through fire and wreck, 
 With sinewy arm and stubborn neck, 
 
 His flag whose birth we celebrate 
 Oh, men, whose names forever bright 
 . On history's golden tablet graved 
 By land, by sea, who waged the fight, 
 What guerdon will you ask to-night 
 
 For service done, for perils braved ? 
 
 The charging lines no more we see, 
 No more we hear the din of strife, 
 Nor under every greenwood tree, 
 Stretched in their life's great agony, 
 
 Are those who Avait the surgeon's knife ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 79 
 
 No more the bloodied stretchers drip. 
 
 The jolting ambulances groan ; 
 No more, while all the senses slip, 
 We hear frcm the soon silent lip 
 
 The prayer for death as balm alone. 
 
 And ye, who on the sea's blue breast, 
 
 And down the rivers of the land, 
 With clouds of thunder as a crest, 
 Where still your conquering prows were pressed, 
 
 War's lightnings wielded in your hand 
 Ye too, released, no longer feel 
 
 The threat of battle, storm, and rock-'- 
 Torpedoes grating on the keel, 
 While the strained sides with broadsides reel, 
 
 And turrets feel the indenting shock. 
 
 Joint saviors of the land, to-day 
 
 What guerdon ask you of the land ? 
 No boon too great for you to pray 
 What can it give that could repay 
 
 The men we miss from our worn band ? 
 The men who lie in trench and swamp, 
 
 The dead who rock beneath the wave 
 The brother-souls of march and camp 
 Bright spirits each a shining lamp, 
 
 Teaching how nobly die the brave. 
 
 And thou, Great Shade ! in whom was nursed 
 
 The germ and grandeur of our land 
 In peace, in war, in reverence first, 
 Who taught our infancy to burst 
 
 The tightening yoke of Britain's hand 
 Thou, too, from thy celestial height 
 
 Will join the prayer we make to-day 
 ' ' Homes for the crippled in the fight, 
 And what of life is left made bright 
 
 By all that gratitude can pay. " 
 
 Teach these who loll in gilded seats, 
 
 With nodding plume and jeweled gown, 
 Boasting a pedigree that dates 
 Back to the men who swayed the fates 
 
 When thou wert battling Britain's crown, 
 That, ere the world a century swims 
 
 Through time, this poor blue-coated host, 
 With brevet rank of shattered limbs, 
 Will swell to fame in choral hymns, 
 
 And be of pride the proudest boast. 
 
80 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Homes for the heroes we implore 
 The brave, who limbs and vigor gave 
 
 That North and South, from shore to shore, 
 
 One free, rich, boundless country o'er 
 The flag of Washington might wave ; 
 
 The flag that first the day recall- 
 Long years ago, one summer morn, 
 
 Plashed up o'er Independence Hall, 
 
 A meteor-messenger to all 
 
 That a new nation here was born. 
 
 Oh, wives and daughters of the land, 
 
 To every gentler impulse true, 
 To you we raise the invoking hand : 
 Take pity on our stricken band, 
 
 These demigods disguised in blue. 
 More sweet than coo of pairing birds 
 
 Your voice when urging gentle deeds, 
 And power and beauty clothe her words 
 A west wind through the heart's thrilled chord:- 
 
 When woman's voice for pity pleads. 
 
 To you I leave the soldier's doom 
 
 Your glistening eyes assure me right ; 
 Oh think, through many a night of gloom, 
 When round you all was light and bloom, 
 
 And he preparing for the fight, 
 The soldier bade his fancy roam 
 
 Far from the foe's battalions proud 
 From camps, and hot steeds' charging foam, 
 And fondly on your breast at home 
 
 The forehead of his spirit bowed. 
 
 Oh, by the legions of the dead, 
 
 Whose ears even yet our love may reach 
 Whose souls, in fight or prison fled, 
 Now swarm in column overhead, 
 
 Winging with fire my faltering speech 
 From stricken fields and ocean caves 
 
 I hear their voice and cry instead : 
 " Gazing upon our myriad graves, 
 Be generous to the crippled braves 
 
 Who were the comrades of the dead. " 
 
 Our cause was holy to the height 
 Of holiest cause to manhood given ; 
 For peace and liberty to smite, 
 And while the warm blood bounded bright, 
 For these to die, if called by heaven. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 81 
 
 The dead are cared for : in the clay 
 
 The grinning skull no laurel seeks ; 
 But for the wounded in the fray, 
 It is through my weak lips to-day 
 The Order of the Legion speaks. 
 
 HURRAH FOR GORDON GRANGER. 
 
 Come, boys, a toast ! our pride and boast 
 To friends a joy, to fear a stranger ; 
 
 Brim every glass, and let it pass 
 The health of Gordon Granger ! 
 
 His manly grace of form and face 
 
 Made women bless our stalwart ranger ; 
 
 Her sparkling eyes, her tenderest sighs 
 Were all for Gordon Granger. 
 
 Each rebel lass, to see him pass, 
 
 To loyalty the sight would change her ; 
 
 For " Union" she would henceforth be 
 With winsome Gordon Granger. 
 
 We turned to hear his voice of cheer 
 On many a field of death and danger ; 
 
 The rebel foe soon came to know 
 Our yells for Gordon Granger. 
 
 No finer clay, for feast or fray, 
 
 Since the Babe Divine lay in the manger, 
 Has blessed the earth, than had its birth 
 
 With General Gordon Granger. 
 
 So here's his health ! Long life and wealth, 
 And years of peace exempt from danger 
 
 Forevermore so prays his corps 
 Be round our Gordon Granger. 
 
 MA NORMANDIE. , 
 
 FEOM THE FRENCH OP BEBANGEE. 
 
 When hope buds forth in vernal prime r 
 And winter flies on sunny wings 
 
 Far from our country's lovely clime, 
 
 And June her fresh, warm radiance flings : 
 
82 The Poetical Works of 
 
 When Nature's bloom again we see, 
 And swallows skim the jocund earth, 
 
 I love to visit Normandie 
 It is the country of my birth. 
 
 I have seen the Switzer's scenery, 
 
 His cottage home and glaciers ; 
 The unclouded skies of Italy, 
 
 Sweet Venice and her gondoliers : 
 Where'er I roamed or chanced to be, 
 
 I cried, "There is no place on earth 
 So dear to me as Normandie 
 
 It is the country of my birth. " 
 
 There comes a time to all, alack ! 
 
 When eveiy day-dream flies away, 
 And wh'en the wearied soul falls back 
 
 To memories of a brighter day. 
 When my cold^Muse nor warbles free 
 
 Her songs of love or songs of mirth, 
 111 seek fresh fire in Normandie 
 
 It is the country of my birth. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT WATCH. 
 
 'Tis late but thus I mused and read, 
 
 While all around in slumber nod ; 
 O Night ! to those who will but heed, 
 
 Thou art the sermon-time of God ! 
 Our house is hushed a smouldering fire 
 
 Burns low within the glowing grate, 
 And one by one the lamps expire 
 
 Fit time to meditate. 
 
 How hushed ! The morning breeze evokes 
 
 A thrill of terror ghostly dim ! 
 The grim clock deals some fearful strokes 
 
 On Time's outspreading cherubim. 
 The muffled Hours, with hurrying feet, 
 
 Still bear to the eternal gate 
 Reproachful thoughts an offering meet 
 
 From those who meditate. 
 
 No sound save when the wainscot mouse 
 Or, crumbling cinder bids us start 
 
 Sepulchral silence in the house, 
 And turmoil in the sleepless heart. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 83 
 
 Oh, dreams of youth ! ye seem to creep 
 In formless vapors from the grate 
 
 Round one to whom the eternal sleep 
 Comes welcome, if not late ! 
 
 MILES ON THE WHITE FAWN. 14 
 
 A fairy scene of colored light, 
 
 Of gorgeous dress and magic changes, 
 Where still the gazer's dazzled sight 
 
 From beauty to new beauty ranges. 
 Now rings the music clear and high, 
 
 Now seems to die now swells in clangors : 
 Voluptuous visions fill the eye, 
 
 And thrill the pulse with tropic languors. 
 
 A dream grotesque, supremely warm, 
 
 A whirling swarm of fancies devious ; 
 The central figure woman's form 
 
 Elastic, languishing, lascivious. 
 The arching thigh, the rounded calf, 
 
 Ankles and feet of tapering lightness 
 Plump bosoms, too unveiled by half, 
 
 And waving arms of marble whiteness. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 Sadly from my host I parted, 
 Stiff he was, but genial-hearted, 
 And a tear unbidden started 
 
 As I lingeringly delayed. 
 There the mother stood before us, 
 Prim as ever, and decorous, 
 But her eye a meaning bore us 
 
 Kinder than her tongue conveyed. 
 
 Round the supper-room the glowing 
 
 Logs a fitful light were throwing, 
 
 While the night-breeze, hoarsely blowing, 
 
 Murmured through the circling trees. 
 " Friends, adieu ! I must oppose you ; 
 HI repaid the debt he owes you, 
 If your guest should now expose you 
 
 Unto drafts so rude as these. " 
 
The Poetical Works of 
 
 Cruel Laura seemed delighted 
 At my leaving " 111 requited 
 Love," I thought, and yet she lighted 
 
 Me, departing, to the door. 
 Suddenly of no use saying 
 How the breeze, a frolic playing, 
 Blew the light out, and delaying 
 
 Grew more pleasant than before. 
 
 Dank and cold the midnight drizzle 
 " One adieu ! I hear the whistle !" 
 Something seemed to strive and wrestle. 
 
 And we tore ourselves apart. 
 What took place I have an inkling, 
 For my ear was smartly tingling, 
 And another soul seemed mingling, 
 
 Lip-conducted, through my heart. 
 
 A MORNING SERENADE. 
 
 FBOM THE FBENCH. 
 
 Rose, the red sun peeps o'er the hill, 
 
 Oh quit your couch's soft retreat ; 
 Dost thou not hear the village bell 
 
 Chime forth the hour when we should meet ? 
 The crowded town no pleasure yields, 
 
 Then hie with me oh, hie away, 
 And, wandering through the flowery fields, 
 
 We'll pass in love the summer's day. 
 
 Come, Rose, the fields with flowers are crowned, 
 
 My arm thy gentle prop shall be ; 
 With loving nature all around, 
 
 We too will love more tenderly. 
 The woodbine bower the linnet shields, 
 
 And there it sings the livelong day ; 
 Then haste oh, haste thee to the fields, 
 
 Where hours, like moments, glide away. 
 
 In rustic form our life to mould, 
 
 We'll rise when dawn's first glances peep, 
 And evening's shadows on the wold 
 
 Shall heral^ our untroubled sleep. 
 Perchance to thee this prospect yields 
 
 But tedious days and weary hours ; 
 Or dost thou love the scented fields, 
 
 The song-birds and the breezy bowers ? 
 
Charles Graham? Hal/pine. 85 
 
 She comes ! the town no more appears ; 
 
 Oh, hateful city, fare thee well ; 
 Where Art her lifeless beauty rears, 
 
 But genuine passion dare not dwell. 
 Rose, let us quit Parisian noise 
 
 For sweet seclusion far away, 
 Our moments crowned with rustic joys, 
 
 Our love increasing day by day. 
 
 THE LAST APPEAL. 
 
 Brethren, 'tis the last appeal 
 
 Of human woe to outraged heaven ; 
 
 God witness for us that we feel 
 
 Reluctant all to draw the steel, 
 But what hope else to us is given? 
 The bonds of social concord riven, 
 We try the last appeal. 
 
 Brethren, on ! one stubborn fight, 
 
 And peace for evermore shall be ;' 
 The red sea's wave will soon unite 
 Above the vanquished hosts of Might, 
 And conquest lead us into thee, 
 Dear Canaan of liberty, 
 
 Where God protects the Right. 
 
 Brethren, Power's triumphant heel 
 Hath struck us oft, but now we turn, 
 
 And they who wronged us soon shall feel 
 
 The spell that lies in patriot zeal 
 
 Their bonds to break, their threats to spurn 
 The victor's wreath and martyr's urn 
 Await this last appeal. 
 
 THE MINER'S DREAM. 
 
 I lie all cold and lonely 
 
 Beneath an elm at night, 
 When the stars are shining only, 
 
 And the glow-worm twinkles bright ; 
 I sleep where the star-gleams quiver, 
 
 And my restless memories roam 
 Away from the golden river 
 
 To my boyhood's happy home. 
 
86 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The golden dream is fleeting 
 
 Away from my troubled sight, 
 And my heart with hope is beating 
 
 As I see the cottage light ; 
 My old rude cot before me, 
 
 Where in by-gone hours I dwelt 
 Ere the clouds of life came o'er me, 
 
 When no care my bosom felt. 
 
 And I see my mother smiling 
 With a faint, uneasy mirth, 
 
 While my father's hands were piling 
 'The fagots on the hearth ; 
 
 And they whisper ever lowly 
 Yea, I think I hear my name ; 
 
 It was breathed in accents holy, 
 And a tear-drop with it came. 
 
 The golden sands are gleaming 
 
 In the ruddy flush of dawn, 
 The golden sun is beaming, 
 
 And my mighty dream is gone ; 
 But ever and forever 
 
 In my sleep my wild thoughts roam 
 Away from the golden river 
 
 To my boyhood's happy home. 
 
 THE WIDOWER'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Oh Christmas night ! thy spectral hand outreaches, 
 Drawing aside the curtain of the years ; 
 
 Let us give gifts, let us make happy speeches, 
 If but to hide to hide the blinding tears. 
 
 Oh Christmas night ! again the table glistens 
 With gold and crystal, and the wine is red; 
 
 But my heart's ear in throbbing silence listens 
 For her sweet voice my beautiful, my dead ! 
 
 Oh Christmas night ! the children, gladly screaming, 
 Dance in young rapture round the lighted tree ; 
 
 And thus I watch them while my soul is dreaming 
 Dreaming of her mine eyes no more may see. 
 
 Oh Christmas night ! again thy feast returning, 
 Darker by contrast makes my darkness be, 
 
 And all thy lamps seem funeral torches burning 
 For the dear face I never more may see. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 87 
 
 BLACK LOYALTY. 
 
 LET THE TRUTH OF HI8TOBY BE PRESERVED. 
 
 Nigh a million of lives we have spent, 
 
 And three billions of dollars or more, 
 That each fetter -in twain should be rent, 
 
 And the slave-horn be heard never more ; 
 Full six years we have given to the Black, 
 
 And the thing was undoubtedly right ; 
 Now suppose, just to alter the tack, 
 
 We devote half an hour to the White ? 
 
 When the South, in its hour of mad pride, 
 
 At Fort Sumter let >drive the first shot, 
 Neck and heels our poor Sambo was tied, 
 
 And the North held one end of the knot ; 
 But our hold we let go at the sound, 
 
 For both hands we required in the fight, 
 And the war for the Black was then found 
 
 Quite a tough job of work for the White. 
 
 Well, we fought ay, for four years we fought, 
 
 Pouring out lavish treasure and life 
 Did the Black then arise as he ought, 
 
 Cleaving northward with torch and with knife ? 
 All his masters were far from his track, 
 
 Under Johnston and Lee in the fight ; 
 There was nothing to hold the Black back 
 
 From assisting his champion, the White. 
 
 Did he aid us when bleeding we stood 
 
 To chase from him slavery's dreams, 
 Or to Lee sent he clothing and food, 
 
 Harness, powder, equipments, and teams ? 
 , We all know that in one single state 
 
 A revolt would have ended the fight, 
 So no more of their "loyalty" prate, 
 
 For the Black rebs were worse than the White. 
 
 The White rebels came with a cheer, 
 
 Their bayonets aslant and aglow, 
 While the Black rebels slunk in the rear, 
 
 Assisting (and freely) our foe ; 
 Phillips, Sumner, and men of that school, 
 
 May click-clatter from morning till night, 
 But if Black or White rebels must rule, 
 
 Then, by heaven ! count me in for the White. 
 
88 The Poetical Works of 
 
 It would sicken a dog, this vile cant 
 
 That we hear of "Black loyalty" now, 
 And I notice the twaddlers who rant 
 
 On the subject were far from the row ; 
 But since cold has been Lee's latest gun, 
 
 And since Johnston stacked arms after fight, 
 We are told " by Black valor we won" 
 
 'Tis all humbug to laurel the White. 
 
 To the Black rebel glory and power, 
 
 To the White rebel chains and disgrace ; 
 Oh, madness, and worse, rules the hour 
 
 We are false to faith, wisdom, and race ! 
 To my heart with you, Longstreet and Hill, 
 
 Johnston, Lee every man in the fight 
 You were rebels, and bad ones, but still 
 
 You share my misfortune you're White. 
 
 THE QUAKER COQUETTE. 
 
 Dear coy coquette, but once we met 
 
 But once, and yet 'twas once too often, 
 Plunged unawares in silvery snares, 
 
 All vain my prayers her heart to soften ; 
 Yet seemed so true her eyes of blue, 
 
 Veined lids and longest lashes under, 
 Good angels dwelt therein, I felt, 
 
 And could have knelt in reverent wonder. 
 
 Poor heart, alas ! what eye could pass 
 
 The auburn mass of curls caressing 
 Her pure white brow, made regal now 
 
 By this simplicity of dressing. 
 Lips dewy, red as Cupid's bed 
 
 Of rose-leaves shed on Mount Hymettus, 
 With balm imbued they might be wooe*d, 
 
 But ah ! coy prude, she will not let us. 
 
 No jewels deck her radiant neck 
 
 What pearl would reck its hue to rival ? 
 A pin of gold the fashion old 
 
 A ribbon-fold, or some such trifle ; 
 And beauty chief! the lily's leaf 
 
 In dark relief sets off the whiteness 
 Of all the breast not veiled and pressed 
 
 Beneath her collar's Quaker tightness. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 And milk-white robes o'er snowier globes, 
 
 As Koman maids are drawn by Gibbbn, 
 With classic taste are gently braced 
 
 Around her waist beneath a ribbon ; 
 And thence unrolled in billowy fold 
 
 Profuse and bold a silken torrent 
 Not hide, but dim each rounded limb, 
 
 Well turned, and trim, and plump, I warrant. 
 
 Oh, Quaker maid, were I more staid, 
 
 Or you a shade less archly pious ; 
 If soberest suit from crown to boot 
 
 Could chance uproot your Quaker bias, 
 How gladly so, in weeds of woe, 
 
 From head to toe my frame I'd cover, 
 That in the end the convert " friend" 
 
 Might thus ascend a convert lover. 
 
 BLESSING THE SHAMROCK. 
 
 God's blessing and his holy smile 
 On the emblem-leaf of Erin's Isle, 
 
 Our green immortal shamrock. 
 From Irish hills, though far away, 
 Through this bright Western land we stray, 
 From every leaf there comes a ray 
 Of the olden light of the olden day, 
 
 While gazing on the shamrock. 
 
 Saint Patrick found upon the sod 
 This emblem of our triple God, 
 
 And taught us by the shamrock 
 The mystery of our creed divine, 
 How one in three distinct may shine, ' 
 Yet three in one, as leaves, combine, 
 And their joint blessings intertwine 
 
 : Tis a lesson from the shamrock. 
 
 And the three virtues which are dear 
 To Irish hearts are emblemed here 
 
 Within our three-leaved shamrock : 
 Fidelity, that knows no end 
 To country, sweetheart, faith, or friend ; 
 Courage, that no reverse can bend ; 
 And hospitality all blend 
 
 Their types within the shamrock. 
 
90 The Poetical Works of 
 
 So may Heaven's blessings, choice and chief, 
 Bedew each petal of thy leaf, 
 
 Our own immortal shamrock ; 
 And mayest thou, in this Western clime, 
 As long ago, in Ireland's prime, 
 Be emblem of a faith sublime 
 In God and Country, through all time, 
 
 Our green and glorious shamrock. 
 
 And may our proud and ancient race, 
 Uprooted from the dwelling-place 
 
 Where grew this votive shamrock, 
 Still keep this night, where'er they fly, 
 Sacred to memories dear and high 
 Of the land where all our kindred lie 
 In the green graves, made beauteous by 
 
 Thick verdure of the shamrock. 
 
 God bless the old dear spot of earth 
 God bless the green land of our birth, 
 
 Where grew this bunch of shamrock ; 
 And blessings on this generous land, 
 Which welcomes with a lavish hand, 
 Each year, the sad and stricken band 
 Of exiles from the silver strand 
 
 Where grows the saintly shamrock. 
 
 THE LAST RESORT. 
 
 WRITTEN DTTBING A FRESHET OF STEAM-BOAT EXPLOSIONS. 
 
 A dramatist declared he had got 
 So many people in his plot 
 That what to do with half he had 
 Was like to drive him drama-mad. 
 
 "The hero and the heroine 
 Of course are married very fine ! 
 But with the others what to do 
 Is more than I can tell can you?" 
 
 His friend replied : " 'Tis hard to say, 
 But yet I think there is a way. 
 The married couple thank their stars, 
 And half the ' others' take the cars ; 
 
 The other half you put on board 
 A racing steam-boat take my word, 
 They'll never trouble you again. " 
 The dramatist resumed his pen.' 
 
Charles GraJiam Halpine. 91 
 
 LOAFING AS A FINE ART. 15 
 
 My friend, my chum, my trusty crony, 
 We were designed, it seems to me, 
 
 To be two happy lazzaroni, 
 
 On sunshine fed and maccaroni, 
 Far off by some Sicilian sea. 
 
 From dawn to eve in the happy land, 
 
 No duty on us but to lie 
 Straw-hatted on the shining sand, 
 With bronzing chest, and arm, and hand 
 
 Beneath the blue Italian sky. 
 
 There, with the mountains idly glassing 
 
 Their purple splendors in the sea 
 To watch the white-winged vessels passing 
 (Fortunes for busier fools amassing), 
 This were a heaven to you and me. 
 
 Our meerschaums coloring cloudy brown, 
 Two young girls coloring with a blush, 
 The blue waves with a silver crown, 
 The mountain shadows dropping down, 
 And all the air in perfect hush 
 
 Thus should we lie in the happy land, 
 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor fortune miss 
 Straw-hatted on the shining sand, 
 With bronzing chest, and arm, and hand 
 Two loafers couched in perfect bliss. 
 
 A MAINE-LAW LYRIC. 
 
 With thickest growth of beard his face 
 
 Was matted in a ghastly smile ; 
 His hat preserved the faintest trace 
 Of what was once a shapely tile ; 
 His elbows glimmered through his coat, 
 His trowsers needed tailor's care, 
 His- boots they were not of a pair, 
 And through them you his toes might note. 
 He only said, " It is the tipple, 
 
 The tipple 'tis, "he said; 
 He murmured, " Go it like a cripple, 
 And go it till your dead." 
 
92 The Poetical Works of 
 
 He raised his hand at dewy morn, 
 
 He raised it far into the night, 
 And, in a tone of maudling scorn, 
 
 The temperance party he would slight ; 
 He drank his glass, and called for more, 
 With trembling fingers searching out 
 For dimes within the tattered clout 
 Which once the name of pocket bore, 
 
 He only said, "It is the tipple, 
 
 The tipple 'tis," he said ; 
 He murmured, "Go it like a cripple, 
 And go it till you're dead." 
 
 And ever as the lamp grew dim, 
 
 And brandy lay beyond his reach, 
 He saw pale spectres glare at him, 
 And mutter fiercely each to each. 
 Oh, they were hours to freeze the soul, 
 When those blue corpses o'er him bent, 
 And to convey the moral meant, 
 Each fiend upheld a glittering bowl. 
 
 He only said, "It is the tipple, 
 
 The tipple 'tis, "he said; 
 He murmured, " Go it like a cripple, 
 And go it till you're dead." 
 
 There is within some granite walls 
 
 A high and hideous wooden thing, 
 And in its floor a door that falls 
 
 Obedient to a secret spring ; 
 Ay, groan and shriek ! With cries and tears, 
 Mercy of earth and heaven demand, 
 A wife's red blood is on your hand 
 Your kindest gift to her for years. 
 
 So ends the ballad of the tipple : 
 
 Be warned, and pray, and think ; 
 The tap is Mother Murder's nipple 
 You suck blood as you drink. 
 
 JANETTE'S HAIR. 
 
 * ' Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Ja*hette, 
 Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet," 
 For the world to me had no daintier sight 
 Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white, 
 As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 93 
 
 It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
 It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet, 
 'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
 'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and kissed 
 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet. 
 
 My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
 It was sinewy, bristled, and brown, my pet, 
 But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
 Your round white neck and your wealth of tress 
 Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet. 
 
 Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 
 Revealing the old, dear story, my pet 
 They were gray, with that chastened tinge of Hie sky, 
 When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, 
 
 And they matched with your golden hair, my pet. 
 
 Your lips but I have no words, Janette 
 They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my pet, 
 When the spring is young, and the roses are w r et 
 With the dew-drops in each red bosom set, 
 
 And they suited your gold-brown hair, my pet. 
 
 Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
 'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet, 
 But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
 The right to continue your slave evermore, 
 
 With my fingers enmeshed in your hair, my pet. 
 ******* 
 Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
 With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair, my pet ; 
 In the darkness of desolate years I moan, 
 And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
 
 That covers your golden hair, my pet. 
 
 LES HIRONDELLES. 
 
 A captive on Africa's shore, 
 
 A warrior laden with chains, 
 Cried aloud, " I behold ye once more, 
 
 As ye fly from the frozen plains, 
 Ye swallows, whom Hope, in despite 
 
 Of this fierce-glowing climate, pursues ; 
 From France ye have taken your flight 
 
 Of my home do ye bring me no news ? 
 
94 The Poetical Works of 
 
 " Three summers I've begged that ye might 
 
 Kecall the fond wishes that stray 
 To that vale where in dreams of delight 
 
 My youth glided swiftly away ; 
 To the river whose winding waves foam 
 
 'Neath lilac bowers, scenting the breeze ; 
 Ye have perched on my old cottage-home 
 
 Have ye nothing to tell me of these ? 
 
 "Perchance your young nestlings were born 
 
 'Neath the roof where I welcomed the day ; 
 Ye have pitied my mother's heart torn 
 
 By the love which can never decay : 
 Though dying, she hopes that each hour 
 
 My step on the silence will break ; 
 She listens, and fast her tears shower 
 
 Of her love have ye nothing to speak ? 
 
 "My sister ! perchance she is wed ; 
 
 Have ye seen the gay youth who in throngs 
 At the feast of her bridal were met, 
 
 And welcome her marriage with songs ? 
 And those, my companions of yore, 
 
 Who lived through the combats we fought 
 Do they dwell in the village once more ? 
 
 Oh, of so many friends know ye naught ? 
 
 "It may be the stranger's foot presses 
 
 The graves in the vale where they sleep ; 
 My home a new master possesses, 
 
 My sister but living to weep ; 
 No prayers that for me wing to heaven. 
 
 And torture and fetters below : 
 Your silence perchance is but given 
 
 To spare me this burden of woe." 
 
 TO AZRA. 
 
 We meet once more : the early bloom 
 
 Of passion perished in its pride, 
 And slumbers in a foreign tomb, 
 
 Beyond a dark and stormy tide ; 
 The young Evangel faded fast 
 
 From its ethereal form of clay ; 
 That sea of anguish but 'tis past, 
 
 And we have met once more to-day. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 95 
 
 Thy cheek with paler tinge imbued 
 
 Thine eyes ah ! where their mirthfud glance ? 
 A sense of former pain subdued 
 
 Breathes o'er thy gentle countenance. 
 My heart ! how bright, in older days, 
 
 The smile that played from brow to chin. 
 But now, as through a setting haze, 
 
 The sun peeps sadly from within. 
 
 Thy voice is changed : no more its tone 
 
 From music's ocean may emerge ; 
 Thy laugh is mingled with a moan, 
 
 Thy words of hope resound a dirge ; 
 And ever through thy gay discourse 
 
 Some thread of suffering winds along 
 A clew that leads with mystic force 
 
 To the deep fount of sadder song. 
 
 Love lives perhaps in purer form 
 
 But ah ! the magic thrills no more ; 
 The shipwrecked pilgrim of the storm 
 
 May prize his chance-directed shore, 
 But from its desolate cliffs his eye 
 
 Will range in vain the circling seas, 
 And picture a more brilliant sky, 
 
 A lovelier land, that once was his. 
 
 Thy hand ! time was its faintest touch, 
 
 Like sacred fire, lit up my frame ; 
 Those dreams of youth, those hours had much 
 
 That memory fondly loves to claim. 
 I dreamed my soul lay soft and hushed 
 
 As was the sod beneath thy feet ; 
 Jt gave its flowers, and they were crushed 
 
 And once again, once more we meet. 
 
 Henceforth the world may smoothlier pass. 
 
 But life's one star shines cold and dim ; 
 Though Fortune prove a sea of glass, 
 
 O'er which our lives uninjured swim, 
 Far better were the storm, the strife 
 
 Which overcast our earlier suns : 
 There is a record kept in life 
 
 Where love but stamps his signet once. 
 
 The lip that quickest wings the jest 
 Is first to breathe the secret sigh ; 
 
 The laugh that rings with freshest zest 
 But chokes the floodgates of the eye ; 
 
96 
 
 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The heart, like Egypt's queen of old, 
 Ne'er lajjs its misery see the light ; 
 
 But o'er the deadly asp we fold 
 The garments of the gala night. 
 
 And months ay, long, unsolaced years 
 
 Have found me reckless, loveless, wild 
 A man who is not, but appears 
 
 The living jest at which he smiled. 
 There is a pleasure born of pain, 
 
 When all its outward signs depart, 
 A triumph when the steadfast brain 
 
 Floats calmly o'er the struggling heart. 
 
 Forbear thy early fire to feign, 
 
 Nor weep that I am colder grown ; 
 With less of joy and less of pain, 
 
 The heart assumes a temperate tone ; 
 Can prayers or tears revive the flowers 
 
 Which in the past have shrunk and died ? 
 Can we recall the golden hours 
 
 Whose waves are in the eternal tide ? 
 
 The Hand that wrote the Persian's fall, 
 
 " Weighed, wanting, worthless, cast aside,' 
 The dark hand on the glittering wall 
 
 Was but the touchstone of his pride ; 
 Adversity another hand 
 
 Revealed thy falsehood and my fate ; 
 Long years of sorrow, a strange land, 
 
 And a reunion given too late. 
 
 THE STARS OF MEMORY. 
 
 In retrospection's dream we see 
 
 The waste of years that stretch afar 
 Into the dim eternity, 
 
 With here and there a shining star ; 
 Sweet stars of memory beaming o'er 
 . The sepulchres of perished hope, 
 And backward turn we more and more, 
 As gloomier paths before us ope. 
 
 We turn to see the memoried sky 
 Grow ruddy in the youthful dawn ; 
 
 We watch the glorious shadows fly 
 Across the lake and o'er the lawn ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 97 
 
 The evening clouds are turned to gray, 
 Though streaked by many a crimson bar, 
 
 And darkness comes, yet, in its way, 
 Lifts up to heaven full many a star. 
 
 It lifts but not the star of morn, 
 
 Whose pale beams merge in. fuller light, 
 When flowers and birds seem newly born, 
 
 And freshened by the dews of night ; 
 Tli at loveliest light, forever set, 
 
 No second morrow bids arise, 
 And sadly, vainly, we regret 
 
 The lustre that has left our skies, 
 
 *The Past was as an easy road 
 
 That led us down a hill of flowers, 
 Where every opening vista showed 
 
 But brighter streams and greener bowers. 
 We reach at length the barren plain 
 
 Where man contests the race of life ; 
 We join the struggle, feel the pain, 
 
 Yet love the excitement of the strife. 
 
 We love the strife that makes the tide 
 
 Of passion swell within the heart ; 
 Nor deem we, in our youthful pride, 
 
 Ambition's pulse can e'er depart ; 
 We love it while our hearts are strung 
 
 With high romance and ancient love ; 
 We love it while our hopes are young, 
 
 And paint a brighter scene before. 
 
 But, as we wander on and on, 
 
 Arid weary of the loveless life, 
 We turn to find the flowers are gone 
 
 Beneath the mailed hoofs of strife j 
 We wake to know that manhood brings 
 
 The pain that finds no balm in tears ; 
 We wake to know that memory stings ; 
 
 We wake to mourn the by-gone years. 
 
 The stubborn soul is loth to quit 
 
 The dream that it hath made its god, 
 And forced to own its misery yet 
 
 Pursues the path it once hath trod ; 
 Looks round it, with a careless eye r 
 
 On others equally unbless'd, 
 And pinions every struggling sigh 
 
 Within the portals of the breast. 
 
 E 
 
98 The Poetical Works of 
 
 We wander on : the early -hope 
 
 In which, beyond the sultry plain, 
 We saw serener vistas ope, 
 
 Experience proves is false and vain ; 
 Forever with a lengthening chain, 
 
 Forever with a darker pall, 
 We journey to the grave in pain, 
 
 And see our fellow-bondsman fall. 
 
 Pride checks the tear, and with a frown 
 
 Would chase the phantom Grief away ; 
 The snows of age come thickening down, 
 
 And chill and bleaker grows the way ; 
 We speak what we would fain unsay, 
 
 But pride steps in with ready ait, 
 And in a semblance of the gay 
 
 We veil the sorrows of the heart. 
 
 Amid the gloom, we gladly turn 
 
 Where none may mock our silent tears, 
 To where the stars of memory burn 
 
 Above the joys of other years ; 
 And Fancy in the dusk uprears 
 
 The radiant forms of perished worth, 
 Which we have borne on flowery biers, 
 
 And laid within the lap of earth. 
 
 O stars of Memory ! ever shine, 
 
 And brighter as our years decay ; 
 Still shed your influence divine 
 
 To cheer us on our lonely way. 
 Bright stars of Memory ! shine forever, 
 
 Like beacons o'er the troubled main, 
 Until in Lethe's tranquil river 
 
 We have ablution of all pain. 
 
 SPIRIT RAPPING. 
 
 ON THE -INTRODUCTION INTO THE MASSACHUSETTS LEGISLATURE OF A BILL FOR 
 flE " SUPPRESSION OF SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATIONS." 
 
 "De par le Roi ! Defense a Dien 
 De faire miracles en ce lieu." 
 
 What ! pass a statute to dispatch 'em ! 
 
 It is a proposition rare ; 
 Imprison hang when you first catch 'em, 
 
 The bodiless spirits of the air ? 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 99 
 
 Despise all reason hear no question 
 
 The scourge of legal power is thine ; 
 Condemn and then ('twill aid digestion) 
 
 Say grace before you dine: 
 
 Of oW, when glorious Galileo 
 
 Announced the planetary plan, 
 A pope a sacerdotal Leo 
 
 Declared his doctrine under ban ; 
 But, though the Church affirmed his error, 
 
 The world has since his truth averred ; 
 And, in despite of condign terror, , 
 
 The spirits will.be heard. 
 
 W T hen Franklin raised his brawny arm 
 
 To rob the lightning's callow nest, 
 When little thunder-gods did swarm 
 
 Beneath the electric mother's breast, 
 Why did no Yankee pope arise 
 
 To bid the impious hand withdraw, 
 Spreading an segis o'er the skies 
 
 Of Massachusetts law ? 
 
 O Liberty ! thou splendid word, 
 
 We do adore thy clap-trap name ; 
 'Tis reverenced wheresoever heard, 
 
 But violated just the same. 
 Shall men with narrow brows and hearts 
 
 Forbid our spiritual faith ? 
 Rap ! rap ! from the dull table starts 
 
 It lends a spur to death. 
 
 No ! by the hallowed rights we wrung 
 
 In years of blood from Britain's hand 
 No ! by the stars heaven's cressets hung 
 
 In the blue dome that spans our land, 
 We will not yield to Yankee drill 
 
 We scorn and hate its idiot ban 
 With force of intellect and will, 
 
 We claim the rights of man. 
 
 The right to hope, the right to pray, 
 
 The right of conscience and of rest, 
 The right to choose whatever way, 
 
 Unhurting others, suits us best. 
 We reaffirm, in reverent awe, 
 
 This heresy \vhich Knox began, 
 That conscience towers o'er human law 
 
 That God is more than man. 
 
100 The Poetical. Works of 
 
 AN OLD MAXIM REVERSED. 
 
 "Et arma cedunt togse," 
 Said a Roman of renown ; * 
 
 ' ' When the din of war is over, 
 Arms yield unto the gown." 
 
 But this motto Jeff reverses ; 
 
 For, arrayed in female charms, 
 When the din of war is over, 
 
 In his gown he yields to arms. 
 
 THE ISLANDS THAT AWAIT US. 
 
 Come, brothers, fill ! To-night we will 
 
 Give joy its longest tether ; 
 Take hands around let music sound 
 
 We're exiles here together. 
 For fatherland we draw the brand 
 
 We failed, but do not falter ; 
 Some other day again we may 
 Fling fire on Freedom's altar. 
 
 The toast to-night is one of light, 
 Let's drink ere time belate us ; 
 Come, brim the glass, and let it pass 
 "The islands that await us!" 
 
 There's Cuba lies in sunniest skies, 
 
 By Spanish thraldom trampled, 
 Her'treasure spent, and blood besprent, 
 
 Her wrongs are unexampled ; 
 But exiled sons with Yankee guns 
 
 Can make the tyrants vanish, 
 For once we'll teach these grandees each 
 The way to " walk it Spanish !" 
 
 The one Lone Star shall not be far 
 
 From our unsullied cluster, 
 The Southern queen shall yet be seen 
 Arrayed in Northern lustre. 
 
 There's Ireland, too 'tis vain to rue 
 
 The doom imprinted on her ; 
 Some day we'll make, or we mistake, 
 
 That very curse her honor. 
 
Charles Graham Halpinc. 101 
 
 The green shall spread above the red 
 
 When Saxon blood is under, 
 
 And old John Bull, at Liverpool, 
 
 Be waked by Yankee thunder. 
 
 The Eastern queen in starry sheen 
 
 With her of the Antilles, 
 The Yankees' banner floating high 
 O'er shamrocks and o'er lilies. 
 
 Then, brethren, fill pledge heart and will 
 
 Our cause we'll try and gain, too, 
 The exile's name shall reach a fame 
 
 No king's could e'er attain to. 
 In France at first was freedom nursed, 
 
 But there, so wild and skittish, 
 She fell a prey one luckless day 
 To Spaniards and the British ; 
 
 But here with growth surpassing both, 
 
 Majestic in her status, 
 And to her sod, so help us God ! 
 We'll bring the "isles that wait us." 
 
 FOND AND FOOLISH. 
 
 My Lydia, do you never miss, 
 
 Since grown of late so prim and mulish, 
 The drive, the dinner, and the bliss 
 
 Of being very fond and foolish ? 
 The game we played was one of cost 
 
 Good cause, no doubt, for your retreating ; 
 But, ah ! the joys forever lost 
 
 The dear, wild, passionate thrills of meeting ! 
 
 I always went an hour too soon 
 
 The clocks were wrong, my head was dizzy ; 
 Your whispered words, "The square at noon" 
 
 Each object kept my fancy busy. 
 That mantle yes, it is her own ; 
 
 I run oh, pooh ! my eyes deceive me ; 
 That bonnet it is hers alone ; 
 
 Not hers ! good heavens ! my senses leave me. 
 
 The air grew dense, my pulse was high, 
 I counted steps or plucked at brambles ; 
 
 The exulting fountain seemed to cry, 
 
 "No more shall Lydia share your rambles." 
 
102 The Poetical Works of 
 
 A thousand shooting hints of fear 
 Suggest but no, they can't discover ; 
 
 And yet, past noon, and she not here 
 Was ever such unhappy lover ? 
 
 This surely is her step, her height, 
 
 The same white Cashmere round her flowing : 
 She nears ah! lovelier to my sight 
 
 Than Venus with her locks out-blowing. 
 I fly to meet her at the gates 
 
 " Welcome, and welcome beyond measure ; 
 Our carriage at the corner waits, 
 
 And now for five dear hours of pleasure." 
 
 The fields were green, the flowers were sweet ; 
 
 Each rose you gave a kiss to win it, 
 And said, " Our cottage was as neat 
 
 As any nest of any linnet ;" 
 The silver tray a flask of wine, 
 
 Then, all too soon, your visit over, 
 And back to town, your hand in mine, 
 
 Again you parted from your lover. 
 
 These pleasures do you never miss, 
 
 My Lydia, now so prim and mulish, 
 The drive, the dinner, and the bliss 
 
 Of being very fond and foolish ? 
 The game we played was one of cost 
 
 Good cause, no doubt, for your retreating ; 
 But, ah ! the bliss forever lost 
 
 The dear, wild, passionate joys of meeting. 
 
 A HYMN TO THE TYPES. 
 
 Oh silent myriad army, whose true metal 
 
 Ne'er flinched nor blenched before the despot Wrong ! 
 Ye brethren, linked in an immortal battle 
 
 With time-grown Falsehoods, tyrannous and strong ! 
 Fragments of strength and beauty lying idle, 
 
 Each in its place, until the appointed day ; 
 Then, swift as wheels the squadron to the bridle, 
 
 Ye spring into the long, compact array. 
 
 Obedient, self-contained, and self-contented, 
 Like veteran warriors in the mingled broil, 
 
 Each giving help where just his help is wanted, 
 Nor seeking more than his due share of toil ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 103 
 
 Striving not, vainly, each to be a leader, 
 
 Your capitals are captains of the file, 
 The crown you aim at, to inform the reader, 
 
 And help old Truth on for another mile. 
 
 What wondrous dreams of beauty may be flying 
 
 Unwinged, unuttered, through your silent mass ! 
 Even as a prism, in some deep grotto lying, 
 
 Until the informing soul of Genius pass, 
 Filling the cavern with a light as tender 
 
 As that which breaks from Love's half downcast eyes ; 
 Then the cold gem awakes to rainbow splendor, 
 
 Where, couched in moss, beside the fount it lies. 
 
 Oh what a burst of glory when ye mingle 
 
 Your bloodless hands in the support of truth 
 When to your banded spell the pulses Jingle 
 
 Of tottering age and fiery-visioned youth ! 
 What power and strength when ye stand up united 
 
 Beneath the master-spirits' guiding sway ; 
 A thousand lamps at one lone star lighted, 
 
 Turning the night of error into day. 
 
 Ye are the messengers, all earth pervading, 
 
 Who speak of comfort and communion still 
 Planks of a mighty ship, whose precious lading 
 
 Is man's just reason and his heart's fond will 
 Launched on the stream of time, our thoughts are drifted 
 
 Far, far adown our children-peopled shore, 
 And the gay pennon of our hope is lifted 
 
 When him it cheered through life it cheers no more. 
 
 Unmarshaled army ! earth is still a wonder 
 
 A bright God's wonder, all too little known ; 
 Star-eyes above us and the green sod under, 
 
 Oceans of beauty girdling every zone ; 
 And man himself, whose deep heart throbs forever 
 
 With passionate longings, and the fierce unrest 
 Of hopes that struggle in a vain endeavor 
 
 To hear themselves by other lips confess'd. 
 
 Ye are the mightier tongues we have invented 
 
 To bear our utterance ever and allwhere ; 
 Our hearts into a thousand hearts transplanted, 
 
 A multiplied existence ye confer. 
 Falsehood, with bloodshot eyes, awoke from slumber, 
 
 And glared in baleful terror on your birth ; 
 Meek-fronted Truth enrolled you in her number, 
 
 And cried, "I am not without swords on earth!'' 
 
104: The Poetical Works of 
 
 Ye are true types of men. When disunited, 
 
 The world has nothing feebler or more vain ; 
 But when one animating thought has lighted 
 
 The dim recesses of each heart and brain, 
 The mass rolls onward with a steady motion, 
 
 Warned by your beacon from the rock of Death, 
 The breath of Knowledge sweeps the stagnant ocean, 
 
 And men rise up like billows at its breath. 
 
 Ye are the swords of Truth the only weapon 
 
 That Truth should wield in this protracted war ; 
 Ye are the rocks of Knowledge that we step on, 
 
 In thought's bright firmament, from star to star ! 
 I see an angel winged in every letter, 
 
 Even as man's soul is hid within his clay : 
 I see a prisoner with his broken fetter 
 
 Emerging out of darkness into day. 
 
 Unspeakable ye are ! We have created 
 
 A new existence than our own more firm ; 
 Our life and hopes into your life translated, 
 
 Enjoy a being that shall know no term. 
 The plowman's frolic song still kindles gladness 
 
 Within the heart, though care has gnavvn its core, 
 And bright eyes weep at his recorded sadness 
 
 Who sleeps where pride and envy sting no more. 
 
 Even as the marble block contains all beauty 
 
 Enshrined in darkness and the outward husk, 
 Which the warm sculptor, with love-prompted duty, 
 
 Shall make to shine, through darkness and through dusk, 
 Into the day of loveliness, ye treasure 
 
 All forms of thought and song in your' mute sphere ; 
 Oar pen the chisel, and our rhyme the measure 
 
 By which we make the inborn god appear. 
 
 Would that my heart were wider-tongued and deeper, 
 
 Nor moved involved in cares of meaner place, 
 Then would I mow down, like a sturdy reaper. 
 
 The crop of thought that rises from the '' case." 
 Flowers of bright songs, and fruit of mellow reason, 
 
 And many a peeping bud of infant Truth, 
 ]\ly soul should garner in its summer season, 
 
 And steep in dews of a perpetual youth. 
 
 But ah ! mute types, are ye not all too often 
 Constrained to serve at some unsolaced toil 
 
 To harden hearts that ye would love to soften, 
 And help to swell where ye would still the broil ^ 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 105 
 
 Even so with me ! My dreams of song are hurried 
 Like moon-ray flashes through the drifting storm, 
 
 And all that God made noble in me buried 
 In wants I share in common with the worm. 
 
 OUR CZAR AND THE SULTAN. 
 
 A LYEIC OP " CIVILIZATION." 
 
 Why should we love the heathen Turk, 
 And hate the Christian czar, 
 
 While Russia is in wealth and work 
 , " More civilized" by far ? 
 
 Her banner bears the Holy Cross 
 Wherewith our creed is signed, 
 
 While Turkey's pachas only toss 
 Their horse-tails to the wind. 
 
 Why hate the czar, and pray for him 
 
 Whose grim seraglio walls 
 Hold beauties that are growing dim, 
 
 His concubines and thralls ? 
 Why hate the czar, and wish success 
 
 To one who dares to libel 
 Our telegraph and printing-press, 
 
 Our cotton goods and Bible ? 
 
 The czar is ' ' civilized, " of course 
 
 He writes it on his banner 
 A Christian praying till he's hoarse 
 
 In the devoutest manner ; 
 One wife alone he has to kiss, 
 
 As in church members seemly, 
 And in his walk of life he is 
 
 ' ' Respectable extremely. " 
 
 The sultan hath a stud of wives, 
 
 And sultans have, they tell us, 
 An awkward trick of taking lives 
 
 From all obnoxious fellows. 
 Their headlong passions will not brook 
 
 To mingle farce with fury, 
 And wring from death the killing joke 
 
 Of " murder done by jury." 
 
 The "march of intellect" is quite 
 A march beyond their- drilling; 
 
 They never made a "proselyte" 
 By one judicious shilling; 
 
 E 2 
 
106 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Deficient much in legal skill 
 And "organized starvation," 
 
 They never mixed a patent pill 
 For Turkish "melioration." 
 
 In fact, we say, with deep regret, 
 
 But truth must be our sure hope, 
 The sultan is some ages yet 
 
 Behind the kings of Europe ; 
 He has not got the royal blood 
 
 Which festers so divinely 
 In men not made of common mud, 
 
 But porcelain, painted finely. 
 
 He has not got the Russian knout . 
 
 Wherewith the nuns were beaten, 
 Nor Austria's axe grown fat, no doubt, 
 
 On all the flesh it has eaten ; 
 No guilt-extracting guillotine, 
 
 As France has got to cure hers ; 
 But, worst of all, and deadliest sin, 
 
 He has no "British jurors." 
 
 He thinks kings should, against all taste, 
 
 Have nothing underhand meant, 
 Whereas all know the crown is placed 
 
 Above the tenth commandment ; 
 For we believe that monarchs are 
 
 Exempt from keeping promise, 
 Especially the queen and czar 
 
 God keep their armies from us. 
 
 Then why, we ask what mysteries lurk 
 
 That we are so excited, 
 While burglar Nick and goodman Turk 
 
 Are getting matters righted ? 
 A friend suggests some twaddling cant 
 
 Of "justice and humanity!" 
 Such, trifles ought not, and they sha'n't, 
 
 Impede our Christianity. 
 
 We mean to save the Turkish souls 
 
 By cleaving skulls asunder, 
 Destroy them as we did the Poles, 
 
 And profit by the plunder ; 
 We mean to give them Gospel light 
 
 By piercing lights and livers, 
 When dead and at the judgment seat 
 
 They'll then be " true believers." 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 107 
 
 But if, with merely human hearts, 
 
 We ask, " How goes the war?" 
 One hoarse-tongued execration starts 
 
 Against the butcher c/ar ; 
 There reeks a cloud from Poland's sod 
 
 That takes a giant form, 
 A mangled though immortal god, 
 
 Much wasted, but yet warm. 
 
 And from the plains of Hungary 
 
 Another cloud ascends 
 Heaven ! what a fury-frenzied eye 
 
 Upon the North it bends ! 
 A woman form a Juno shape 
 
 Queen mother of the gods 
 A woman ! but her shoulders drip, 
 
 Plowed red with Russian rods. 
 
 Lo ! watch them watch them evermore 
 
 Until the rite be done ; 
 High up in air their lips converge 
 
 That kiss hath made them one. 
 From that embrace they quickly turn, 
 
 Their cloud-hands pointing north, 
 And in their eyes the lightnings burn 
 
 Which soon shall thunder forth. 
 
 God speed the union, sealed in blood, 
 
 Of Freedom and Despair ! 
 God speed the cause of human right 
 
 Whenever and where'er ! 
 God speed the Turk ! God speed the Pole ! 
 
 God speed who'er will fight 
 With sword and word, heart, brain, and hand, 
 
 For man's eternal right. 
 
 ROMANCE AND ECHO. 
 
 It rains it rains the slimy street 
 Is silent, though a hundred feet 
 In eager hurry homeward beat 
 
 (Coz why? they all wear rubbers.) 
 We hurry homeward, there to meet 
 The tender ones, who long to greet 
 Papa and husband oh ! 'tis sweet ! 
 
 (Wife scolds, and baby blubbers.) 
 
108 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The skies have all their clouds amassed, 
 But sunshine waits us, and will last 
 When we into our homes have passed. 
 
 (I wouldn't like to risk it !) 
 No rain-tears there, no cutting blast 
 Of angry words ; the hours as fast 
 As moments fly ; we find at last 
 
 (Weak tea and leathern biscuit.) 
 
 What tongue describe, what pen portray 
 The transports which, at close of day, 
 The working head and hand repay?* 
 
 (Due bills, sour looks, and twaddle !) 
 
 Seraphina ! soon I pray, 
 
 With thee to bless my onward way, 
 Our home, though humble, shall be gay 
 (There was a man called "Caudle !") 
 
 1 do not smoke, was never ' ; tight," 
 And, while your beauties charm my sight, 
 I'll find the marriage burden light 
 
 (As soldiers find their knapsacks !) 
 And home returning night by night, 
 Your eyes, the hearth, and all things bright, 
 Oh, will you not my toils requite ? 
 
 (With pickled pork and flapjacks ! ) 
 
 THE WELL-DRESSED MAN. 
 
 My poor old coat, my holy coat, 
 
 But not like that of Treves, 
 With pain ineffable I note 
 
 Your frayed and wasted sleeves. 
 Time was, my coat, that I in you 
 
 Right daintily began 
 To take of life a jovial view 
 
 I was a well-dressed man. 
 
 My laundress called, her pay required, 
 
 I paid my morning call ; 
 Attired in thee, till fairly tired, 
 
 I danced at rout and ball ; 
 The ladies smiled, and, as I passed, 
 
 The pleasing whisper ran, 
 " That's Mister Miles, he's rather fast, 
 
 But such a well-dressed man !" 
 
Charles Graham Halpinc. 109 
 
 My tailor's bill was much behind, 
 
 And I for board was bored, 
 But still the landlady was kind, 
 
 And still mein Schneider scored ; 
 " He feared to press, but could I pay ?" 
 
 'Twas thus the rogue began ; 
 She "really could not turn away 
 
 So sweetly dressed' a man." 
 
 I drove abroad and drank my wine, 
 
 Match-making mothers sought me. 
 And many a maiden fair and fine 
 
 Flushed red to think she'd caught me. 
 With tongue and pen I played my part, 
 
 To dazzle was my plan ; 
 None e'er could deem an aching heart 
 
 In such a well-dressed man. 
 
 But ah ! it is the utmost pound 
 
 That kills the patient camel, 
 And to my terror soon I found 
 
 My debts I could not trammel. 
 My tailor's " tick" grew short, and quick 
 
 A hundred duns began ; 
 One suit of clothes had saved all suits 
 
 Against the well-dressed man. 
 
 I'm beggared now, but you'll allow 
 
 It was a sad temptation 
 Obscure to live, while clothes can give 
 
 Respect and social station. 
 It could not last, my folly's past, 
 
 I've learned a wiser plan 
 By hand and brain I'll be again 
 
 A (paid for) well-dressed man. 
 
 SPECIAL ORDERS, A., No. I. 16 
 
 Headquarters Department of the South,) 
 Hilton Head, S.C., March 25, 1863. f 
 
 With her charming looks 
 
 And all her graces, 
 Miss Mary Brooks, 
 
 Whose lovely face is 
 
 The sweetest thing we have seen down here 
 On these desolate islands for more than a vear, 
 
110 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Is hereby appointed an extra aid 
 
 On the staff of the general commanding, 
 With a captain of cavalry's strap and grade, 
 And with this most definite understanding 
 That Captain Mary, 
 Gay and airy, 
 At nine each day, until further orders, 
 
 To Colonel Halpine shall report 
 For special duty at these headquarters ; 
 And Captain Mary 
 (Bless the fairy !) 
 
 Shall hold herself, upon all occasions, 
 Prepared to ride 
 At the adjutant's side, 
 And give him of flirting his regular rations ; 
 And she sha'n't vamoose 
 With the younglings loose 
 Of the junior staff, such as Hay and Skinner, 
 But, galloping around, she shall sing 
 Like an everlasting lark on the wing ; 
 And she sha'n't keep the adjutant late for dinner. 
 
 The chief quartermaster of department 
 
 Will give Captain Mary a riding garment 
 
 A long, rich skirt of a comely hue 
 
 Shot silk, with just a suspicion of blue 
 
 A gipsy hat, with an ostrich feather, 
 
 A veil to protect her against the weather, 
 
 And delicate gauntlets of pale buff leather ; 
 
 Her saddle with silver shall all be studded, 
 
 And her pony a sorrel it shall be blooded ; 
 
 Its shoes shall be silver, its bridle all ringing 
 
 With bells that shall harmonize well with her singing ; 
 
 And thus Captain Mary, 
 
 Gay, festive, and airy, 
 
 Each morning shall ride 
 
 At the adjutant's side, 
 And hold herself ready, on all fit occasions, 
 To give him of flirting his full army rations. 
 
 By command of 
 
 MAJOR GENERAL D. HUNTER. 
 
 ED. W. SMITH, Assist. Adjt. General. 
 
 Official copy : 
 
 CHAS. G. HALPINE, Lieut. Col. and Assist. Adjt. General Tenth 
 Army Corps and Dept. of the South. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. Ill 
 
 ROOSE VELTI AN A. l 7 
 
 OUB BOY BOB. 
 
 He angles in all sorts of ways 
 
 For fish and lobby operators, 
 Now hooking speckled trout he strays, 
 
 Now spearing railroad corporators ; 
 At times with worms he baits his hook, 
 
 Or trolls along with whirling gudgeons, 
 Then gives the wondering world a look 
 
 At Brennan, Blunt, and such curmudgeons. 
 
 His rod hath slain full many a carp, 
 
 His line hath played full many a salmon, 
 And, though our aldermen are sharp, 
 
 They can't bluff him with any gammon. 
 His art the scaly prey commands, 
 
 His landing-net they enter gayly, 
 And then, backed up by Mr. Sands, 
 
 He hunts for politicians scaly. 
 
 His specs are bright, his eyes are blue, 
 
 He knows all kinds of flies and hackles, 
 He knows the Hackley contract too, 
 
 And each new scheme of plunder tackles ; 
 To Boole a blight, and bitterer yet 
 
 The Tammany folk would like to flay him ; 
 All's fish that comes within his net, 
 
 And when they're hooked he likes to play 'em. 
 
 His barb hath stuck in Southern "drums," 
 
 He knows the pulling force of turbot, 
 And each new civic fraud that comes, 
 
 It gives him pleasure to disturb it ; 
 The ravenous pikes he doth pursue, 
 
 Taking, when baked, on plates their measure ; 
 And the still more rapacious crew 
 
 Of councilmen have felt his pressure. 
 
 He makes the deadly fox-fly swing 
 
 On silken line in circles o'er us, 
 Or sings as only he can sing 
 
 Leading the new reforming chorus ! 
 The triple brass of Blunt gives way 
 
 Before his pen's two-hundred-pounder ; 
 Then, rocking in some quiet bay, 
 
 He picks up cod, bass, bream, and flounder. 
 
112 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The portly and white-chokered throng 
 
 Opposed to Brennan and such cattle, 
 For once, we say, have not gone wrong 
 
 In choosing him to fight their battle ; 
 All scaly fish with baited bribes 
 
 He oft hath struck with barbed incisions, 
 And of all scaly, slimy tribes, 
 
 The slimiest are the politicians. 
 
 RIME OF YE SEEDIE PRINTEERE MAN. 
 
 It is a seedie printeere man, 
 And he stoppeth one of three 
 
 "By thy unshorn beard and fevered eye, 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 
 
 " For Jullien's band doth play to-night, 
 
 And I must hence away ; 
 The fiddles they are deftly tuned 
 
 Dost hear Herr Koenig play ?" 
 
 He holds him with his grimy hand 
 
 " More copy" he doth cry ; 
 "Hold off! thou grizzly printeere man," 
 
 The victim makes reply. 
 
 He holds him with his fevered eye 
 
 ' ' More copy ! it must come ; 
 My printeeres they are standing still" 
 
 The editeere is dumb. 
 
 The editeere he sat him down, 
 
 His tears they quickly ran, 
 While thus spake in the seedie one, 
 
 The red-eyed printeere man : 
 
 ' ' The papeeres must to-morrow out, 
 
 To-morrow be on hand, 
 And you are our chief editeere 
 
 More copy we demand. 
 
 "The Times comes out at early dawn, 
 
 The Tribune follows soon, 
 The Evening Post, and the Express, 
 
 They will be out by noon." 
 The editeere let fall a tear 
 
 As he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 113 
 
 Lo ! Jullien to the dai's mounts 
 
 A bearded wight is he ; 
 With bugle-blow before him go 
 
 The merrie minstrelsy. 
 
 But still the steadfast printeere man 
 
 "More copy" cries aloud, 
 And ye broken-hearted editeere 
 
 Withdraws him from the crowd. 
 
 " God save thee, wretched editeere ! 
 
 What ' devils' plague thee thus ?" 
 He ground an answer through his teeth 
 
 It sounded like a cuss. 
 
 All night that wretched editeere 
 
 Before his desk did sit ; 
 In vain for him had Mr. Brough 
 
 A free admission writ. 
 
 " More copy" still the " devils" cry 
 He can not choose but make" it ;" 
 
 And when his weary task is done, 
 He bids the " devil" take it. 
 
 Next morning, when the sheet appeared. 
 
 The public laughed amain ; 
 They little thought the little jokes 
 
 Had cost such mickle pain. 
 
 He wrote like one that had- been dunned 
 
 For copy, all forlorn ; 
 A less harmonious Democrat 
 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 THE RHYMER'S RITUAL. 
 
 Of all the kinds of snobbish rhyme 
 That fail to please or tickle us, 
 The worst and most ridiculous 
 Is when young bards be-tickle us 
 
 Whith "tears" they shed "in early time.'' 
 
 The poet's task, when understood, 
 Is not with pain to fetter us, 
 And dolefully be-letter us ; 
 It is to touch and better us 
 
 With glintings of a gentler mood. 
 S 
 
114 The Poetical Works of 
 
 What cares a steam-electric age 
 For narratives Byronical ? 
 It rather loves to chronicle 
 Some witty thing laconical, 
 
 Flung lightly down upon the page. 
 
 We all have griefs enough to spare 
 Without a man inditing 'em, 
 . And metrically writing 'em ; 
 The wiser plan is slighting 'em 
 
 A hearty laugh can conquer care. 
 
 A grain of Burns is worth a mint 
 Of Byron's dolorosity ; 
 Tom Hood's immense jocosity 
 Beats Milton's ponderosity 
 
 True wit has always wisdom in't. 
 
 In youth each inexperienced fool 
 Adores the hyperbolical, 
 The Sue-Duinas-Sand-Gaulical 
 Creations melancholical 
 
 The writings of the "thrilling school. 
 
 'Tis strange that while of real grief 
 We all have such immensities, 
 Men still should have propensities 
 For reading wild intensities 
 
 Of agonies beyond belief. 
 
 For me, I will not read the stuff 
 Of German tales too deep a bit, 
 That will not let me sleep a bit ; 
 If e'er we want to weep a bit, 
 
 Our lives are tragical enough. 
 
 I'd rather think the lines I penned 
 Made one hour pass more cheerily, 
 More lightly and less wearily, 
 Than know that readers drearily 
 
 Went blubbering .on from end to end. 
 
 MINNIE, MY DOLL -WIFE. 
 
 She is fair as a peach, 
 She is light as a feather, 
 
 And more tuneful her speech 
 Than all song-birds together ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 115 
 
 Her face is delicious, 
 
 Bright, modest, and clear, 
 
 And she fills all the wishes 
 Of eye, heart, and ear. 
 
 O'er her brow, in the wind, 
 
 Little curls toss and clamber, 
 While the thick hair behind 
 
 Is of chestnut with amber ; 
 Her dark eyes are seen 
 
 Ever kindling or dimming, 
 As a falcon's now keen, 
 
 Now in tenderness swimming. 
 
 Then her lips ah ! mon Dieu ! 
 
 Curving, crimson, and scented, 
 As if made with a view 
 
 But to drive us demented. 
 Little chin, rosy cheek, 
 
 Each hath got its own dimple, 
 And her whole features speak 
 
 A soul arch and yet simple. 
 
 How slender her throat, 
 
 And how white beyond telling ! 
 While her bust you may note 
 
 Into womanhood swelling 
 Like a bud, newly graced 
 
 As the sun-rays unfold it ; 
 While so small is her waist, 
 
 In spanned hands you may hold it. 
 
 In her little doll's boot 
 
 At least such is my notion 
 Her superb Arab foot 
 
 Seems a poem of motion ; 
 Like a deer in her pace, 
 
 And in beauty abounding, 
 Every motion a grace, 
 
 As if music were sounding. 
 
 My little doll-wife, 
 
 Had we. two come together 
 When the year of my life 
 
 Was in early spring weather. 
 Not a doll-wife wert thou, 
 
 But a wife warm and glowing, 
 To whose young heart, even how, 
 
 My soul's currents are flowing. 
 
116 The Poetical Works of 
 
 To a little doll's cot, 
 
 Set in flowers, I would sue you 
 Even the sunlight should not 
 
 Too unguardedly woo you ; 
 There, with ribbons and toys, 
 
 Roses, jewels, and dances, 
 I would ask for no joys 
 
 But to bask in your glances. 
 
 So, when weary my life 
 
 Heart and brain, ear and vision 
 Of the long, paltry strife 
 
 Which we think is ambition, 
 In my little doll's cot 
 
 And her arms I might hide me. 
 And, while brightening her lot, 
 
 Find the peace else denied me. 
 
 TO THE CHIEF JUSTICE: FROM MILES O'REILLY. IS 
 
 " Incedimus per ignes, euppositos cineri doloso." 
 
 Guardian of liberty and right, 
 Of law and justice in the land, 
 Hold the scales firm with even hand ; 
 For thou must either greatly stand, 
 Calm as a Fate, with purpose grand, 
 
 Or sink beyond all reach of light. 
 
 Down to the deep foundation-stones 
 On which our country's pillars rest, 
 Propping the roof once brightly pressed 
 By stars beneath which many a guest 
 Came in to share the banquet bless'd 
 
 Of liberty our temple groans. 
 
 Groans in this earthquake's helpless loss 
 
 (The war was nothing, and is past) ; 
 
 But the temple groans with tremors vast, 
 
 Seeing the sacred things, amassed 
 
 By our great fathers, rudely cast 
 Down to the dust as worthless dross. 
 
 Tis thine to bid the storm be o'er 
 A right almost too great for speech 
 'Tis thine the sacred vessels each 
 To lift again ; 'tis thine to teach 
 Lessorts of love that yet may reach 
 
 And knit all sections as of yore. 
 
CJiarles Graham Halpine. 117 
 
 High towering o'er the vulgar train, 
 By rage and greed of gain debased, 
 Thy lines in loftier planes are placed ; 
 And with thy heart to justice braced, 
 Faction may all her thunders waste 
 
 Against thy calm decrees in vain. 
 
 It is no common thing to sit, 
 
 Clothed as thou art with power so great, 
 Balancing points of subtlest weight 
 Between the ruler of a state 
 And a cabal's unscrupling hate : 
 
 Thy place in history here is writ. 
 
 I know thee well : thy life's proud lot, 
 A struggle vehement and long, 
 With soundest heart and judgment strong. 
 Against whate'er to thee seemed wrong : 
 Now raised by virtue o'er the throng, 
 
 Thy record must receive no blot 
 
 Hold the scales even ; firmly stand 
 In thy great office, guarding law ; 
 Round thee thy sacred ermine draw ; 
 
 Pluck Justice from Hate's ravening maw ; 
 And, grandest sight the world e'er saw, 
 
 Let one man's firm soul save the land. 
 
 TO FENTON. 19 
 
 AN EARNEST OBY AND PEAYEE FOE CUE ENDANGERED TAX LKVY. 
 
 That bill, O Fenton ! spare ; 
 
 Let not thy veto fly ; 
 The child of many a prayer 
 
 Say, would'st thou have it die ? 
 Brittle and bright as glass, 
 , It is both "rich and rare ;" 
 But, Fenton, let it pass 
 
 Thy veto pray forbear. 
 
 For months, when short of cash, 
 
 We've dreamed about this bill, 
 Hoping perhaps 'twas rash 
 
 That it our fobs would fill. 
 When tailors pressed us hard, 
 
 Or we for board were bored, 
 We did all fears discard 
 
 This bill would swell our hoard. 
 
118 The Poetical Works of 
 
 But now, in ghastly fear, 
 
 We hear dark rumors fly 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that bill go by. 
 Ten thousand humble men 
 
 Depend on it for bread, 
 And should it fail oh ! then 
 
 Their woes be on thy head. 
 
 The nabobs of the League, 
 
 Their purses dense with gold, 
 Weave round thee an intrigue 
 
 That levy to withhold ; 
 But think, ere flies the dart 
 
 Making that bill a corse, 
 How shrill through many a heart 
 
 The barb its way will force. 
 
 Grant that there are some " steals'" 
 
 Some*" big steals," if you will 
 Which Greeley's pen reveals 
 
 In this unhappy bill ; 
 Yet think of all the poor, 
 
 Unpaid-for, honest toil, 
 And what they must endure, 
 
 If you this bill shall foil. 
 
 Let thy assent be given 
 
 Sign, sign thy potent name, 
 And to the gates of heaven 
 
 Our tongues shall waft thy fame. 
 Sign that financial bill, 
 No single item touch, 
 And, by thy bounteous will, 
 
 Save us from Famine's clutch. 
 
 f5ct. stamp,) Given this 1st day of May, 1868, from our royal seat 
 t canceled. .( on the chains in the City Hall Park, 
 
 MILES O'REILLY, 
 
 Special Pleader and Spokesman for the great Unpaid 
 of our City Government. 
 
 WEBSTER, 
 
 Gone ! and the world may never hear again 
 The grand old music of thy wondrous speech. 
 
 Striking far deeper than the mind can reach 
 Into the hearts and purposes of men. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 119 
 
 Gone ! and the helm that in thy Roman hand 
 
 Drove the stout vessel through the blinding storm, 
 
 Scarce to a feebler guidance will conform 
 
 When waves beat high, and ropes break strand by strand. 
 
 Gone ! we are like old men whose infant eyes 
 
 Familiar grew with some vast pyramid ; 
 Even as we gaze, earth yawns, and it is hid 
 
 A long, wide desert mocks the empty skies. 
 
 NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE. 
 
 Air : "Oh! a rare old plant is the ivy green." 
 
 Och ! a rare ould flag was the flag we bore, 
 
 'Tvvas a bully ould flag, an' nice ; 
 It had sthripes in plenty, an' shtars galore 
 
 'Twas the broth of a purty device. 
 Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far, 
 
 An' around it our bivouacs made ; 
 An' we swore by the shamrock that never a shtar 
 
 From its azure field should fade. 
 
 Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue, 
 
 That was sworn in the sowls of our Boys in Blue. 
 
 The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall, 
 
 An' the shells like a banshee scream ; 
 An' the flag it is torn by many a ball, 
 
 But to yield it we never dhreairi. 
 Though pierced by bullets, yet still it bears 
 
 All the shtars in its tatthered field, 
 An' again the brigade, like to one man swears, 
 
 " Not a shtar from the flag we yield!" 
 
 'Twas the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue, 
 That lay close to the hearts of our Boys in Blue. 
 
 Shure, the fight it was won', afther many a year, 
 
 But two thirds of the boys who bore 
 That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear 
 
 Returned to their homes no more. 
 They died by the bullet disease had power, 
 
 An' to death they were rudely tossed ; 
 But the thought came warm in their dying hour, 
 
 " Not a shtar from the flag is lost !" 
 
 Then they said their pathers and aves through, 
 An', like Irishmen, died did our Boys in Blue. 
 
120 The Poetical Works of 
 
 But now they tell us some shtars are gone, 
 
 Torn out by the rebel gale ; 
 That the shtars we fought for, the states we won, 
 
 Are still out of the Union's pale. 
 May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow 
 
 Who sing such a lyin' shtrain ; 
 By the dead in their graves, it shall not be so 
 
 They shall have what they died to gain ! 
 
 All the shtars in our flag shall still shine through 
 The grass growing soft o'er our Dead in Blue ! 
 
 FEMININE ARITHMETIC. 
 
 LAURA. 
 
 On me he shall ne'er put a ring, 
 
 So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble, 
 
 For I was but eighteen in spring, 
 While his age exactly is double. 
 
 MAMMA. 
 
 He is but in his thirty-sixth year, 
 
 Tall, handsome, good-natured, rich, witty, 
 
 And should you refuse him, my dear, 
 May you die an old maid without pity. 
 
 LAURA. 
 
 His figure, I grant you, will pass, 
 
 And at present he's young enough plenty ; 
 But, when I am sixty, alas ! 
 
 Will not he be a hundred and twenty ? 
 
 LA SUISSESSE AU BORD DU LAC. 
 
 The flowers have breathed their sweetest perfumes here, 
 
 And night approaches us with noiseless feet ; 
 The lake is sparkling, and the air is clear 
 The peace of evening shadows our retreat. 
 
 Oh, dearest home oh, happy, happy lot 
 
 Sweet home, in our hearts thou shalt never be forgot. 
 
 Come, my companions, let us dance and sing 
 
 A lovely evening crowns the glorious day 
 Come, let us make the mountain echoes ring 
 With songs of joy and many a tender lay. 
 
 Oh, dearest home oh, happy, happy lot 
 
 Sweet home, in our hearts thou shalt never be forgot. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 121 
 
 By the moon shimmering through the silent woods, 
 
 I know my love will not be absent long ; 
 Hark ! from across the bright lake's silent floods 
 I hear his voice re-echo back my song. 
 
 Oh, dearest home oh, happy, happy lot 
 
 Sweet home, in our hearts thou shalt never be forgot. 
 
 ADIEU TO THE PRINCESS PICCOLOMINI. 
 
 ON AN ACTION AGAINST THE PRINCESS PICCOLOMINI FOE HER 15OARD HILL. 
 
 The wonderful Princess Piccolomini 
 Ought to have paid for her hog and hominy ; 
 Ought to have paid for her beer and brandy, . 
 Mutton, and beef, and molasses candy ; 
 Either herself should have paid for her victuals 
 (This shirking your board bill much belittles), 
 Or the dandy snobs who her favor prayed for 
 These should have seen that her grub was paid for. 
 
 Yes, the enchanting Piccolomini 
 Should have shelled out for her hog and hominy, 
 And never compelled Mr. Hawley Clapp 
 To pull and haul up the fishy chap, 
 Who was seized on a writ "ad satis cap," 
 Though 'tis certain that he never owed a rap 
 Nary a red for the hog and hominy 
 Munched and crunched by the Piccolomini ; 
 Nary a cent for the beer and brandy, 
 Oysters, and eggs, and molasses candy, 
 Puddings, and pies, and lobster salads, 
 Gorged by our fat little queen of ballads ! 
 
 Large in her feet was the Piccolomini, 
 
 Pat were her feet, and her hog and hominy ; 
 
 Waddling around with a lazy looseness, 
 
 Lavishing smiles with a rank profuseness, 
 
 Doing snobs out of gigs and ponies, 
 
 Quizzing them next to her bosom cronies 
 
 A very dear lady was Piccolomini, 
 
 And dear to Clapp was her hog and hominy ; 
 
 Dear to the public her dubious singing, 
 
 And dear were the bouquets her friends kept flinging. 
 
 She looked like a dropsical female Jew sick, 
 
 And scaly, indeed, was her scale of music. 
 
 One victim still wanders around the Academy, 
 
 Sighing, "Alas ! all the gifts she had of me." 
 
 F 
 
122 The Poetical Works of 
 
 IN PLEASANT HOURS. 
 
 In pleasant hours, the merriest toy 
 
 That e'er made time roll lightly 
 A living, animated joy, 
 
 That flitted round us brightly ; 
 We thought not courage lay beneath 
 
 Those lips of pouting coral 
 We little guessed that beauty's wreath 
 
 But hid the heroine's laurel. 
 
 Yet, in the hour of peril tried, 
 
 . The gentle heart grew fearless ; 
 
 Her eye.s still beamed with hope and pride 
 
 When all looked dark and cheerless. 
 Then loudly let her praises ring, 
 
 And may her name be legion, 
 Who soared on love's unfaltering wing 
 
 Through sorrow's darkest region. 
 
 PAREPA ROSA. 
 
 AS STING BY JTJDGE JOHN B. UKADY WITH IMMENSE EFFECT 1 
 
 Air: " The Groves of Blarney." 
 
 Och ! of song a fountain, 
 An' of charms a mountain, 
 There's no prima-donna 
 
 Can wid her compare ; 
 For she is the sweetest, 
 An' the most completest, 
 From her golden girdle 
 
 To her nut-brown hair. 
 She's the gorgeous sposa 
 Of the Signor Rosa, 
 An' she does outvalue him 
 By a hundred pounds. 
 Sure her smile is gracious, 
 An' her bust is spacious, 
 
 Like a milk-white reservoir 
 
 f An', throth ! that's what it is, the darlint an' may God bless her 
 an' it for the same ! An' may he look down upon her, an' be good 
 to her !] 
 
 Of all silvery sounds. 
 
Charles Graham Ilalpine. 123 
 
 Hear her voice a minute ! 
 Like a lark or linnet, 
 
 How the warble bubbles up 
 From her purty throat ; 
 An' now hear it fallin', 
 Like an echo callin', 
 
 Flickerin' gently downward 
 
 From some hills remote. 
 Then again it rises, 
 An' wid joy surprises, 
 For her love an' rapture 
 Find in song relief; 
 An' it now sinks lowly 
 Into prayer most holy, 
 
 Or now swells in rondeaux 
 
 [Though I don't meself rightly know, upon me conscience ! what sort 
 of a thing a " rondeau" is, whin it's at home] 
 Of melodious grief. 
 
 When I think o' dyin', 
 An' me sperit flyin' 
 To that high Olympus 
 
 Where good gossoons go 
 Where, their harps a-holdin', 
 An' wid cymbals golden, 
 All the proud immortals 
 
 Into music flow 
 Och ! the future taskin', 
 It is then I'm askin', 
 " Shall we hear Parepa 
 
 In that shinin' throng ?" 
 For if her sweet singin' 
 Through all heaven's not ringin', 
 
 Earth can whip the Nine Muses 
 
 [Ay, faix ! an' a dozen or two of them little cherubims and seraphims 
 who "continually do cry," as poor Father Mulcahy God rest him! 
 tould me long ago at Sunday-school] 
 
 In the line o' song. 
 Philharmonic Night, Academy of Music. . 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 FROM THE FEENOH. 
 
 Her heart was broken ; day by day 
 She wasted silently away, 
 
124 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And o'er her large dark eyes there grew 
 A film of leaden-colored hue ; 
 Her step was languid, slow, and weak, 
 A hectic fever flushed her cheek, 
 Seldom and little did she speak. 
 
 And he to whom her faith was vowed, 
 Her hushand by the world allowed 
 A kind, good-natured, easy man 
 O'er all his present conduct ran 
 To see if he had given her aught 
 To cause this apathy of thought, 
 This tearful silence, sorrow fraught. 
 
 At length she spake one dewy morn : 
 ' ' Adolphe, you wonder why forlorn 
 I pensive sit from day to day, 
 And pine in solitude away ; 
 Dear husband, I will tell thee all : 
 My neighbor, Madame D'Argental, 
 Has got I have not a new shawl. " 
 
 NEW YORK IN A SNOW-COAT. 
 
 In Gotham, though no more it rained, 
 Full ankle deep the slush remained, 
 Till all our pants, with mud engrained, 
 Flapped round our insteps heavily. 
 
 But Gotham saw another sight 
 When the snow fell at dead of night, 
 Enrobing noiselessly in white 
 The squalor of her scenery. 
 
 For soon the wind began to blow, 
 And drifting fell the virgin snow, 
 'Till, white as Greeley's coat, the row 
 Of streets diverging mazily. 
 
 By dextrous blacks and grooms arrayed, 
 Was harnessed every equine jade, 
 While bells a merry music made, 
 And sledges slipped on ringingly. 
 
 Then wheels rolled off from every 'bus, 
 Then rose to heaven the cry and "cuss,' 
 While Bowery boys enjoyed the muss 
 Jn Broadway raging fearfully. 
 
 L 
 
Charles Graham Halpinc. 125 
 
 Then shook the street with sledges riven, 
 Then rushed the eight in tandem driven, 
 While faster than the bolts of heaven 
 Flashed the snow-ball artillery. 
 
 Full many a bonnet, pink and blue, 
 Full many a nose of ditto hue, 
 Changed color ,as the missiles flew 
 And hit them oh ! so stingingly. 
 
 But pleasure dies when keenest felt, 
 And snow, when most enjoyed, will melt, 
 And they who ride, and they who pelt, 
 Beneath the drift lie peacefully. 
 
 THE TUKQUOIS BROOCH. 
 
 They tell us of a precious stone 
 
 Which changes with the wearer, 
 And, moved by sympathy alone, 
 
 Grows lustreless or fairer ; 
 Thus, if the loved one's bosom grieve, 
 
 Its azure glory flies, 
 But if to joy that bosom heave, 
 
 'Tis bright as summer skies. 
 
 So, Mary, is my soul to thee, 
 
 By thee illumed or saddened, 
 O'ercast if thou look'st moodily, 
 
 And bright if thou art gladdened ; 
 Thou, like the turquois to my pain, 
 
 Unlike to my unrest, 
 For, Mary, thou hast never ta'en 
 
 My spirit to thy breast. 
 
 A PALPABLE PARODY. 
 
 'Tis the last golden dollar, 
 
 Left shining alone; 
 All- its brilliant companions 
 
 Are squandered and gone. 
 No coin of its mintage 
 
 Reflects back its hue, 
 They went in mint-juleps, 
 
 And this will go too. 
 
126 The Poetical Works of 
 
 I'll not keep thee, thou lone one, 
 
 Too long in suspense ; 
 Thy brethren were melted, 
 
 And melt thou to pence. 
 I ask for no quarter, 
 
 I'll spend and not spare, 
 Till my poor empty pocket 
 
 Lie centless and bare. 
 
 So soon may' I follow 
 When friendships decay, 
 
 And from beggary's last dollar 
 The dimes drop away. 
 
 When the Maine law has passed, 
 And the groggeries sink, 
 
 What use would be dollars 
 
 With nothing to drink ? 
 
 THINE EYES OF BLUE. 
 
 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Thine eyes of blue, the heaven's own hue, 
 Thy soft eyes thrill my fevered pulse ; 
 
 The light that lies within /hine eyes 
 Hath blinded me to all things else. 
 
 Love at a single word may bloom, 
 
 The quick heart blossoming fair and free ; 
 
 One glance may gild the future's gloom, 
 And now thy bright eyes shine on me. 
 Thine eyes of blue, etc. 
 
 And canst thou ask me why my cheek, 
 Where thou art not, grows pale and wan ? 
 
 Why sadness that I can not speak 
 
 Surrounds my path when thou art gone ? 
 Thine eyes of blue, etc. 
 
 And, farther, canst thou wish to know 
 
 What change comes'o'er me when we meet, 
 And why my pallid brow will glow, 
 And why my quivering pulses beat ? 
 
 Thine eyes of blue, the heaven's own hue, 
 
 Thy soft eyes thrill my fevered pulse ; 
 The fire that lies within thine eyes 
 Hath blinded me to all things else. 
 
Charles Graham Halplne. 127 
 
 SOME WISDOM IN DOGGEREL. 
 
 We know not why nor how it is, 
 
 Yet find it every hour, 
 'Twixt Fortune and her sister Mis 
 
 There's most unequal power. 
 How quickly in our noon of pride 
 
 May clouds obscure the sun ; 
 How rapidly we fling aside 
 
 The wealth so hardly won. 
 
 'Tis so where'er we turn our foot, 
 
 And sad it is to write it ; 
 A whole long summer plumps the fruit, 
 
 An hour of frost can blight it. 
 What are Dame Fortune's thousand smiles 
 
 Against Miss Fortune's frown ? 
 The ship has sailed a thousand miles 
 
 One shock she settles down. 
 
 'Tis so in love, 'tis so in fame, 
 
 In all we prize on earth ; 
 The priceless jewel of a name 
 
 Untarnished from our birth, 
 One moment's folly, passion, haste 
 
 The name is ruined gone ! 
 So easy 'tis so quick we waste 
 
 The wealth so hardly won. 
 
 Even love the sweetest flower that stirred 
 
 In all life's gloomy vale, 
 An angry breath, a hasty word 
 
 It sickens in the gale. 
 O Life ! to Death thy hour-glass toss, 
 
 Let all its sands outrun ; 
 We can not daily bear the loss 
 
 Of joys so dearly won. 
 
 CHANT OF THE NO-KAMI. 
 
 TO BE LEARNED BY ALL ADMIRERS OF THE JAPANESE PRINCES. 
 
 To pronounce the name of a Japanese, 
 Give a cough and hiccough, a grunt and sneeze, 
 Then finish the whole with a whistle, and, blame me ! 
 If that ain't the name of some grand No-Kami. 
 
128 The Poetical Works of 
 
 They are clad in petticoats made of silk, 
 And they drink no lager, but whey and milk ; 
 Their money goes down to the tenth of a cent, 
 And they carry two swords one straight, one bent. 
 
 Namoo Amida they call their God, 
 And they enter his churches with feet unshod ; 
 But their God of Wealth is called Dai Gak, 
 And his altars never full worshipers lack. 
 
 At Nagasaki their foreign trade 
 With Dutchmen and Chinamen long was made ; 
 Camphor, and coffee, and porcelain rare, 
 And trays of their much-vaunted lacquer-ware. 
 
 Copper, and wax, and rice they sell ; 
 
 In heavy silk goods they bear the bell ; 
 
 And whenever they chance to fall into disgrace, 
 
 Then they rip themselves open before your face. 
 
 For this they carry the second sword ; 
 
 And whene'er they're in debt, or default, or bored, 
 
 Or get a toothache, or make a slip, 
 
 They open their bowels, and let things rip. 
 
 So honor the Japanese night and day, 
 With congenial blacking-pots strew their way. 
 And if to admire them you fail, don't blame me, 
 For this is the song of a Jap No-Kami. 
 
 THE BACCHANTES. 
 
 Say, art thou sad ? our golden cup 
 
 With precious balm is laden ; 
 A world of joy in every drop 
 
 For man, and, eke, for maiden. 
 Its scent outvies the rosy ties 
 
 That in our tresses cluster ; 
 The light that lies within our eyes 
 
 Grows pale beside its lustre. 
 
 Our zones ungirt, our pulses warm, 
 
 Our thoughts at random roaming, 
 Wilt thou refuse the fragrant charm, 
 
 Wilt thou refuse it foaming ? 
 Its scent outvies the rosy ties 
 
 That in our tresses cluster ; 
 The light that lies within our eyes 
 
 Grows pale beside its lustre. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 129 
 
 INDIFFERENCE. 20 
 
 Through days, and nights, and weary years 
 I struggle on, through hopes and fears, 
 If "hopes" are called those spectres gaunt 
 That, like bog-lanterns, flare and flaunt 
 Before the way-worn trav'ler's face, 
 Yet vanish as he nears. 
 
 And for her sake, whose lightest breath 
 Could give me strength to cope with death, 
 And overcome where now I die 
 Whose face downlooketh like the sky, 
 While trembling I await her grace, 
 Yet not a word she saith. 
 
 She knows the purposes I frame, 
 And sees them fail me, aim by aim 
 She sees wild passions tear my heart^ 
 While foes and snares around me start, 
 Yet her sweet breath,that might me save, 
 But serves to fan the flame. 
 
 She sees me captured by their wiles, 
 And tortured till my soul reviles 
 The God who made me sees me when 
 The demons drag me down ; and then, 
 While in their toils I writhe and rave, 
 Looks calmly on and smiles. 
 
 ADIEU. 
 
 Oh, heed him not, if rhymer prate 
 Of parted love and endless woe ; 
 True love would scorn to babble so, 
 And grief is inarticulate, 
 
 Or with a hoarse and broken flow 
 It rushes, murmuring, to its fate 
 That ocean which, or soon or late, 
 Receives the wreck of all we know, 
 Or be it love, or be it hate. 
 Oh, heed him not. The spirit bowed 
 With grief sincere was ne'er so loud. 
 
130 The Poetical Works of 
 
 But if to say in simple praise 
 
 That I will ne'er forget you, friends, 
 Though at the earth's remotest ends 
 
 I pass my long unsolaced days ; 
 
 That, when the evening shade descends, 
 
 And high and bright the fagots blaze, 
 
 My faithful heart your forms shall raise, 
 While memory the curtain rends 
 
 That Time would drop o'er earlier days 
 
 If this content you, 'tis sincere, 
 
 Though vouched by neither oath nor tear. 
 
 ONE DEAD SURE THING.- 1 
 
 Air: " The Groves of Blarney." 
 
 It is John B. Haskin 
 
 Will hereafter bask in 
 The smiles of Johnsing, who is named An-drew ; 
 
 For 'twas John B. Haskin 
 
 Did succeed the task in 
 Of the "Ninth Resolution" putting squarely through. 
 
 And whatever you ask in 
 
 The name of Haskin 
 Be it place in the Customs, or what else he begs 
 
 There's no need of maskin' 
 
 That ; if axed by Haskin, 
 You'll be sure to get it just as sure as eggs ! 
 
 MOTTO OF THE MASS. 22 
 
 I've seen enough of life, although 
 
 Not yet beyond my prime ; 
 With men of all sorts, high and low, 
 
 I've mingled in my time. 
 When but a boy it came to pass 
 
 That, thrown upon the town, 
 I found the motto of the mass 
 
 Was, "Kick him when he's down." 
 
 And every year since then hath given 
 Fresh proofs of this decree, 
 
 But, whether made in hell or heaven, 
 The doctors disagree. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 131 
 
 I only know the fact is so, 
 
 And smile at it or frown 
 The art of life seems in the strife 
 
 To kick whoever's down. 
 
 Young Leon in his twentieth year 
 
 Had friends, God wot ! a heap ; 
 Their friendship may have been sincere 
 
 It surely was not cheap ; 
 He came of age, spent all he had, 
 
 And, wandering through the town, 
 Neglected, hungry, well-nigh mad, 
 
 Was kicked when he was down. 
 
 Poor Edith, too, the loveliest girl 
 
 That ever charmed our sight, 
 Of beauty's crown the fairest pearl, 
 
 And good as she was bright 
 Alas ! she fell ; let scandal tell 
 
 The tale to all the town ; 
 Aloud proclaim a sister's shame, 
 
 And kick her when she's down. 
 
 With high and low, but chiefly so 
 
 Among the vulgar great, 
 This motto rules, and all are fools 
 
 Who dare its truth debate. 
 Oh, brothers ! Earth were paradise, 
 
 And heaven without a frown, 
 Could we uproot such social lies 
 
 As " Kick him when he's down." 
 
 TIME. 23 
 
 Time rolls away, and bears along 
 A mingled mass of right and wrong ; 
 The flowers of love, that bloomed beside 
 The margin of his summer tide ; 
 The weeds of passion, drenched and torn 
 From dripping banks, and headlong borne 
 Into that unhorizoned sea 
 Which mortals call eternity. 
 
 Noiseless and rapid as a dream 
 Forever flows the widening stream, 
 While every wave or transient hour 
 Heaves up a weed and takes a flower. 
 
132 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The Isle of Life, that seemed to be 
 A continent infinity, 
 Grows bleaker, narrower, clay by day, 
 And channeled by a salter spray. 
 
 Like shipwrecked men, who closelier flock 
 
 To the bare summit of the rock 
 
 When the loud storm that wrecked them flings 
 
 Some loftier billow from his wings,. 
 
 We climb from youth's wave-rippled strand, 
 
 With heavier heart and feebler hand, 
 
 Up the gray rock of age, whose peak 
 
 Time's hungry billows, mounting, seek. 
 
 There, from the barren top, espy 
 
 A girth of tears an ashen sky ; 
 
 Bowed heads, cold hearts, and palsied feet 
 
 To Age's pinnacle retreat, 
 
 While the dull tide that swells below 
 
 Pursues them with a sullen flow 
 
 The rock is hid, the waves beat high, 
 
 And, lo ! an Ocean and a Sky. 
 
 FIERY ELOQUENCE. 24 
 
 THE PICTURE OF ONE.'WE KNOW. 
 
 His mind throws out its own discourse, 
 
 Not checked nor helped by rule or form ; 
 He utters by instinctive force 
 
 An eloquence deep, terse, and warm ; . 
 He is not fanciful, nor strains 
 
 For words or thoughts beyond his reach- 
 A molten fury of the veins 
 
 Glows through his lens of crystal speech. 
 
 He grasps and crushes into mould 
 
 Whate'er can serve his headlong need, 
 The weapon may be brass or gold, 
 
 But it must make the victim bleed. 
 Imagination's powers of flight 
 
 Are harnessed to his glowing wheel 
 Sunward or hellward, wrong or right, 
 
 He will not think he can but feel. 
 
 He lives in pain, in fierce desire, * 
 
 Or vain regret for perished joy ; 
 
 His aspirations have the fire 
 
 Which tortures, but will not destroy ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 133 
 
 He is Prometheus chained again 
 
 Amid the elemental strife 
 The scourges and the crowns of men 
 
 Are emblemed in his fitful life. 
 
 His joys are full luxuriant flowers, 
 
 Though nurtured on a mouldering root, 
 Though watered by the bitterest showers, 
 
 And bearing a most bitter fruit. 
 Keen shafts of sarcasm now he hurls, 
 
 Now pathos trembles in his tone, 
 And, in his passionate tide, he whirls 
 
 All souls that hear him with his own. 
 
 FAUGH AN BEALLACH. 25 
 
 SONG OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 
 
 Where glory's beams are seen, boys, 
 
 To cheer the way, to cheer the way, 
 We bear the emerald green, boys, 
 
 And clear the way, and clear the way. 
 Where life-blood torrents gush, boys, 
 
 In battle fray, in battle fray, 
 The bold brigade-men rush, boys, 
 
 And clear the way, and clear the way. 
 
 That home where valor first, boys,- 
 
 In all her charms, in all her charms, 
 Roused up the souls she nursed, boys, 
 
 And called to arms, and called to arms 
 That home was surely worth, boys, 
 
 The years we've known, the years we've known, 
 Since treachery drove us forth, boys, 
 
 To fight alone, to fight alone. 
 
 Oh who, while memory's given, boys, 
 
 That hour forgets, that hour forgets, 
 'Tis like the sun in heaven, boys, 
 
 That never sets, that never sets ; 
 When England's legions, dying, 
 
 Oh day of joy, oh day of joy, 
 Before our flag were flying 
 
 At Fontenoy, at Fontenoy. 
 
 And what is Sarsfield's meed, boys, 
 
 Whose conquering smile, whose conquering smile, 
 Inspired each martial deed, boys, 
 
 To right our isle, to right our isle ? 
 
134 The Poetical Works of 
 
 His memory still is bright'ning 
 
 From day to day, from day to day, 
 
 As when his sword of lightning 
 Led on the fray, led on the fray. 
 
 Then here's to Sarsfield's glory 
 
 A bumper round, a bumper round 
 And may his deathless story 
 
 For aye be found, for aye be found 
 A star Our country's tomb in 
 
 A star of light, a star of light, 
 Whose radiance may illumine 
 
 Her final light, her final light. 
 
 MATRIMONIAL COMPLACENCY. 
 
 Since Grace and I were double, 
 
 I'd have the world to know, 
 We've been a goodish couple, 
 
 As goodish couples go ; 
 To no ecstatic passion 
 
 Our present hearts respond, 
 But you know 'tis out of fashion 
 
 For couples to be fond. 
 
 I thought her once angelic 
 
 A fairy she did seem 
 There is not now a relic 
 
 Of that diviner dream ; 
 Her dress is more than costly, 
 
 Her taste in music fine, 
 She eats and it is vastly, 
 
 As other people dine. 
 
 Nor am I now her hero 
 
 The worshiped one alone ; 
 A matrimonial Nero 
 
 She seems to think me grown ; 
 A brute, should I refuse her 
 
 That dear, sweet Cashmere shawl ; 
 Worse than a brute I use her 
 
 If kept in town the fall. 
 
 Cigars are her abhorrence, 
 She hates the sight of wine, 
 
 And no presumption warrants 
 A friend brought hom'e to dine ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 135 
 
 She won't believe 'tis business 
 That keeps me late at night, 
 
 And on the slightest dizziness 
 I am condemned as "tight." 
 
 But still, despite this trouble, 
 
 These little puffs of woe, 
 We make a goodish couple, 
 
 As goodish couples go ; 
 To no ecstatic passion 
 
 Our present hearts respond, 
 But you know 'tis out of fashion 
 
 For couples to be fond. 
 
 "OH, YOUNG GEOKDIE SANDERS." 
 
 Oh, young Geordie Sanders came over the sea, 
 And of all the good consuls the goodest is he ; 
 And, save his credentials, he letters had none 
 He sailed on a sudden, and sailed all alone ; 
 So faithful to truth and his country was he, 
 No " harder" American e'er crossed the sea. 
 
 He staid not to see would the Senate conform, 
 
 Hut crossed the Atlantic through shine and through storm 
 
 And when the new consul at London arrived, 
 
 He showed his credentials, and then was received ; 
 
 For never before did America send 
 
 A consul unworthy the name of a friend. 
 
 So boldly he entered upon his new place, 
 
 That we thought that our Senate would never disgrace 
 
 Its fame and traditions by raising its voice 
 
 Against our executive's favorite choice ; 
 
 But when in the Senate his name was received, 
 
 The Cabinet party arose and upheaved. 
 
 But Sanders, we know, is an excellent "Hard," 
 And the Cabinet "Softs" did him therefore discard ; 
 And, when he was named, all the Senate arose 
 Like a parcel of Turks at the sight of their foes. 
 ' There are Soft Shells in Gotham, done utterly brown, 
 Who would gladly be consul to famed London town." 
 
 The Cabinet issued its orders to vote, 
 And the Senate reluctantly opened its throat ; 
 It took down the pill, and it threw up its eyes, 
 And ' No" to the name of George Sanders replies, 
 
136 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Though the Democrats whispered, ' ' The slaves of Freesoil 
 Have resolved to take e'en this last .bit of spoil." 
 
 But Marcy and Gushing, 'twas they pulled the wires, 
 And 'tis Marcy, we know, that the Senate inspires ; 
 For he hates even more than he hates me, the bard, 
 The welfare or name of a " national Hard ;" 
 And so they refused though the vote was absurd 
 While the poor craven Cabinet said not a word. 
 
 There was reveling that night 'mid the Cabinet clan 
 Davis, Gushing, and Marcy concocted the plan 
 There were oysters for all, and Champagne for the crowd 
 Who the name of the consular " Hard" disallowed ; 
 So luckless was Sanders sent over the sea, 
 Have you e'er heard of consul was treated as he ? 
 
 IRISH ASTRONOMY. 27 
 
 A VERITABLE MTTH, TOUCHING THE CONSTELLATION OF O'RYAN, IGNOBANTLY 
 AND FALSELY SPELLED ORION. 
 
 O'Ryan was a man of might 
 
 Whin Ireland was a nation, 
 But poachin' was his heart's delight 
 
 And constant occupation. 
 He had an ould militia gun, 
 
 And sartin sure his aim was ; 
 He gave the keepers many a run, 
 
 And wouldn't mind the game laws. 
 
 St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by 
 
 O'Ryan's little houldin', 
 And, as the saint felt wake and dhry, 
 
 He thought he'd enther bould in. 
 "O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick! 
 
 To praich at Thurles I'm goin', 
 So let me have a rasher quick, 
 
 And a dhrop of Innishowen. " 
 
 "No rasher will I cook for you 
 
 While betther is to spare, sir, 
 But here's a jug of mountain dew, 
 
 And there's a rattlin' hare, sir. " 
 St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet, 
 
 And says he, "Good luck attind you, 
 And, when you're in your windin' sheet, 
 
 It's up to heaven I'll sind you. " 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 137 
 
 O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff 
 
 "Them tidin's is thransportin', 
 But may I ax your saintship if 
 
 There's any kind of sportin' ?" 
 St. Path rick said, " A Lion's there, 
 
 Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer" 
 " Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare ; 
 
 St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir." 
 
 So, to conclude my song aright, 
 
 For fear I'd tire your patience, 
 You'll see O'Ryan any night 
 
 Amid the constellations. 
 And Venus follows in his track 
 
 Till Mars grows jealous raally, 
 But, faith, he fears the Irish knack 
 
 Of handling the shillary. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 28 
 
 Dear friend and honored, though thy words be rough, 
 I take them kindly, for I know them true ; 
 And that thy heart, an icicle to view, 
 
 Is warm, and made of penetrable stuff. 
 
 Little, perchance, had the world cause to chide, 
 Had I, emerging from youth's glittering gate 
 Into the riotous strength of man's estate, 
 
 Found such a friend to cheer me and to guide. 
 
 'Tis easy to condemn, and hard to spare ; 
 
 And blood is hot, and pleasures will allure ; 
 
 And cloaked hypocrisy would fain insure 
 Its own good name by branding those who err. 
 
 I have my sins as thick as April showers 
 Some virtues also, if I know my heart ; 
 And something tells me that my latter part 
 
 Of life may choke the weeds and feed the flowers. 
 
 I have been grateful for whatever good 
 
 Was strewn along my path not overmuch ! 
 I never yet with acrimonious touch 
 
 Probed the diseases of another's blood. 
 
 My hand was free while it had aught to give ; 
 
 I ne'er oppressed when chance conferred the power ; 
 
 And I have struggled many a prayerful hour 
 A worthier and more useful life to live. 
 
138 The Poetical Works of 
 
 If wrong were offered me, I never stopped 
 To curse my foe, to grumble, or to writhe, 
 Although beneath misfortune's glittering scythe 
 
 My dearest hopes, like crimson poppies, dropped. 
 
 Still struggling on to a diviner goal, 
 
 'Though gored by thorns and tumbling into quags. 
 
 Nor ever hesitates, nor ever flags 
 The fixed resolve that centres in my soul ; 
 
 For life is bitt a struggle of weak will 
 With intellectual purpose, and the rod 
 Which chastens pride is in the hands of God, 
 
 Who does not always smite nor wholly kill. 
 
 From the high hope which filled my boyish heart 
 Ne'er have my eye* been lured, nor have I lost 
 Faith in the future, and, though tempest-toss'd 
 
 I still steer firmly by the early chart. 
 
 Should that be right, my voyage prospers well ; 
 Should that be wrongj I perish, and no more 
 Another wreck upon a thankless shore ; 
 
 But of the issue let the future tell. 
 
 WEAEIE PEN. 
 
 I weary of my pen, 
 
 And write not of mine own accord ; 
 It was my slave, and I was happy then ; 
 
 'Tis now my lord. 
 
 I weary of the themes 
 
 Which the gross multitude pursue ; 
 Who writes for bread must bid all higher dreams 
 
 His last adieu. 
 
 Harness the antelope, 
 
 Burden his back until it bleeds 
 Trample his fiery spirit, and then hope 
 
 His former speed. 
 
 Bid the lush country yield 
 
 Not annual gift, but daily boon 
 A fungus growth defiles the morning field, 
 
 And rots ere noon. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 139 
 
 We squander sterling thought 
 
 On frivolous feuds and foolish cares ; 
 
 The harvest of our life becomes inwrought, 
 And choked with tares. 
 
 Oh for song's daedal prime, 
 
 When, wandering o'er the plains afoot, 
 The shepherd minstrel tuned the spear of time 
 
 His shield, a lute. 
 
 Ay, there were giants then, 
 
 Gentle as strong, and good as bold 
 A stalwart race of freedom-loving men 
 
 Were those of old. 
 
 Their blood "ran red and warm 
 
 Through healthy pulses, and they found 
 
 Infinite loveliness of hue and form, 
 Of taste and sound. 
 
 Their souls in music bathed, 
 
 Freedom inspired their highest hymns ; 
 No mummy-cloths of a dead custom swathed 
 
 Their vigorous limbs. 
 
 And yet in every age 
 
 There must be themes to touch the heart : 
 We have the self-same passions, joy and rage, 
 
 But lack their art. 
 
 We pore o'er books. They trod 
 
 Mountain, and vale, and sounding shore ; 
 
 They make their spirits intimate with God 
 And nature's lore. 
 
 As falls the levin-scaith 
 
 On the young oaks that clothe a hill, 
 We have been stunted by our want of faith 
 
 And resolute will. 
 
 To Nature false, our eyes 
 
 See nothing beautiful ; we warm 
 And stamp with social currency the lies 
 
 Of fraud and form. 
 
 Where passion throbbed high words, 
 With beggar whine the age complains ; 
 
 Gone the red glory of controlling swords, 
 And Mammon reigns. 
 
140 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Life grows a stagnant pool, 
 
 Green with the dregs of trade and toil, 
 Youth's pure ideals of the beautiful 
 
 Are Lucre's spoil. 
 
 I weary of the pen, 
 
 And write not of mine own accord ; 
 It was my slave, and I was happy then : 
 
 Alas ! 'tis now my lord. 
 
 A PICTURE IN WATER-COLORS. 
 
 'Twas a bright expanse of water 
 Where the Quaker's gentle daughter 
 Every summer morning sought her 
 
 Bath of beauty, light, and grace ; 
 Quite a fleet of drifted lilies 
 Danced above the mimic billows, 
 And a screen of drooping willows 
 
 Curtained close the bathing-place. 
 
 In my skiff at random floating, 
 Rod and line but nothing noting 
 Ah ! what subtle charm had boating 
 
 Since the bathing-place was known ; 
 I across the lake was drifted, 
 While with life my fancy gifted 
 Every lily-shoulder lifted, 
 
 White and dimpled as her own. 
 
 " Ah ! how clear !" I muttered, eying 
 Many a colored pebble lying 
 Far below, and vainly trying 
 
 On some book to fix my thought ; 
 "Now some good breeze hither winging, 
 Set yon silver curtain swinging, 
 Coolness to the bather bringing," 
 
 But the good breeze answered not. 
 
 Homeward o'er the meadows tripping, 
 All the lovelier for her dipping, 
 Soon I saw the maiden skipping, 
 
 Who said archly, when we met, 
 "Friend, thou hast grown fond of boating ; 
 And my weak heart quailed on noting 
 The malicious laughter floating 
 
 In the eyes of my coquette. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 141 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY WHO ASKED FOB HIS NAME IN HEE ALBUM. 
 
 You ask for my name ! Ah ! dear madam, you palter 
 With the hopes I have felt, as you well understand. 
 
 If you wish for my name, it is yours at the altar : 
 I'll give you my name when you give me your hand. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 The good Old Year hath run his race, 
 
 And the latest hour draws near ; 
 The cold dew shines on his hoary face, 
 And he hobbles along with a listless pace, 
 To his lonely and snow-covered resting-place 
 
 In the northern hemisphere. 
 
 See how his stiff joints faint and shrink 
 
 As the cold breeze whistles by ; ' 
 He hath a bitter cup to drink 
 As he watches the sand in his hour-glass sink, 
 Standing alone on the icy brink 
 
 Of the gulf of eternity. 
 
 His scanty robe is wrapped more tight 
 
 As the dim sun dwindles down ; 
 And no stars arise to cheer the night 
 Of him whose temples they once made bright, 
 When crimson roses and lilies white 
 
 Half hid his golden crown. 
 
 He reels he slips no power at hand 
 
 To check him from tumbling o'er ; 
 The hour-glass clicks with its latest sand, 
 And each movement falls like the stroke of a brand 
 On one already too weak to stand 
 
 He falls he is seen no more. 
 
 And, lo ! in the east a star ascends, 
 
 And a burst of music comes 
 A young lord, followed by troops of friends, 
 Down to the broad equator wends, 
 While the star that travels above him bends 
 
 O'er a sea of floating plumes. 
 
142 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And Hope springs up from the couch of Care, 
 Her eyes are full of the softest fire, 
 
 A light burns round her golden hair, 
 
 And her bosom is soft, and oh, how fair ! 
 
 As she clasps the boy, and presses him there, 
 As once she had pressed his sire. 
 
 On every hill the bonfire glows, 
 
 And clarions blend with the beating drums ; 
 The yellow crocus disparts the snows, 
 And the river, freed from its bondage, flows, 
 While sparrows chirp, and the shrill cock crows 
 
 As the New. Year hitherward comes. 
 
 His glittering mail he flings aside, 
 
 And we see a robe of the brightest green ; 
 And the velvet green but serves to hide 
 The crimson vest of the richer pride 
 He dons in the brilliant summer tide 
 When he weds his Harvest Queen. 
 
 But time rolls on ; and the New Year turns 
 
 His wearying feet to the frozen north ; 
 The sun each day more dimly burns, 
 And the mother earth each day inurns 
 Her summer brood, while the cold winds spurns 
 The victor it heralded forth. 
 
 And again the Old Year treads alone 
 
 To the north, bereft of friends : 
 He totters along to the frozen zone, 
 With an icicle in each marrowless bone, 
 And the hoarse wind buries his dying groan 
 
 As another star ascends. 
 
 Then kindly think of the dying year 
 
 The joys, the hopes, and the love he nursed ; 
 
 Let fall a tear on his narrow bier ; 
 
 For, although not perfect, yet much I fear 
 
 That he was the best we shall ever see 
 God grant he may prove the worst. 
 
 A BROADWAY BELLE. 
 
 I saw her in the window 
 She was fairest of the fair ; 
 
 I thought it was no sin to 
 Kneel down before her there. 
 
Charles GraTiam Hal/pine. 143 
 
 Her dress was brightest, fullest, 
 That e'er by zone was bound ; 
 
 And her fan it was the coolest 
 That e'er shed fragrance round. 
 
 She turned around but slowly, 
 
 With a cold, unfeeling grace, 
 Although a hundred lowly 
 
 Adored her radiant face ; 
 Her hair was dark as the winglets 
 
 By the raven's brood unfurled, 
 And pearls were mixed in the ringlets 
 
 Above her bright brow curled. 
 
 There were brilliant toys around her 
 
 Of velvet and of silk, 
 As fair as those which bound her 
 
 White shoulders white as milk ; 
 Her eyes were bright, but rayless ; 
 
 They lacked the vital spark ; 
 And lovely could I say less ? 
 
 The mind the soul was dark. 
 
 " Oh, loveliest of the gentle 
 
 And fair !" I did repeat, 
 " Behold me ! I have bent all 
 
 My passions to thy feet ; 
 Grant and the boon entrances 
 
 Your poet, bard, and slave 
 One of the kindly glances 
 
 For which all lovers crave. " 
 
 Thus rapt in mystic wonder 
 
 I stood before the shrine, 
 When a voice like summer thunder 
 
 Disturbed this dream of mine. * 
 It cried, " I am astonished 
 
 That to gain her smile you strive ; 
 Henceforward be admonished 
 
 That thing is not alive!" 
 
 "Oh, creature of wax and leather, 
 
 Of pulleys, and wheels, and bran, 
 Changeless in change of weather, " 
 
 It was thus my answer ran 
 " No blame to you, not being human, 
 
 For your eyes of unpitying blue ; 
 But I've knelt to a score of live women. 
 
 Brainless, lovely, and heartless as you. 
 
144 The Poetical Works of 
 
 THINGS THAT I SEEN AND HEERD IN BUCKIN'HAM 
 
 PALICE 
 
 WHILE CLANIN' THE WINDIES IN THE RED DHRAWIN'-ROOM. 
 BY GAELAND o'HALLOBAN, DEPUTY ASSISTANT SUB-DEPUTY GLAZIEE. 
 
 I was clanin' the windies 
 In Buckin'ham Palice, 
 
 An' I thought o' the shindies 
 
 O' Russians and Allies, 
 
 Whin into the room, wid a brow full of gloom, ,, 
 
 An' a bottle of goold it was filled with perfume 
 Held up to her nose pop ! past me she goes 
 The queen ! an' I thrembled in, undher me toes, 
 But she didn't perceive I was undher the eave, 
 So I thought I'd just watch her a while, ere I'd leave, 
 For it struck me as odd that her queenship should grieve. 
 
 She flopped in a chair 
 
 Which the flunky put there, 
 
 An' she " pished" an' she " pshawed" wid a wanderin' air, 
 That was half of it anger an' half was despair ; 
 An' the great Koh-i-noor, that was fixed on her brow, 
 Wid the rubies set round it, flashed blood-like enow ; 
 An' over her soul, in that dark hour of dole, 
 The red hand of Care dhrove his merciless plow, 
 While she thought of her sins an' the big Russian row ; 
 An' the gem on her brow grew too hot to retain it 
 Whin she thought of the millions she butchered to gain it ; 
 An', through the thick mist that was chokin' her eye, 
 The ghost of her famine-killed sisther went by. 
 In Ireland 'twas famine in India 'twas slaughter, 
 An' every where, every where blood ran like wather. 
 
 Well, still, while I looked shure I thought I was booked 
 
 To that place where there's nothin' but kangaroos cooked, 
 
 For an ould man came in he was ugly as sin, 
 
 Wid the dismalest grin round his fat double chin ; 
 
 An' he tucked up his coat-tails an' backed to the fire, 
 
 An' he looked at the queen half in pity, half ire ; 
 
 An' she rocked in her chair, an' she tapped wid her toes 
 
 On the carpet of velvet that blushed like a rose, 
 
 An' she didn't seem plaised with the double-chinned man, 
 
 But he talked quite familiar, and thus his words ran : 
 
 " Good-day, my Queen Vic. Have you suffered a thrick ? 
 For you're lookin' by no means good-naychured or slick."* 
 
Charles Graham, Halpine. 145 
 
 " Och ! indeed an' I'm sick, an' I can't ate a pick, 
 An' I'm perishin' quick ; my legs isn't as thick 
 As your highly respectable goold-headed stick." 
 
 " No, nor more nor a half not a sign of a calf?" 
 An' I knew by his laugh he was tippin' her chaff 
 (For she's fat as a puncheon : an' dinner, an' luncheon, 
 An' breakfasht, an' supper, it takes beef to stop her, 
 An' plenty of that gravied, spicy, and fat ; 
 An' rich wine and portlier' must flow at her ordher 
 I'm tellin' no lies, sir, 'tis the doctors advise her). 
 
 " Now tell me what's wrong," sez he ; 
 " Don't keep me long," sez he, 
 " For I'm dhry, an' I think 
 That I'd much like a dhrink." 
 
 " Take your time, my ould brick," sez she ; 
 
 "Don't be so quick," sez she, 
 
 " An' I'll make a clane breast, for my throubles is thick," sez she ; 
 "I ordhered the pick of my sojers to lick, 
 Bate, wallop, an' kick that ould thievin' rogue Nick ; 
 I thought he'd cut his stick whin he heard the first click 
 Of my bombs, an' my rifles, an' other such thrifles ; 
 But he didn't do it, an' I'm like to rue it, 
 An' God knows at all how I'll^ver get through it." 
 
 " Och ! conshume the ould rogue, wid his Cossacky brogue ; 
 Him an' Prussia'll collogue, as wid kings 'tis the vogue, 
 An' the Austriches too they'll be into the stew, 
 An' ferment in the brew ; an', 'tis every way thrue, 
 My lady, your queenship, that things does look blue, 
 An' no wondher you feel just as bad as you do." 
 
 "Och! that ain't the worst of it 
 
 Only the first of it. 
 Come, I'll tell all, or I fear I shall burst of it. 
 
 There's wan Lewy Nap 
 
 He's a hang-gallows chap, 
 
 An' the likes of him, rightly, should take off his cap 
 To the likes of meself ; but that's not like to hap, 
 For he cribbed at a throne, an' has made it his own, 
 An' has gathered an' keeps at a place called Boolone 
 (From whence they can see Dover Lights an' Folkstone) 
 An army of men that are just wan to ten 
 (I mane ten to wan but my senses is gone) 
 Of the whole of my force cannon, footmen, an' horse ; 
 An' that ould Aberdeen he's a dirty spalpeen 
 But keep (an' she winked) what I tell you between 
 Yourself and the bedpost you know what I mean. 
 
 10 G 
 
146 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Well, he came in wan day," sez she, 
 
 " Wrigglin' his way," sez she, 
 ' ' An' I knew by his mug that he meant no child's play, " sez she. 
 
 " Sez he, ' Mrs. Vic,' sez he, 
 
 ' Dhress yourself quick,' sez he ; 
 
 ' I've asked Lewy over, wid his wife " fammy cover," 
 As at Paris we say an' they'll soon be at Dover. 
 
 They're now on their way, 
 
 So look afther the tay, 
 
 For you know we must make a most sumpshis display. 
 Get some nice oysther stews, bully-beef and ragoos, 
 Wid a bushel of frogs for the d d parley voos ! 
 They're fond of what's nice must I bid you go twice ?' 
 An' his thin fingers clutched themselves up like a vice. 
 
 ' Conshumin' the bit,' sez I, 
 
 'At the table I'll sit,' sez I, 
 
 ' Wid the beggar-born chap 
 
 That they call Lewy Nap ; 
 If he come, he must dine at the scullery tap. 
 
 But who axed him to come ?' sez I ; 
 
 ' Why, are you dumb ?' sez I. 
 
 ' Do you know, my ouldbuck, that you're undher my thumb ?' sez I. 
 ' Your majesty why,' sez he, ' he's your ally,' sez he ; 
 ' Besides, though to get them away I did thry,' sez he, 
 ' In the camp at Boolone, in that wan camp alone 
 Which looks so convayniently over Eolkstone 
 He has ten times ten thousand of French flesh an' bone ; 
 An' the French flesh an' bone is all weaponed and ready, 
 Its thrainin' is good,' an' its practice is steady*, 
 An' London is richer, an' not half so far, 
 As that murdherin' Cronstadt that's owned by the Czar.' 
 
 ' My ally he is not, ' sez I, 
 
 For my blood it was hot ; sez I 
 ' An' as for Eugenie,' sez I, 'is she fit to be seen,' sez I. 
 ' Wid a regular queen ?' sez I ' it's meself I mean,' sez I. 
 Then he flew in a rage, an' he made me engage 
 To take all soorts of thrubble for the parley-voo couple ; 
 An' whin Lewy is come, we must bate the big dhrum, 
 An' play thrumpet an' fife in an emulous sthrife, 
 To do honfir to mounseer an' his thrallop of a wife." 
 
 " Then how goes the fightin' ?" sez he ; 
 
 " Have you done the inditin'," sez he, 
 "Of thim notes that took nine men a month in the writin'?" sez he. 
 
 "Have thim ould diplomats," sez he, 
 
 " That's as cunnin' as cats," sez he, 
 " Scared the Bear of the North wid their parchment flats ?" sez he. 
 
diaries Graham Halpine. 147 
 
 ' ' Och ! good luck to their souls, wid their protocoals ! 
 Shure their rigmaroles were so full o' holes 
 That the rats and the bats slipped in it an' out, 
 An' the Austriches echoed the Prussians' shout, 
 An' it gives me the gout to think what they're about ; 
 For, to my eyes, its every where jumble and rout. 
 They're all tellin' lies, throwin' dust in my eyes, 
 An' the man that lies deepest 'tis him that is wise. " 
 
 " What started the war ? What are you fightin' for 
 
 Wid your highly respectable cousin the Czar ? 
 
 Do your sympathies lurk wid the infidel Turk ? 
 
 An' why, wid ould Nick, don't you make it short work ? 
 
 Shure each school-boy repeats that Britannia, she beats 
 
 All creashin to smash wid her sojers and fleets ?" 
 
 " Nabocklish ! No !" sez she ; " I wanst thought so," sez she ; 
 " The historians blow," sez she ; " but it ain't no go !" sez she, 
 "As I feel very keenly, an' much to my woe," sez she. 
 " I sent Charley Napier, who knows how to steer 
 First rate, as I hear, an' he wint very near 
 To the Cronstadt pier ; but he thought it looked queer, 
 An' he cum back here wid a flay in his ear. 
 An' he swears it was all the Reform Club beer 
 That muddled his head whin he solemnly said 
 That he'd pull the Czar's lug in St. Petersburg, 
 Or be off to- hell 
 
 In a three weeks' time. 
 An', indeed, 'twould be well 
 
 If he'd make the fact chime 
 
 Wid his plighted promise. A good riddance from us ! 
 Thin there's ould Dundas. " sez she ; " to my thinkin' an ass, " sez she ; 
 " Not worth his grass," sez she ; " but let that pass," sez she. 
 " Shure he talked like a Nelson, or some other red-hell-son, 
 Of tundher and blood," sez she, "whin he swore that he could," sez 
 she, 
 
 * ' Take some jaw-breakin' town, " sez she, ' 
 
 "I could never get down," sez she. 
 
 " It was built by a basthard, I think, 
 
 An' called afther the dasthard, I think ; 
 
 It ends wid a ' pol,' " sez she, 
 
 "An' is girt wid a wall," sez she ; 
 An' up to this time we're not shure of its fall," sez she ; 
 " So I sent Lord Raglan, wid the juke for his flagman 
 Not the ' Iron Juke,' " sez she, " wid a nose like a hook," sez she, 
 " Whose ould brazen cloak an' whose murdherin' look," sez she, 
 "Upon Hyde Park corner, is a caution and warner 
 To any dead nigger not to swell any bigger 
 
148 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Than his breeches will hould,"sez she, "lest he burst and get cowld, 
 
 sez she, 
 
 "As ould Boney did do at the famed Watherloo," sez she. 
 " Arrah ! what 'ud he say, could he only look through 
 From, the high place or low place he's now gone unto, 
 An' find us .allied to the young Parleyvoo ? 
 It was Cambridge's juke for the scrimmage I took ; 
 An' now here's a saycrit but swear on the book 
 That you'll never divulge it by hook or by crook 
 For you'd ruin me sthraight, an' my throne 'ud be shook. 
 
 " Shure to fear I began 
 That they'd ax my ould man 
 He's field-marshal, they say," sez she, 
 "An' I know he's dhrawn pay," sez she, 
 " This many a day," sez she. 
 
 "An' he made a new hat from the skin of a cat, 
 
 An' I've heerd, an', indeed, even Punch owns to that, 
 
 That the hat bids defiance to milithary science 
 
 To pass or to peer it, or even come near it, 
 
 In the way of a shed," sez she, "for a sojer's head," sez she ; 
 *' But he's tendher an' weakly," sez she, 
 "An 5 of late somewhat sickly," sea she, 
 " Wid a bad rheumatiz," sez she, 
 " In that sword-arm of his," sez she. 
 
 " He tuk ill the first night that we heerd of the fight ; 
 
 An', since Inkermann," sez she, " no mortal can," sez she, 
 
 "Describe what he feels from his head to his heels ; 
 
 He's in a cold sweat till it makes his sheets wet, 
 
 An' he's shiv'rin an' shakin', and his bones they are achin', 
 
 An' he's thremblin' an' sore to his very heart's core, 
 
 An' he's worn out intirely, an' worried what's more. 
 He's a soldier thrue," sez she, 
 "An' at Chopham Review," sez she, 
 "I seen him to do," sez she, 
 ' " Things to make you look blue," sez she. 
 "An' he's ravin* quite, by day and by night, 
 To be into the fight, as is proper an' right ; 
 An' he swears that he'd kill," sez she 
 
 "If it worn't for the accident that he happens to be ill," sez she 
 
 "Ould Mentschikoff an' the Prince Pop-em-off, 
 
 Liprandi, an' Luders, an' Count Orloff ; 
 
 But he says he can not think of it until he cures his cough. 
 
 Och ! his pains is cruel ; he's as wake as wather gruel ; 
 
 An' should any wan hint in speeches or print 
 
 That the man who does quartherly dhraw," sez she, 
 "In accordions wid milithary law," sez she, * 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 149 
 
 "The highest pay 
 
 Should take part in the fray, 
 
 Och ! he'd faint away 
 
 From the blessed light of day ! 
 Me poor Albert 'ud fall, rowled up in a ball, 
 His bowels 'ud turn into wather an' gall 
 An' I know widows' caps don't become me at all." 
 
 "Well, now, Mrs. Vic" 
 
 An' his eye had a thrick 
 As cunnin' an' knowin' as a cat's that is goin', 
 Whin the cook's asleep, wid the softest creep, 
 To lick fresh butther " if you let me, I'll utther 
 Some good advice," sez he, " an' think over it twice,"^ez he. 
 
 "Go an' make your ould man," sez he, 
 
 "Just as soon as he can," sez he, 
 
 " Cure the rheumatiz," sez he, 
 
 "In that sword-arm of his," sez he, 
 
 " Or he'd betther resign," sez he, 
 
 " His uniform fine," sez he, 
 
 "An' fall out o' the line," sez he. 
 
 "Och ! but, thin, the pay ?" sez she, 
 "It 'ud go asthray," sez she, 
 "An' that's not at all afther Albert's way," sez she. 
 
 " Resign that too," sez he, 
 
 " For, betune me an' you," sez he, 
 
 " Whin the people see," sez he, 
 
 " (Betune you an' me)," sez he, 
 "Their gallant field-marshal to rheumatiz partial 
 Whin colors are flyin', an' thousands are dyin' 
 For a shillin' a day round Sevastopol's Bay, 
 They'll begin to compare the sick gentleman's pay 
 Wid the throoper's who dashed through the thick of the fray, 
 Where bullets were whizzing an' sabres did play 
 On casque an' cuirass, an' the min fell like grass, 
 While the field-marshal Balaam-like sat on his ass, 
 An' prayed for the foes he was bound to oppose 
 From the top of his head to the root of his toes. 
 Let him give up his place wid whatever of grace 
 Can be possibly lint to so dirty a case, 
 Or the very ould wimin will spit in his face, 
 An' the childher, God bless 'em ! throw dirt at his grace. 
 Inniskiljing's an' Grays, Irish Lancers and Bays 
 Whatever poor wreck of them!s left in these days 
 The men, not of rank, who dhrove spurs in the flank 
 Of their chargers, an' dashed up the cannon-plowed bank, 
 While the grape an' cross-fire mowed them down rank by rank 
 
150 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Never haltin', though reelin', but formin' and wheelin' 
 
 Again an' again, wid diminishin' min, 
 
 While the pulks of the Cossackry crowded the glin. 
 
 No end to their labors no rest for their sabres 
 
 Blood-spatthered, they could not be known by their neighbors. 
 
 An' still by sheer steel, strength of hand, heart, an' heel, 
 
 Though shatthered, disordhered, invincible still, 
 
 Through a long lane of fire through a laygion of foes 
 
 Grimly forced to retire the Light Cavalry goes. 
 
 They've. left an' what thin? just three fourths of their min 
 
 To fat the next harvest in Inkermann's glin ; 
 
 But the colors they bore, though bedabbled with gore, 
 
 Still wave o'er the remnant returnin' once more. 
 
 What a sight there will be, should they ever come back, 
 
 An' the field-marshalpartial to a timely attack 
 
 Of the rheumatic fayver should fall in their thrack!" 
 
 What more there was said, 
 
 Shure, no more than the dead 
 Do I know, for I chanced to lane forward my head, 
 An' the queen gave a scream an' the man gave a start, 
 An' I judged it was best for meself to depart. 
 
 Deputy Glazier's Room, Buckin'ham Palice,) 
 London, December 4, 1854. j 
 
 WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 
 
 Oh, ladies, will you hear a truth, 
 
 Of late too seldom told to you, 
 Nor deem he begs it of your ruth 
 
 The writer over-bold to you ; 
 For, by the pulses of his youth, 
 
 He never yet was cold to you, 
 And therefore 'tis in sober sooth 
 
 That he would now unfold to you 
 What may apart from rhythmic flights- 
 Be called the sum of "Woman's Rights. 
 
 For you the calm sequestered bowers, 
 
 For us to kneel and sue to you ; 
 Your feet upon the path of flowers 
 
 We struggle still to strew to you ; 
 For you to drop the healing showers 
 
 Of kindness gentle dew to you 
 On failing health and wasted powers 
 
 The task is nothing new to you 
 
Charles Graham Ilalpine. 151 
 
 *' Oh, these, indeed" 'tis Love indites 
 'These are unquestioned Woman's Rights." 
 
 All hail ! we cry, the stormiest hours, 
 
 If thus a joy we woo to you ; 
 For us, of life's drugged bowl, the sours, 
 
 If so the sweets ensue to you. 
 When many a heavy hap was ours, 
 
 Fond retrospection flew to you ; 
 Good husbands and unstinted dowers, 
 
 And smiling babes accrue to you ; 
 And, let me ask, what maiden slights 
 These latter-mentioned "Woman's Rights?" 
 
 The faithfulness, the grace, the high, 
 
 Pure thoughts of life we gain by you ; 
 The vision of a softer eye, 
 
 The finer touch attain by you ; 
 Weak hopes that unto death are nigh 
 
 Out-leaning, we sustain by you; 
 And when misfortune sweeps the sky, 
 
 Our anchored hearts remain by you. 
 Long days of toil and feverish nights 
 W T ould ill repay these " Woman's Rights." 
 
 Why quit the calm and holy hearth 
 
 That is heaven's antepast to us, 
 To face the sterner scenes of earth, 
 
 The troubles that are cast to us ? 
 Why change your soul's unsullied mirth 
 
 For woes that rush so fast to us, 
 That we would daily curse our birth 
 
 Were not your sphere at last to us 
 That sphere of home, which well requites 
 The loss of these unsexing rights. 
 
 AN OLFACTORY ODE IN PRAISE OF NEW YORK 
 CLEANLINESS. 
 
 J5Y OTTR POET WITH A COLD IN HIS HEAP. 
 
 Thank heaven ! the crisis, 
 
 The terror is past, 
 And the sense they call smelling 
 
 Hath perished at last ; 
 And the anguish of smelling 
 
 Is over at last. 
 
152 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Sadly I know 
 
 Of one sense I'm forlorn, 
 But with pleasure and profit 
 
 The loss may be borne ; 
 With profit and pleasure 
 
 That loss may be borne. 
 
 And I walk so composedly 
 Now through the street, 
 
 That any beholder 
 Might fancy my feet 
 
 Were treading on roses 
 All fragrant and sweet. 
 
 The stifling and choking, 
 The odors and stenches, 
 
 Are quieted now ; 
 
 The olfactory wrenches, 
 
 That maddened my brow, 
 
 Are gone. Ah ! those horrible, 
 Horrible stenches ! 
 
 The sickness the nausea 
 
 The pitiless pain, 
 Have ceased with the smelling 
 
 That maddened my brain ; 
 With the smell of the garbage 
 
 That rose to my brain. 
 
 And, oh ! of all odors, 
 
 That odor the worst 
 The odor commingled 
 
 Of sauerkraut accursed ; 
 The odors of fish 
 
 And of sauerkraut accursed 
 That torture no more 
 In my nostril is nursed. 
 
 And, ah ! let it never 
 
 Be foolishly said 
 That I am regretting 
 
 The cold in my head ; 
 The cold whence this numbness 
 
 Of smelling is bred. 
 For now I walk happily, 
 
 Fearless of any 
 Diversified odors 
 
 Although there are many ; 
 For my nostril is choked, 
 
 And I care not for any. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 153 
 
 And happy am I with 
 
 A cold in my head ! 
 The dank exhalation 
 
 From garbage-heaps bred, 
 The sewerage and filth 
 
 Upon which hogs are fed, 
 Never trouble me, bless'd 
 
 With a cold in my head. 
 
 A PUNGENT CONSIDERATION OF THE VARIOUS 
 TRADES AND CALLINGS. 
 
 Of all the trades that men may call 
 
 Unpleasant and offensive, 
 The editor's is worst of all, 
 
 For he is ever pen-sive ; 
 His leaders lead to nothing high, 
 
 His columns are unstable, 
 And though the printers make him pie, 
 
 It does not suit his table. 
 
 The carpenter his course is plane, 
 
 His bit is always near him ; 
 He augers every hour of gain, 
 
 He chisels and none jeer him ; 
 He shaves, yet is not close, they say ; 
 
 The public pay his board, sir ; 
 Full of wise saws, he bores away, 
 
 And so he swells his hoard, sir. 
 
 St. Crispin's son the man of shoes, 
 
 Has awl things at control, sir ; 
 He waxes wealthy in his views, 
 
 But ne'er neglects his sole, sir ; 
 His is, indeed, a heeling trade ; 
 
 And when he comes to casting 
 The toe-tal profits he has made, 
 
 We finft his ends are lasting. 
 
 The tailor, too, gives fits to all, 
 
 Yet never gets a basting ; 
 His cabbages, however small, 
 
 Are most delicious tasting ; 
 His goose is heated happy prig ! 
 
 Unstinted in his measure ; 
 He always plays at thimble-rig, 
 
 And seams a man of pleasure. 
 
 G 2 
 
154 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The farmer reaps a fortune plump, 
 
 Though harrowed, far from woe, sir ; 
 His spade forever proves a trump, 
 
 His book is l've-an-hoe, sir ; 
 However corned, he does not slip ; 
 
 Though husky, never hoarse, sir ; 
 And in a plowshare partnership 
 
 He gets his share, of course, sir. 
 
 The sailor on the giddy mast 
 
 Comparatively master 
 Has many a bulwark round him cast 
 
 To wave away disaster ; 
 Even shrouds to him are full of life, 
 
 His mainstay still is o'er him, 
 A gallant and a top-gallant crew 
 
 Of beaux esprits before him. 
 
 The sturdy Irish laborer picks 
 
 And climbs to fame 'tis funny ! 
 He deals with none but regular bricks, 
 
 And so he pockets money ; 
 One friend sticks to him (mortar 'tis) = 
 
 In hodden gray, unbaffled, 
 He leaves below an honest name 
 
 When he ascends the scaffold. 
 
 The printer, though his case be hard, 
 
 Yet sticks not at his hap, sir ; 
 'Tis his to canonize the bard, 
 
 And trim a Roman Cap, sir. 
 Some go two-forty what of that ? 
 
 He goes it by the thousand ; 
 A man of form, and fond of fat, 
 
 He loves the song I now send. 
 
 The engine-driver, if we track 
 
 His outward semblance deeper, 
 Has got some very tender traits 
 
 He ne'er disturbs the sleeper * 
 And when you switch him as he goes, 
 
 He whistles all the louder ; 
 And should you brake him on the wheel, 
 
 It only makes him prouder. 
 
 I launched this skiff of rhymes upon 
 The trade-winds of the Muses, 
 
 Through pungent seas they've borne it on, 
 The boat no rudder uses ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 155 
 
 So masticate its meaning once, 
 And judge not sternly of it 
 You'll find a freight of little puns, 
 And very little profit. 
 
 THE FERRY-BOAT. 
 
 Let them rave of the bowers that are beaming with roses, 
 
 Where young lovers whisper the moonlight away, 
 But the scene that I fix for my courtship discloses 
 
 Attractions, though public, more brilliant and gay. 
 What care I for walks in the leaf-shaded alleys, 
 For kisses in hay-fields, and sighs on the hill; 
 For love is but love in the streets or the valleys, 
 And all that it needs is an intimate will. 
 
 Oh, give me a merry short trip on the ferry, 
 With I and my fair in a corner ensconced ; 
 'Mid the hustling and bustling, the jostling and tussli'ng, 
 We sit unobserved, in our own dreams entranced. 
 
 It is exquisite, very, that trip on the ferry 
 
 The roar of the wheels in a fine double bass 
 To the tenor of whispers from dear rosy lispers, 
 
 With love in their hearts, but reproof on each face. 
 What countless sensations ! What men from all nations 
 
 Are crowded and jammed in the one little boat ! 
 There are German and Spanish, Dutch, Irish, and Danish 
 Our ark is a species of Babel afloat. 
 
 But still it is merry, that trip on the ferry, 
 
 With I and my fair in a corner ensconced ; 
 'Mid the crowd of stock-brokers and Joe Miller jokers, 
 We sit unobserved, in our own dreams entranced. 
 
 The chains rattle loudly, the steam whistles proudly, 
 
 The wheels beat the water, the furnaces flame ; 
 Some laggards, belated, are gibed at and rated, 
 
 While some make a jump, but fall short of their aim , 
 And there on the ferry, like straws in iced sherry, 
 They stick half way up, calling fiercely for aid ; 
 While the lucky ones, laughing, and sneering, and chaffing, 
 Are straight to New York from the Fulton. conveyed. 
 'Tis dangerous, very, that jump for the ferry, 
 
 But what's it to us in our corner ensconced ; 
 If a fool likes to do it, why then let him rue it 
 We sit unobserved, in our own dreams entranced. 
 
156 The Poetical Works of 
 
 What is life but a ferry a dismal one, very 
 
 it starts from the cradle, its goal is the grave ; 
 And yet we can make it, if rightly we take it, 
 
 A sweet, pleasant trip o'er a sun-gilded wave. 
 With a partner to cheer us, a friend sitting near us, 
 
 With Truth for our pilot and Fame for our fire, 
 We can make it as pleasant as this is at present, 
 
 And what more delightful could mortal desire ? 
 A transient, but merry trip over the ferry 
 
 r- r u e -J y that h gives from its bri efness enhanced 
 With the hustling and bustling, the jostling and tussling, 
 W e 11 sit unobserved, in our own dreams entranced 
 
 COMPOSITION DUETT. 
 
 ROMEO (the romantic man). 
 In my dreams beneath a willow, 
 I heard thee cry " Depart !" 
 
 FUBBS (the matter-of-fact individual). 
 "And an ice-cream of Vanilla 
 Was not colder than thy heart. " 
 
 ROMEO. 
 
 Ah ! Love's fever, how imperious 
 How the passionate pain exalts ! 
 
 FUBBS. 
 
 ' ' Fever, really ! Are you serious ? 
 Try a dose of Epsom salts. " 
 
 ROMEO. 
 
 Laura Liddowe ! Laura Liddowe ! 
 Thou hast ta'en thy lover's life. 
 
 FUBBS (indignantly). 
 " Would you make the maid a widow 
 Who has never been a wife ?" 
 
 ROMEO. 
 
 When I'm dead, I pray thee gather 
 Flowers to deck my lowly bed 
 
 FUBBS. 
 
 " Pooh ! I say the girl would rather 
 One live beau than fifty dead." 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 157 
 
 Laura Liddowe, might a flowery 
 Band our hearts together bind 
 
 FUBBS (urgently). 
 
 ' ' Say you'll fix a handsome dowry, 
 And I guarantee her kind." 
 
 Shine, ye stars ah ! shine above her ; 
 Bear my passions in your beams 
 
 FUBBS (indignantly}^ 
 " Tell her plumply that you love her, 
 And have done with idle dreams. " 
 
 Wilt thou have me ? Say, my fairest 
 Queen ; for thus my fancy dubbs 
 
 FUBBS (gloriously). 
 " I would simply say, ' My dearest, 
 Will you be my Mrs. Fubbs ?' " 
 
 LE PRINTEMPS. 
 
 FBOM THE FRENCH OF DESANGIEB. 
 
 Youths and maidens, come, 
 The skies are bright above, 
 
 Blow the fife and strike the drum 
 Let us sing of love. 
 
 The thick leaves overhead 
 Will fling a shadow deep 
 
 Over the ferny bed 
 
 On which we sit or sleep. 
 
 Thanks to their pulses high, 
 
 And the high sun, bright as gold, 
 
 Phillis becomes less shy 
 
 As Colin becomes more bold. 
 
 Agnes would believe 
 
 That love's delicious glow 
 
 Her breast will never heave 
 When violets cease to blow. 
 
158 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Spurning the restraint 
 
 Imposed by fashion's goddess, 
 Hearts their bondage break, N 
 
 Heaving breasts the bodice. 
 
 Season, sweetly strung, 
 
 How thy genial charm 
 Makes the mother young, 
 
 And makes the daughter warm. 
 
 Now the dotard feels 
 
 A thrill of new desire, 
 O'er the husband steals 
 
 The lover's former fire. 
 
 The river, murmuring on, 
 
 The lambs that frisk and fling, 
 
 The sky, whose clouds are gone 
 All nature seems to sing. 
 
 Every hour that rolls 
 
 Leads us near the time 
 When to our wintry souls 
 
 The year will have no prime. 
 
 Therefore, youths and maidens, come, 
 While the skies are bright above 
 Bright, and warm, and vast above 
 
 Blow the fife and strike the drum, 
 And let us sing of love. 
 
 MY SOUTHWARD WINGING ORIOLE. 
 
 The fading sunset's golden light 
 Was glancing over town and river, 
 
 When flashed a vision on my sight, 
 One moment seen, yet fixed forever. 
 
 On memory's retina still glows 
 
 That picture, all my heart entrancing ; 
 
 The rosy mouth the brow of snow, 
 
 The blue eyes in sweet dalliance dancing. 
 
 The dimples in her soft chin set, 
 
 Her maiden smile serene and peaceful, 
 
 And those brown locks ah ! never yet 
 Were tendrils of the vine more graceful. 
 
Cliarles Graham Halpine. 159 
 
 She came in robes of Quaker hue, 
 
 Such livery as the fawns inherit ; 
 But then her bonnet's dazzling blue 
 
 Gave hint of her celestial spirit. 
 
 " Great heavens !" I cried; " sweet sunny South, 
 Your praise all poets well may rhyme it, 
 
 If such bright flowers as yonder mouth 
 Are native to this glowing climate ? 
 
 ' ' But no ; this fresh and joyous face, 
 This eye, from which gay fancy sallies, 
 
 This artless and yet winning grace 
 All speak of Northern hills and valleys. 
 
 ' ' The languid beauties hereaway, 
 
 Who half the year for cool air stifle, 
 Their features lack the subtle play 
 ' Which leaves this face without a rival. " 
 
 And thus I thought, and thus I dreamed, 
 Your life in various colors painting ; 
 
 Now Hope's blest ray upon me beamed, 
 Now left me in the darkness fainting. 
 
 Ah ! well, these dreams are idle all 
 Mere shadows and we chase them blindly ; 
 
 But yet my pulses rise or fall 
 Just as I find you cross or kindly. 
 
 And still on memory's retina glows 
 
 Thy picture, heart and brain entrancing ; 
 
 The rosy mouth the brow-t)f snow, 
 
 And those small feet just made for dancing. 
 
 Ne'er may the future bring regret 
 
 For these bright dreams which now caress me, 
 But, long in golden circle set, 
 
 May this fair image smile to bless me. 
 
 BARON RENFREW'S BALL. 29 
 
 'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball, 
 A pageant or fete, or what you may call 
 
 A brilliant coruscation, 
 Where ladies and knights of noble worth 
 Enchanted a prince of royal birth 
 
 By a royal demonstration. 
 
160 ' The Poetical Works of 
 
 Like queens arrayed in their regal guise, 
 They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes, 
 
 Fair ladies of rank and station, * 
 Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled. 
 In a tableaux style, which the artists called 
 
 A floor-all decoration. 
 
 At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid, 
 In the brightest bouquet ever made, 
 
 For a prince's choice to falter 
 Perplexed to find, where all were rare, 
 Which was the fairest of the fair 
 
 To cull for a queenly altar. 
 
 But soon the floor was set aright, 
 And Peter Cooper's face grew bright, 
 
 When, like the swell of an organ, 
 All hearts beat time to the first quadrille, 
 And the prince confessed to a joyous thrill 
 
 As he danced with Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 Then came the waltz the Prince's Own 
 And every bar and brilliant tone 
 
 Had music's sweetest grace on ; 
 But the prince himself ne'er felt its charm 
 Till he slightly clasped, with circling arm, 
 
 That lovely girl, Miss Mason. 
 
 But ah ! the work went bravely on, 
 And meek-eyed Peace a trophy won 
 
 By the magic art of the dancers ; 
 For the daring prince's next exploit 
 Was to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt, 
 
 And overcome the Lancers. 
 
 Besides these three, he deigned to yield 
 His hand to Mrs. M. B. Field, 
 
 Miss Jay, and Miss Van Buren ; 
 Miss Russell, too, was given a place 
 All beauties famous for their grace 
 
 From Texas to Lake Huron. 
 
 With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced," 
 With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced, 
 
 With Mrs. Belmont capered ; 
 With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig, 
 He tripped a sort of royal jig, 
 
 And next Miss Butler favored. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 161 
 
 And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears, 
 By the brilliant light of the chandeliers, 
 
 Did they gayly quaff and revel ; 
 Well pleased to charm a royal prince 
 The only one from old England since 
 
 George Washington was a rehel. 
 
 And so the fleeting hours went by, 
 
 And watches stopped lest Time should fly 
 
 Or that they winding wanted ; 
 Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled, 
 And many a fair one was beguiled 
 
 As the prince danced on, undaunted. 
 
 'Tis now a dream the prince's ball, 
 Its vanished glories, one and all, 
 
 The scenes of the fairy tales ; 
 For Cinderella herself was there, 
 And Barnum keeps for trial fair 
 The beautiful slipper deposited there 
 
 By his highness the Prince of Wales. 
 
 THE CRUSADER SONG. 
 
 FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
 
 Before the holy image 
 
 I thrice have bent to-night, 
 And, having paid my orisons, 
 
 Now rush to join the fight ; 
 The fight of faith and fatherland, 
 
 For this I rush afar 
 My life and lance for Russia, 
 
 My fealty to the Czar. 
 
 My sword the only heritage 
 
 My valiant fathers left, 
 Hath bit the flesh o; Sweden, 
 
 And many a Tartar cleft. 
 Too long in shameful idleness 
 
 The rusting blade hath lain, 
 And now it longs for blood to cleanse 
 
 The dull, corroding stain. 
 
 From the summit of the Balkan 
 Our brethren stretch their hands ; 
 
 They pray to us to rescue them 
 
 Their prayers become commands. 
 11 
 
The Poetical Works of 
 
 We feel for them, we'll fight for them, 
 For God and us tjiey bleed ; 
 
 The weaponed strength of Russia goes 
 To strike for Russia's creed. 
 
 The memories of our Church are twinecl 
 
 Round Kiew's white-bastion ed crest, 
 The loveliest and the brightest town 
 
 That ever Turk oppressed. 
 Those memories are consecrate, 
 
 And shadow forth the doom 
 Which gathers strength in silence, 
 
 And will quickly burst in gloom. 
 
 The cross of pain, the spear of might, 
 
 On these our strength we cast ; 
 The hand of God protected both 
 
 In ages long o'erpast ; 
 Think you our hearts so soon forget 
 
 The sires for whom we mourn ? 
 Their sons shall bear the flag of faith 
 
 As it by them was borne. 
 
 We go to break the Moslem's pride, 
 
 To crush his creed accursed ; 
 Then welcome be the Holy War, 
 
 And let its tempest burst. 
 Be this our victor battle-cry 
 
 As east and south we press 
 "The God that blesses Russia, 
 
 And the Czar the Russians bless !" 
 
 SONG: PHILANTHROPIC AND PIRATICAL. 
 
 We've borne too Ipng the idiot wrong of Cuba's tyrant masters, 
 And tamely ta'en from shattered Spain dishonors and disasters. 
 The camel's back at length will crack nor are we like dumb cattle : 
 Our patient strength has failed at length peace only comes by battle. 
 Ring out the bells ! our banner SAvells, in Freedom's breezes blowing ; 
 To arms and up ! this bitter cup is filled to overflowing. 
 
 Nor pray nor speak, but let us seek redress in tones of thunder ; 
 They slew our brave who went to save the land they rob and plunder. 
 Around the Moro's grim fa$ade the soul of Lopez wanders, 
 And Crittenden a glorious shade beside him walks and ponders. 
 O God of Peace! that such as these like dogs should be garroted 
 Choked out of life by Spanish beasts fierce, bloody, and besotted. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 163 
 
 To arms and up ! we brim the cup to vengeance and to glory ! 
 By Western zeal let "Old Castile" be taught a different story ; 
 Let Spanish Dons now learn for once how great the power they've 
 
 slighted ; 
 By guns and swords, not pens and words, must Cuba's wrongs be 
 
 righted. 
 They've chained our men, they've seized our ships, their yoke around 
 
 us twining ; 
 Our "stars" are in a long eclipse we'll bring them forth more shining. 
 
 What pulsing starts from youthful hearts to hear the tocsin pealing ! 
 Their glittering eyes, their fierce replies, betray the inward feeling 
 The hidden thirst of vengeance, nursed through years of mute re 
 straining. 
 
 Hurra ! that torrent forth has burst, no more in meek" complaining. 
 The "One Lone Star" shall not be far from our immortal cluster ; 
 The Southern Queen shall soon be seen arrayed in Western lustre. 
 
 Then, brethren, up ! one parting cup to Washington and Jackson ; 
 Our sprouting tree of liberty no Spaniard lays an axe on. 
 By Freedom's God ! our lavish blood #hall water it to blossom ; 
 No foul garrote shall press our throat, though balls may pierce our 
 
 bosom. 
 
 King out the bells ! our banner swells, in Freedom's breezes blowing ; 
 To arms and up ! this bitter cup is filled to overflowing. 
 
 A WALL STREET USURER ON RUSTIC BLISS. 
 
 SECOND OI)E FIFTH BOOK OF HOEACE. 
 
 "Beatus ille qui procul negotiis." 
 
 He is bless'd who, far from city toil, 
 
 As those who lived in elder time, 
 Furrows his own paternal soil, 
 
 Unstained of all usurious crime. 
 The trumpet's voice he will not heed, 
 
 Nor billows raging fierce and loud ; 
 He shuns the bar where suitors plead, 
 
 He shuns the portals of the proud. 
 
 Around the poplar's lofty tops 
 
 He twines the creepers of the vine, 
 Or with his pruning sickle lops 
 
 The boughs that yield no generous wine ; 
 Or in the lonely valley sees 
 
 His herds of cattle wandering far, 
 Or stores the honey of his bees 
 
 In chestnut bowl and crystal jar. 
 
164 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Or shears his sheep, or, in the hours 
 
 When her bright brow old Autumn rears, 
 Adorned with mellow fruits and flowers, 
 
 How gladly will he pluck the pears, 
 And the rich, gushing grape, that vies 
 
 With purple, as a gift and charm 
 To those benignant deities 
 
 Who guard from blight his little farm. 
 
 He sleeps beneath some aged oak, 
 
 Or in the tangled meadow lies, 
 While waters leap from rock to rock, 
 
 And woodland song-birds fill the skies, 
 And fountains flow with murmuring streams, 
 
 "Inviting sleep and blissful dreams. 
 
 But when old Winter, grim and hoar, 
 
 With rain and snow o'erfloods the soil, 
 With dogs he hunts the savage boar 
 
 Into his interwoven toil ; 
 The hungry thrush may vainly seek 
 
 To shun his net ; fb.e timorous hare, 
 And the wild crane, whose pinions seek 
 
 A foreign clime, reward his care. 
 
 Amid such tranquil sports as these 
 
 We might forget oh ! blissful rest 
 Those harassing anxieties 
 
 Which love entails on every breast. 
 Children, a wife to tend the house 
 
 (Such as the Sabine mothers give), 
 A sunburnt and industrious spouse 
 
 Even such in old Apulia live 
 Who piles the hallowed hearth on high 
 With blazing fagots, bright and dry, 
 As home her weary husband turns 
 To where the cottage beacon burns. 
 In wicker "sheds she shuts the kine, 
 
 Their milk delicious to the taste, 
 And, drawing forth her finest wine, 
 
 Prepares the unbought and temperate feast. 
 
 Oh ! not the richest feast that e'er 
 
 For king was spread could please me more ; 
 Nor dainty fishes, sweet and rare, 
 
 Nor pheasants brought from India's shore ; 
 Not all the banquet wealth allows 
 
 A keener relish could attain 
 Than olives gathered from the boughs, 
 
 And sorrel growing on the plain, 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 165 
 
 Or mallows food of all the best 
 To keep us free from inward harm ; 
 
 Or the young lamb, with which I feast 
 The guardian god who shields my farm. 
 
 In such a life, how sweet to see 
 
 The well-fed sheep returning home, 
 And weary oxen, droopingly, 
 
 With an inverted ploughshare come, 
 While numerous laborers join their mirth 
 
 Around our happy household hearth. 
 The usurer Alpheus, sick of gain, 
 
 To turn a country farmer bent, 
 Thus sang the pleasures of the plain, 
 
 And vowed to quit his cent per cent ; 
 But Avarice comes the sweet dream flies, 
 And back once more to Rome the veteran usurer 
 
 LETTER FROM JOHN BULL, ESQ., TO JEREMIAH SLY, 
 ESQ., COTTON BROKER, NEW YORK. 
 
 We are fighting for the Turks, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ; 
 We are fighting for the Turks, Jerry Sly ; 
 
 We are fighting for the Turks, 
 
 And bombarding Russian works, 
 But a hidden purpose lurks in our eye, Jerry Sly 
 Yes, a hidden purpose lurks in our eye. 
 
 If the Turks were let alone, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ; 
 
 If the Turks were let alone, Jerry Sly, , 
 
 Where were Franky Joseph's throne ? 
 
 Wouldn't Hungary have her own ? 
 
 And would Poland longer groan in her chains, Jerry Sly ? 
 And would Poland hopeless groan in her chains ? 
 
 Wouldn't Italy be up, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ? 
 Wouldn't Italy be up, Jerry Sly? 
 
 Where would revolution stop ? 
 
 'Tis a hydra-headed crop ; 
 
 Into England it might pop, as you know, Jerry Sly, 
 And the queen would have to hop, as you know. 
 
 For a week or something more, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ; 
 For a week or something more, Jerry Sly, 
 
 We heard the cannon roar 
 
 All along Silistria's shore, 
 
 But no volley did we pour for the Turks, Jerry Sly ? 
 But we hoped that all was o'er with the Turks. 
 
166 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Oh ! we helped the Turks a deal, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ; 
 Aberdeen declares a deal, Jerry Sly ; 
 
 We held back their "headlong zeal," 
 
 Gave the Cossacks time to heal 
 The bites of Turkish steel, as you know, Jerry Sly ; 
 'Tis a dangerous thing is zeal, as you know. 
 
 The Crimea we will take, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly, 
 When the Russ is not awake, Jerry Sly ; 
 
 And the Baltic we will make 
 
 Just a little English lake, 
 
 Where the queen a cruise can take, with her spouse, Jerry Sly 
 (Lord of heaven, some pity take on her spouse!) 
 
 Thus we're fighting for the Turks, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ; 
 To the Turks we give our aid, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ; 
 To the Turks such precious aid, Jerry Sly, 
 
 That their soldiers we delayed, 
 
 Beating back the Russian raid, 
 
 While long protocols we made they're in print Jerry Sly ; 
 No one reads them, I'm afraid, though in print. 
 
 Then we sent them Lord Dundas, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly ; 
 Sent them Admiral Dundas, Jerry Sly, 
 
 Saying, " Let the Russians pass !" 
 
 (He's a hoary, driveling ass, 
 
 Who, unless the sea were glass, wouldn't budge, Jerry Sly.) 
 So Sinope came to pass, as we judge. 
 
 As Sebastopol was strong, Jerry Sly, Jerry Sly, 
 And we hate to fight the strong, Jerry Sly, 
 
 We did with coward wrong 
 
 To unarmed Odessa throng 
 
 By the rules of war 'twas wrong, as is said, Jerry Sly 
 But her courage made her strong : so we fled. 
 
 Thus we're fighting for the Turks, Jerry Sly ; 
 
 We are fighting for the Turks, 
 
 And bombarding Russian works, 
 But a hidden purpose lurks in our eye, Jerry Sly 
 A most sinister purpose lurks in our eye. 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S RITUAL. 
 
 Who'er would desire to write a book 
 In days of such severe morality, 
 
 Let him even upon this precept look : 
 
 That to tell the truth is a plump rascality. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 167 
 
 The world so virtuous now has grown 
 That cant is the only way of wooing it, 
 
 The dog don't object to steal the bone, 
 
 But barks when he's righteously kicked for doing it. 
 
 If to please the crowd you only write, 
 
 Declare that your readers are all seraphim ; 
 That this is the only age of light, 
 
 And that all before with guilt were very dim. 
 Declare that if ever the angels trod 
 
 A sinless earth, they now are treading it ; 
 That your fathers deserved the wrath of God, 
 
 And you wonder he took so long in shedding it ; 
 
 But that, now the world is filled with saints, 
 
 Your strongest praise than their worth is fainter ; 
 The brighter each portrait the artist paints, 
 
 Why, the more the painted applaud the painter. 
 In fact, 'tis the readiest thing on earth 
 
 To win your way by fulsome flattery ; 
 But make of a foible of vice your mirth, 
 
 And its friends indict you for tort and battery. 
 
 Declare that each woman is now as pure 
 
 As the new-fallen snow on the Himalayas ; 
 That never did queen with more regal mien 
 
 Or dignified footstep skim a dais ; 
 Declare that the moon and each starry world 
 
 Grows dim in the blaze of her eyes' full lustre 
 That the tendril vine has more neatly curled 
 
 Since it borrowed the grace of her ringlet's cluster. 
 
 Declare to the men they are brave and just, 
 
 Fulfilling in peace each ordination 
 That they never are plagued with wine or lust, 
 
 Nor find in mammon the least temptation ; 
 Declare that each man who pretends to faith 
 
 Devoutly feels what his tongue professes ; 
 That truth gives her sanction to all he saith. 
 
 And that virtue his every action blesses. 
 
 In short, if you will but tell lies enough, 
 
 Giving each grown babe his toy of coral, 
 You may sell a heap of the baldest stuff 
 
 That ever a parson dubbed as "moral!" 
 To " hold up the mirror" is not your part 
 
 The likeness then would be far too real ; 
 The world from its own foul face would start 
 
 You must give it a rainbow-hued ideal. 
 
168 The Poetical Works of 
 
 THE OLD BACHELOK'S NEW YEAR. 
 
 Oh, the spring hath less of brightness 
 
 Every year, 
 And the snow a ghastlier whiteness 
 
 Every year ; 
 
 Nor do summer blossoms quicken, 
 Nor does autumn fruitage thicken 
 As it did the seasons sicken 
 
 Every year. 
 
 It is growing cold and colder 
 
 Every year, 
 And I feel that I am older 
 
 Every year ; 
 
 And my limbs are less elastic, 
 And my fancy not so plastic 
 Yea, my habits grow monastic 
 
 Every year. 
 
 'Tis becoming bleak and bleaker 
 
 Every year, 
 And my hopes are waxing weaker 
 
 Every year ; 
 
 Care I now for merry dancing, 
 Or for eyes with passion glancing ? 
 Love is less and less entrancing 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Oh, the days that I have squandered 
 
 Every year, 
 And the friendships rudely sundered , 
 
 Every year ; 
 
 Of the ties that might have twined me, 
 Until time to death resigned me, 
 My infirmities remind me 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Sad and sad to look before us 
 
 Every year, 
 With a heavier shadow o'er us 
 
 Every year ; 
 
 To behold each blossom faded, 
 And to know we might have made it 
 An immortal garland, braided 
 
 Kound the year. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 169 
 
 Many a spectral, beckoning finger, 
 
 Year by year, 
 Chides me that so long I linger, \ 
 
 Year by year ; 
 
 Every early comrade sleeping 
 In the church-yard, whither, weeping, 
 I alone unwept am creeping 
 
 Year by year. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 QUEEN VAEIETY A SKETCH FKOM LIFE. 
 
 A summer twilight, soft, serene, 
 
 When led by one, her earliest vassal 
 
 The poet first beheld the queen 
 Of many hearts and Carbon Castle. 
 
 An oval face, the eyes as clear 
 
 As star-gleams on a fountain dashing ; 
 
 The brows where pleasant thoughts appear 
 Forever varied, changing, flashing. 
 
 A wealth of beauty seldom seen, 
 A regal grace of form and gesture ; 
 
 And as might well befit a queen 
 Some silken opulence of vesture. 
 
 A queen by right of power to reign, 
 
 Her sceptre hid in flowers that wreathe it, 
 
 For crown a royalty of brain, 
 
 With a true woman's heart beneath it. 
 
 Eyes black and luminous, searching out 
 The very soul's recondite essence ; 
 
 And ease which sets at ease all doubt, 
 Even of the timid, in her presence. 
 
 Oh, armory of a woman's wit, 
 
 With side-arm smiles from floor to rafter, 
 I've seen a thousand facts submit 
 
 Before her fire of Minie laughter. 
 
 Sweet laughter, silvery as the strain 
 
 Which the lark sings when heavenward going 
 
 Prismatic bubbles of the brain 
 In currents musical outflowing. 
 II 
 
170 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Ah me ! the long, calm summer eve, 
 The dusky twilight closing round us ; 
 
 The porch wherein her words did weave 
 New meshes to the net that bound us. 
 
 The very breezes seemed to move 
 On tiptoe, dallying with her graces ; 
 
 The fountains in the dark alcove 
 
 Shot starward up with listening faces. 
 
 She sings and not the oriole's throat 
 Pours flusher music summer mornings ; 
 
 Each gesture of the hand or foot 
 
 Is instinct with most subtle warnings. ' 
 
 A garland from Titania's bower, 
 
 Where twice the same leaves never enter, 
 
 Save only one unvarying flower 
 The rose of kindness in the centre. 
 
 A crown of jewels or a ring . 
 
 In different lights each moment changing ; 
 A fancy ever on the wing, 
 
 To novel scenes and topics ranging. 
 
 The fairy rooms, the glittering queen, 
 The many splendors scattered round us ; 
 
 The rich good taste which ruled, I ween, 
 Where that sweet summer evening found us. 
 
 The ebony casket of cigars 
 
 On each brown tube a memory lingers ; 
 That. night beneath the watching stars 
 
 No sweeter contrast to white fingers. 
 
 Peace to that casket I have said, 
 
 And peace be with the golden-throttled 
 
 Small flasks in which lay iced and hid 
 The sun-wines they are dust who bottled. 
 
 The echoes floating, fluttering yet, 
 
 From all dear nooks of memory starting ; 
 
 The talisman "We once have met 
 And parted, neither glad for parting :" 
 
 No cloud this halcyon memory screen, 
 .Raze rather all that leads or follows ; 
 
 And let this evening with our queen 
 Be still her faithful vassal's solace. 
 
Charles Graham If alpine. 171 
 
 SECOND BOOK OF HORACE, SIXTEENTH ODE. 
 
 FREELY TRANSLATED BY CHARLES BBOADBENT. 
 
 TO WIDESWAKTH. 
 
 Wideswarth, the man who sails on the wide ocean 
 When a dark tempest has obscured the moon, 
 
 And not a star shines through the fierce commotion 
 Of warring clouds along the horizon strewn 
 
 No ligh.t to guide his vessel will he cease 
 
 To ask of heaven the one great boon of peace ? - 
 
 Thrace prays for peace when her wild lances shiver 
 Amid the shock of battle, and for peace 
 
 The Mede, whose shoulders wear the graceful quiver, 
 Prays to the gods but it is not for these ; 
 
 Not by rich gems the treasure can be bought, 
 
 Gold crowns and purple can affect it not. 
 
 'Tis not in ancient pride or regal treasure 
 To win us rest ; nor can the arm of law 
 
 Eject grim care from the abode of pleasure, 
 Nor bid it from the inmost heart withdraw ; 
 
 Around the gilded roof grief wings its flight, 
 
 Even like an owl amid the noonday light. 
 
 The man has peace who, happy on a little, 
 Sits down contented to his frugal board ; 
 
 Who knows and feels that Fortune's gifts are brittle, 
 Nor like a miser seeks to swell his hoard ; 
 
 Him neither care nor avarice will keep 
 
 From days of joy and nights of gentle sleep. 
 
 Why do we change our country for another, 
 That glows perchance beneath a brighter sun ? 
 
 Can we escape ourselves, or can we smother 
 The griefs that with us o'er the wide earth run ? 
 
 Swift as the stag, and with the whirlwind's force, 
 
 They climb the ship, and ride beside the horse. 
 
 A mind well based ne'er questions of the morrow 
 It feels the present, and enjoys the hour ; 
 
 Nor asks the future for its share of sorrow 
 
 'Twill come one day, and we must bide its power. 
 
 Even then a smile will gild the gloomy strife, 
 
 And mingle sweetness in the cup of life. 
 
172 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Fate snatched away Achilles ere his glory 
 In its meridian brilliancy had shone ; 
 
 Tithonus wept that he grew old and hoary, 
 
 And lived, though all that he hath loved were gone ; 
 
 And Time with partial hand may give to me 
 
 Some joy or hope that it denied to thee. 
 
 A hundred flocks bleat round your happy dwelling, 
 Sicilian heifers low, and horses neigh ; 
 
 Rich purple robes, of costly odors smelling, 
 Enwrap you round ; while on my humble way 
 
 Fate hath bestowed a smaller 'state some wit, 
 
 And a contempt for those who laugh at it. 
 
 A BLOOMER LYRIC, 
 
 "MOST MUSICAL, MOST MELANCHOLY." 
 
 Oh, ladies, list the ditty sung 
 
 A doleful ditty, very 
 About a Bloomer fair and young 
 
 They called her Mrs. Perry ; 
 Who, quite regardless of the law, 
 
 Did leave her spouse oh, heavens ! 
 She wore the pants, and panted for 
 
 The lawless love of Levins. 
 
 Bow, wow, wow. 
 
 In Monson, Mass., the luckless spouse 
 
 (Made lucky by the riddance) 
 Proprieted a virtuous house 
 
 (That is to say, he did once) ; 
 But Levins dough, with brass enough 
 
 To make a copper kettle, 
 On Mrs. P. (ah ! woe is me !) 
 
 His lewd regard did settle. 
 
 Bow, wow, wow. 
 
 And she did say unto herself, 
 
 " Shall I, the slave of duty, 
 Be laid upon the matron shelf 
 
 To waste away my beauty ? 
 No, no. Henceforth I bear command, 
 
 Though prim Miss Prudence quarrels ; 
 I've worn my husband's breeches, and 
 
 I'll make a breach of morals." 
 
 Bow, wow, wow. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 173 
 
 So, like a ' ' high, strong-minded wife, '' 
 
 She told him her intention, 
 Prepared to face his jealous strife 
 
 Against her vow's infraction ; 
 But he (oh ! what a brute is man !) 
 
 Cried, " If we may be sundered 
 I'm very poor but yet I can 
 
 Afford to pay a hundred." t 
 
 Bow, wow, wow. 
 
 So let us drink to Mr. P. 
 
 Both in Champagne and Sherry 
 May each be-Bloomered husband be 
 
 As fortunate as Perry. 
 And may the naughty girls, who wear 
 
 The manly pants and braces, 
 Ne'er be embraced by manly arms, 
 
 Nor kissed by bearded faces. 
 
 Bow, wow, wow. 
 
 And here's a glass to Mrs. P. 
 
 A full-fledged Bloomer, very 
 Who found a way at least to make 
 
 Her doleful husband merry. 
 And may all wives, who lead their lives 
 
 At sixes and at sevens, 
 Exchange a husband's honest love 
 
 For such a scamp as Levins. 
 
 Bow, wow, wow. 
 
 NEW YORK CRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 Ye wha direct the Exhibition, 
 An' manage a' things wi' precision, 
 Mock na a simple bard's petition, 
 
 Wha's pouch is bare, 
 An' yet wad like to feast his vision 
 
 On yon big fair. 
 
 'Tis true I'm but a poortith wight. 
 Come here to wrastle and to fight 
 For roof an' hearth, claes an' bite ; 
 
 My voice is sma', 
 But no afeard to crack the right 
 
 Afore ye a'. 
 
174 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Though fifty cents be sma' to you, 
 A mere card-counter, like eneugh, 
 There's mony an honest lad wad rue 
 
 That sma' amount ; 
 His bairns' bellies maun be fu', 
 
 An' trifles count. 
 
 If yours were like a kintra show, 
 To which but aince we speer to go, 
 Your bonnie charge, though far frae low, 
 
 I wad na shun ; 
 I'd in, an' tak the foremost row, 
 
 An' see the fun. 
 
 But yours is nae sic feckless play 
 That ane can ken it in a day, 
 Unless, in a bewildered way, 
 
 He gapes an' glowers ; 
 Sic wark demands an' wad repay 
 
 Saxscore o' hours. 
 
 An' how, I ask, can chiels afford, 
 Wha's gains are sma'.an' labor hard, 
 A muckle sum that should be shared 
 
 Wi' his wee bodies ? 
 I'm feared they'd lack for bed an' board, 
 
 An' shoes an' duddies. 
 
 Forbye, in an industrial tilt, 
 Though ither flags be bonnier gilt, 
 Wha's banner should gang first in till't 
 
 Unless o' those 
 ' Wha's joints hae crack'd, wha's sweat was spilt 
 
 Afore it rose ? 
 
 What hae the rich, the dizzen'd crowd, 
 In a' the place to mak them proud ? 
 They've neither welded, wove, nor plow'd, 
 
 Nor blear'd their een, % 
 
 Whyles Labor may proclaim aloud, 
 
 " The show is mine !" 
 
 "Frae deep foundation e'en to dome, 
 
 The glitt'rin' aisles through which you roam, 
 
 The gallery that, light as foam, 
 
 O'er a' expands, 
 The palace an' its treasures come 
 
 Frae these rough hands." 
 
Charles Graham Ualpine. 175 
 
 Let Sedgwick now a sonsy man 
 
 Tell the directors o' his plan, 
 
 An' say, " Though wrangly we began, 
 
 'Tis time to truckle ; 
 A thousand mickle soon outrun 
 
 The fivescore muckle." 
 
 Here folk frae ilka clime are met 
 A wae-disposed, monarchic set 
 A' peerin' roun', if they can get 
 
 (Lang may they need then. ! ) 
 Some proofs to say that " Labor yet 
 
 Wins nocht frae Freedom." 
 
 Ye may despise us an' ye will, 
 
 But we're the els maun foot your bill ; 
 
 The " Upper Ten'' hae looked their fill, 
 
 An', should you flout us, 
 I'm feared yell hae an empty till 
 
 At least without us. 
 
 An' what for no should we na win, 
 Some points demand it out an' in ? 
 The slummocks o' us workin' men 
 
 Are easy snarlin', 
 But ower the whirligig we grin 
 
 Like Sternie's starlin'. 
 
 Let Sedgwick tak anither thought : 
 Kickshaws to labor's wame are naught, 
 Nor can we pay the prices sought 
 
 By those bright lasses 
 Frae whom mysel', yestreen, I bought . 
 
 Twa jelly glasses. 
 
 Dupont an' Davis soldiers baith 
 
 I swear till ye, upon my aith, 
 
 That, though ye aft hae grappled death 
 
 Wi' sabres carvin', 
 Ye wadna bide the risin' wrath 
 
 O' downright starvin'. 
 
 I'm done ; nor care I now a flea 
 
 If high or low you gar it be ; 
 
 But this I swear, nae doit frae me 
 
 Your nieves shall mortar, 
 Till into your big house the key 
 
 Is "Cash one quarter/' 
 
176 The Poetical Works of 
 
 THE EVERGLADES WITHDRAW. 
 
 SENATORS YULEE AND MALLORY TAKING LEAVE. 
 
 As they rose to take their leave 
 
 Of the old familiar hall, 
 Their manly sides did heave 
 
 In the bitterness of gall ; 
 'Twas a sad and gloomy hour 
 
 To men so framed as they, 
 For, besides their loss of place and power, 
 
 They also lost their pay ; 
 Yes, besides their loss of place and power, 
 
 They also lost their pay. 
 
 As they view the frescoed hall, 
 
 Still loth to quit their mates, 
 In the filtered beams that fall 
 
 Through the blazoned shields of state, 
 Though no argument for love 
 
 Of our common flag they sought, 
 Yet the sunlight streaming from above 
 
 This Union lesson taught 
 Yea, the blessed sunlight from above 
 
 This Union lesson taught : 
 
 "As the sun, supreme and bright, 
 
 Shining equally on all, 
 Poureth down a common light 
 
 On this crystal-covered hall, 
 So our Union orb of orbs 
 . Sheds a glory fixed and true, 
 Though the shield of every state absorbs 
 
 Some beams of different hue ; 
 Though the shield of every state absorbs 
 
 Some beams of varied hue. 
 
 " Would you tear the temple down, 
 
 Change our blessing to a bane, 
 And pluck from nationhood the crown 
 
 It cost so much to gain ? 
 If no inner voice upbraids, 
 
 If no patriot promptings warn, 
 Back to your swamps and everglades 
 
 Where alligators swarm 
 Those Indian-haunted swamps and glades 
 
 Where alligators swarm. 
 
Charles Graham If alpine. 177 
 
 " We may hearken to your call, 
 
 And take pity on your fate, 
 When the monsters round you crawl, 
 
 And the red men lie in wait ; 
 Some relief we may afford 
 
 But tempt us not too far ; 
 A thousand years have not restored 
 
 The Pleiads' wandering star 
 The six bright sisters have ignored 
 
 That sad, repentant star. 
 
 " Now go, if go you must ; 
 
 We fling the portals wide ; 
 Go, if you think your quarrel just, 
 
 And dare its trial bide ; 
 Our Union's dome beneath 
 
 We miss no single star, 
 No weapons shall our hands unsheath 
 
 Your homeward way to bar 
 Twine for yourselves a separate wreath, 
 
 And shine a single star. 
 
 " Of many flowers and vines 
 
 In glittering contrast, now 
 The garland of the Union shines 
 
 On freedom's radiant brow ; 
 The bud you gave take down, 
 
 But think of this and heed 
 To-day 'tis portion of a crown, 
 
 To-morrow but a weed 
 To-day 'tis part of Freedom's crown ; 
 
 Removed a worthless weed. " 
 
 The two grew pale and thin, 
 
 And they trembled in their shoes ; 
 Yea, every inch of quivering skin 
 
 Exuded icy dews ; 
 But to treason they were pledged, 
 
 Though they found the trial sore, 
 And, as nearer to the door they edged, 
 
 They blubbered more and more ; 
 To Disunion as they nearer edged, 
 
 Her features shocked them more. 
 
 At last they fled away 
 
 Into darkness to their fate. 
 
 God speed them ! we can only pray, 
 And save them ere too late ; 
 
 12 H 2 
 
178 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And God save all the weak 
 
 Who, from some fancied wrong, 
 
 Throw off not knowing what they seek- 
 The buckler of the strong 
 
 The Union's bond to sever seek, 
 The buckler of the strong. 
 
 TEN YEARS TOO LATE. 
 
 I own thy beauty once did thrill 
 
 My every vein with living fire, 
 My soul lay subject to thy will, 
 
 To kill with frowns with smiles inspire ; 
 But passion calms its headlong tide, 
 
 And youthful dreams will dimmer grow 
 When met with that unyielding pride 
 
 Such as was yours ten years ago. 
 
 One heedless word can oft destroy 
 
 The hope to which a soul is clinging ; 
 The tender flower of love and joy 
 
 Can brook no storm across it winging. 
 So, lady, let us both forget 
 
 The thought 'tis only pain to know, 
 And meet as though we ne'er had met 
 
 In that past life " ten years ago." 
 
 BIRTH OF THE BATTLE YEAR. 
 
 OMENS OF EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE. 
 
 Gloomy and dark was the night, when a Fate 
 Clamdred, and loudly, outside the gate : 
 ' ' Open and fling the Dead Year out 
 Welcome the New with a festal shout ! 
 'Tis a ruddy child, with dimpled limbs, 
 And eyes that no care or sorrow dims ; 
 Welcome it, then, with cheers and hymns 
 Welcome the young New Year !" 
 
 Never a laugh through the castle rang. 
 But the bolts shot back with a heavy clang ; 
 The flickering lamps gave a wan blue light 
 As the blast rushed in from the sleety night ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 179 
 
 And around the couch of the dying year, 
 With faces reflecting both sorrow and fear, 
 Gathered the waiters from far and near 
 
 Not a smile for the young New Year. 
 
 Beneath black rafters, curving down 
 O'er a floor of black and walls of brown, 
 Stretched on a pallet, with struggling breath, 
 The Old Year sought the escape of death ; 
 While around him stood, in a mute, sad ring, 
 Many who only had felt his sting, 
 But who feared some more evil and hideous thing 
 In the reign of the young New Year.' 
 
 "Fling wide the carved and ponderous doorr 
 Lift "him gently, and walk before, 
 Ye with the hoods and rods of white ; 
 Carry him out into empty night ; 
 For the clock betokens the midnight hour, 
 And his death- knell tolls in the ivied tower 
 This moment, for weal or woe, to power 
 Ascends the young New Year. 
 
 "Dark Fate, with clouds and shadows capped, 
 In whose wide mantle, close enwrapped, 
 The young New Year is hither borne, 
 Hath the world cause to smile or mourn ? 
 What say the omens of his reign ? 
 What do the Destinies ordain 
 Is it peace or battle, joy or pain ? 
 
 Speak for the young New Year. " 
 
 No word the dark, mute Fate let fall 
 As tier shadow flitted across the wall ; 
 But, bending over the vacant couch, 
 One moment she appeared to crouch ; 
 Then, rising, towering higher and higher, , 
 Seen by the light of the flickering fire, 
 Just on her exit the lamps expire 
 
 Sad sign for the young New Year. 
 
 " Trim the lights afresh till they all burn bright ; 
 Fill the wassail bowl for one festal night ; 
 Burn larger logs till the flames reveal 
 Those shapes which the shadows now conceal ; 
 Let the oldest flagons of wine be brought, 
 And the best old stories our fathers taught, 
 And the songs that were dearest in youth be sought 
 To welcome the young New Year." 
 
180 The Poetical Works of 
 
 i-'o passed the night in a feverish dream, 
 In pleasures that had a hectic gleam ; 
 For beneath the gayest smile, thus forced, 
 Cold tremors of terror thrilled and coursed ; 
 And the groined-roof, curving grimly down 
 O'er a floor of black and walls of brown, 
 Had a mystical threat a prophetic frown 
 As we toasted the young New Year. 
 
 When morning dawned and the shadows fled, 
 We drew the curtains, and round the bed 
 All gathered to see what the Fate had left 
 To replace the Old Year, of life bereft. 
 'Twas a sickly child, of a wan, pale face, 
 With many a mutter and strange grimace 
 ' ' 'Tis a poor exchange we have had in place 
 Of the dead and gone Old Year.'' 
 
 But let's make the best of the evils known 
 Let the boldest front to the foe be shown ; 
 For still in the heart of the nation dwells 
 A pulse that true to the Union swells ; 
 And perhaps the omens we now deplore, 
 Heralding carnage from shore to shore, 
 May be lessons merely, and nothing more, 
 Designed for the young New Year. 
 
 So bring the garlands and deck the couch, 
 Let the prophets of good their faith avouch ; 
 Let every foreboding of evil fade, 
 And the birth of this ominous year be made 
 So joyous and festive, with song and wine, 
 That, even though 4 coming with ill design, 
 The purpose' of wrong it may yet resign . 
 
 Thus we drink to the young New Year. 
 
 THIRTY YEARS OLD. 
 
 'Twas twelve o'clock, and the house was hushed ; 
 
 The fire was low 'twas wintry weather ; 
 The mirror with lurid light was flushed, 
 
 And the very chairs seemed to creep together. 
 I sat and thought, in a dreamy way, 
 
 Of dear old friends and dear old places, 
 And round me gathered an odd array 
 
 Of old, fantastic, friendly faces'. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 181 
 
 Sitting alone in my easy-chair, 
 
 Slippered and gowned for a night of leisure, 
 Suddenly came a step on the stair, 
 
 Halting, and slow as an old man's .measure. 
 Twisting around with a nervous start 
 
 As I heard the door-knob click and rattle, 
 You could hear the beatings of my heart 
 
 As I braced myself for a burglar battle. 
 
 Nearer and nearer the footsteps grew ; 
 
 Holding my breath, I braced my sinews ; 
 Slower it came as closer it drew 
 
 "Tis death," I muttered, " if this continues. 
 Come !" 1 cried, with a nervous twinge ; 
 
 And opening stealthily, half way shrinking, 
 The door revolved on its silver hinge, 
 
 And my heart the while kept sinking sinking. 
 
 In then popped an old white head, 
 
 Curiously wrinkled, curiously ruddy : 
 " Old Father Time I am called," he said ; 
 
 "May I pay you a visit in your study ?" 
 I laughed : "Oh ho ! no burglar this ! 
 
 Welcome, old Time, thou doubt-dissolver ; 
 But it's well for you, by Jove it is, 
 
 That I hadn't my hand on a Colt's revolver." 
 
 Bitterly smiled the wrinkled man 
 
 Bitterly smiled as in sad derision : 
 "Killing old Time is an easy plan, 
 
 Which thousands appear to have made their mission, 
 But you," and here he grimly bowed, 
 
 The grimmest of all grim smiles dispensing, 
 "Are neither so hot-brained, nor half so loud 
 
 As you were when the race was first commencing. 
 
 " You've learned, I guess, that the world is not 
 
 A bowl in which only sweet things mingle ; 
 That pleasure and pain are the common lot, 
 
 Which seldom or never approach us single ; 
 You are taught that words do not always show 
 
 The heart's sincere and true confession ; 
 And you've learned to scan the straight-laced man, 
 
 W T ho is loudest and longest in fair profession." 
 
 " So far, all's well ; but more remains : 
 You must now take care of the dollars dirty ; 
 
 A man should have something to show for his pains 
 By the time he turns the stile of thirty. 
 
182 The Poetical WorJcs of 
 
 Get you a wife !" At that fearful thought, 
 Waking, from out my chair I started ; 
 
 "Copy!'.' my printer's devil cried, 
 And my vision of Time was a thing departed. 
 
 SIMILES. 
 
 One asked me where the sunlight grew, 
 
 And where it never dies ? 
 In silence then I pointed to 
 
 The heaven in Sylvia's eyes. 
 
 Another, where the moon doth go 
 When paled by morning's glare ? 
 
 * ' Gaze gaze on Sylvia's breast of snow, 
 You'll see the moonlight there." 
 
 A third said, where doth Virtue rest ? 
 
 Then forth my words did start : 
 " In Sylvia's face you'll find express'd 
 
 The'goodness of her heart." 
 
 In search of beauty, grace, and wit, 
 
 No longer vainly stray, 
 Seek Sylvia's shrine, and at her feet 
 
 Your humblest homage pay. 
 
 NEW VERSION OF JOHN BROWN, 
 
 AS OHOEUSEI> WITH IMMENSE EFFECT BY THE THIRD BHODE ISLAND NEGRO 
 MINSTBELS, ATTACHED TO THE TENTH AKMY CORPS, MARCH 30, 1868. 
 
 Words by Rev. M. A. French, LL.D. ; Music by Smiff. 
 
 [Ye first verse recites ye entirely triumphal manner of General Fos 
 ter's entry into Port Royal Harbor, thereunto adding ye attitude 
 in which ye general returned to NorffCaroliny.J 
 John G. Foster, oh ! he brought his body South, 
 John G. Foster, oh ! he brought his body South, 
 But Johnny has gone homeward with his fingers in his mouth, 
 As we go marching on. 
 
 Sing [chorus led by y'at distinguished soldier-man, Brigadier 
 
 General E. E. Potter] 
 Sing Glory, glory hallelujah, etc., etc. 
 
 [Verse Second, chanted after ye manner of a dirge by ye Brigadier 
 General Ledley, with ye starred, red shoulder-straps, 'sets forth ye 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 183 
 
 object which brought ye great General Foster South, and reflects 
 
 unbecomingly on ye powers of ye second Big Ingin Potter as a 
 
 pleader.] 
 
 John G. Foster, oh ! for Charleston he was hot, 
 
 John G. Foster, oh ! for Charleston he was hot, 
 
 He gave his case to Potter, but ye pleader went to pot, 
 
 And Hunter marched him on. 
 
 Sing [chorus led by ye man with starred, red shoulder-straps, 
 and illustrated with recriminating variation's by ye great 
 soldier-man Potter] 
 Sing Glory, glory hallelujah, etc. , etc. 
 
 [Verse Third pays ye homage of devout admiration to ye unsurpass 
 ed and magnificent qualities of ye members of ye great Conqueror 
 Foster's staff all ye members of ye staff, without exception, join 
 ing in ye chorus at ye top of their voices, but none others singing. 
 Chorus led by Surgeon Snelling, ye medical director.] 
 John G. Foster, oh ! had a brilliant staff, 
 John G. Foster, oh ! had a brilliant staff, 
 But honest Uncle David, oh ! he couldn't stand their chaff, 
 
 And so he marched them on. 
 
 Fing [chorus led with a will by Lieutenant Colonel Francis 
 Darr, ye chief commissary, who has pledged himself to is 
 sue extra rations of ye beverage known as " B. Whisky" to 
 every one outside ye staff itself who will join in ye above 
 verse] 
 Sing Glory, glory hallelujah, etc., etc. 
 
 [Verse Fourth recites, with a vigor and terseness that is refreshing, 
 ye action takea by ye real Big Ingin of ye department, otherwise 
 known as ye "Uncle David," and which action was communicated 
 to ye brilliant staff aforesaid, as his high appreciation of their 
 many excellent qualities, by ye fierce little man y'clept Major E. 
 Worthington Smiff, with two effs.] 
 " Git out of my department," was our Uncle David's cry, 
 " Git out of my department," was our angry uncle's cry, 
 "Away to John G. Foster by the first conveyance fly, 
 And say I'm marching on." 
 
 Sing [chorus led by ye gay and festive Fessenden, with ac 
 companiments of high old equestrian feats by ye boy Skinner 
 and ye Acting Assistant Adjutant General Sealy, Acting 
 Deputy Commodore Kinzie playing a break-down on ye 
 banjo, and dancing ye same, while ye agent of Adams's Ex 
 press chimes in with ye appropriate melody of a Hebrew's 
 labial and dental harp] , 
 
 Sing Glory, glory hallelujah, etc., etc. 
 
184 The Poetical Works of 
 
 [Verse Fifth is of ye deeply and touchingly pathetic kind, all the 
 chief mourners having wet red cotton kerchiefs applied to their 
 streaming eyes the youth Samuel Stockton giving an occasional 
 mop with his own wipe to ye streaming visionary orbs of General 
 Seymour, whose hands are occupied in playing ye Dead March of 
 Saul on a flute specially muffled for ye occasion by Lieutenant 
 , Colonel J. F. Hall, P. M.G. meaning Provider of Musical Gear 
 for the Department. Several cullud pussuns enter while this 
 chorus is going, squeeze the red cotton kerchiefs into buckets, 
 which are then carried down to ye good ship "John Faron," and 
 there presented to ye great soldier-man E. E. Potter, in a neat 
 speech, delivered in Congo dialect by ye boy "Congress," who 
 has been retained for this ceremony.] 
 For John G. Foster, boys, we drop our tender tears, 
 And for the staff of Foster, boys, we shed severial tears ; 
 They've gone up in a big balloon, and won't come down for years, 
 
 As we go marching on. 
 Sing [chorus led by Major Smiff, in a pair of blue soldiers' 
 
 pants, fitting miraculously round his flanks] 
 Sing Glory, glory hallelujah, 
 Glory, glory hallelujah, 
 Glof^, glory hallelujah, 
 
 As we go marching on. 
 Headquarters, Hilton Head, S.C. 
 
 O'MAHONY OF THE COMER AGPIS. 30 
 
 AN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT IRISH, FEOM THE WOEK8 OF THE FOUR MASTERS. 
 
 Give me your hand, O'Mahony ; 
 Corrie to my heart, O'Mahony ; 
 Friend of my soul, O'Mahony 
 
 Chief of the Comeraghs ! 
 Great have your toils been, O'Mahony ; 
 Long has your watch been, O'Mahony ; 
 Soon we will rest, O'Mahony 
 
 Rest on the Comeraghs. 
 
 Let the dogs bark, O'Mahony ; 
 Snarl at your heels, O'Mahony ; 
 Snarling and barking, O'Mahony 
 
 Chief of the Comeraghs ! 
 This they can prove, O'Mahony 
 All they can prove, O'Mahony 
 They are not fit peers for O'Mahony, 
 
 Chief of the Comeraghs ! 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 185 
 
 Black are the mountains, O'Mahony, 
 Swift are the streams, O'Mahony, 
 Fruitful and green are the valleys, 
 
 Far hid in the hushed Comeraghs. 
 Gray are the rocks, O'Mahony, 
 Golden the furzes, O'Mahony, 
 And purple and drooping the heather bells, 
 
 Clothing the Comeraghs. 
 
 Wildly the eagles, O'Mahony, 
 Scream o'er the peaks, O'Mahony, 
 Where the soft clouds of the morning 
 
 Stoop to the Comeraghs ; 
 There we will rest, O'Mahony 
 Kest on some ledge, O'Mahony, 
 Looking far down, O'Mahony 
 
 Down from the Comeraghs. 
 
 Thousands of smoke-wreaths, O'Mahony, 
 Curling up bluely, O'Mahony, 
 From the thatched roofs beneath us, 
 
 Couched in the Comeraghs, 
 These we will waken, O'Mahony .0; 
 Waken with bugles, O'Mahony, 
 When our old banner goes homeward, 
 
 And visits the Comeraghs. 
 
 High on that ledge, O'Mahony, 
 Soon the green banner, O'Mahony, 
 " Sun-burst and harp" far flashing, 
 
 We'll give to the Comeraghs ; 
 While thick through the valleys, O'Mahony, 
 Swarm all the true men, O'Mahony, 
 Shouting and pushing to join us, 
 
 High up on the steep Comeraghs. 
 
 Oh, by the God of all battles ! 
 Oh, by the great God of battles ! 
 The spirits of Hugh and Tyrconnell 
 
 Will smile on the Comeraghs. 
 By the ghoSts of Kildare and of Lucan, 
 By the blood of O'Niel and Lord Edward, 
 By Emmet and Tone, our lost leaders, 
 
 We'll meet on the Comeraghs ! 
 
 And then, like a torrent, O'Mahony, . 
 Bursting down headlong, O'Mahony, 
 With fair Tipperary before us, 
 
 Behind us the grim Comeraghs, 
 
186 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Our land shall be free, O'Mahony- 
 Free as the eagles, O'Mahony, 
 Swooping and screaming in circles 
 
 Round the peaks of the great Comeraghs. 
 
 A TOAST AND A CHEER. 
 
 Gather round me, friends and comrades, 
 
 Let us drink a wassail bowl 
 " To the gentle hearts that love us, 
 
 To the pure and good of soul. " 
 Life is short, too quickly passing, 
 
 And each year seems but a day 
 Then accept each flying moment, 
 
 And enjoy it while we may. 
 
 What is sorrow met with courage ? 
 
 For it can not bring disgrace, 
 And misfortune soon will vanish 
 
 If you look it in the face. 
 The coward shrinks and shivers 
 
 When the clouds their shadows cast ; 
 The brave man trusts in God alone, 
 
 And struggles to the last. 
 
 What matter if dull slanders' tooth 
 
 Hath fastened on thy name, 
 Or years of labor find thee still 
 
 Without a golden fame ? 
 Time settles with us, one and all : 
 
 So pay no worldly toll, 
 But drink " to those who love us," 
 
 To the pure and good of soul. 
 
 LABOR'S WAR SONG. 
 
 Up, brethren, up ! The world is not 
 
 So bad as some would make it, 
 Although we till a stubborn lot, 
 
 The plow of toil can break it ; 
 And wheat a sea of amber-froth 
 
 White apple bloom and blushing cherries, 
 Wfll soon replace the thistle growth 
 
 And bitter bramble-berries. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 187 
 
 For life's a field a goodly field, 
 Where skill and long endeavor 
 
 Can make the barren wilderness 
 Her Eden bower forever. 
 
 Wherever Season bids you go, 
 
 Be prompt and firm to follow ; 
 Never build a house on Age's snow 
 
 Tradition is but hollow. 
 With eyes that never shun the light, 
 
 Even though it show your past mischances, 
 Ride down the phantom blood of night 
 With troops of gallant fancies. 
 
 For life's a fight a stubborn fight, 
 
 Where hope and fresh endeavor 
 Can overcome the host of Care 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 Should sorrow hem you in upon 
 
 Some bleak and lonely mountain, 
 Ne'er sigh for the forsaken lawn 
 And willow-shaded fountain ; 
 But on the lightning- shivered top, 
 Learn of the eagle self-reliance, 
 And let the whirlwinds, as they drop, 
 Bear down your bold defiance. 
 
 For life's a fight a gallant fight, 
 
 Where heart and strong endeavor 
 Shall win the palm and wear the palm 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 Besieged in Want's despised retreat, 
 
 And with resource but scanty, 
 Fling over half you'd like to eat, 
 
 That men may think you've plenty ; 
 'Twas thus the Goth was driven from Rome, 
 
 And 'tis a maxim broadly Roman, 
 Whate'er the tears that fall at home, 
 Laugh loud before your foeman. 
 
 For life's a siege a long-drawn siege, 
 
 A fierce protracted trial, 
 Where fate forever gives the palm 
 To hope and self-denial. 
 
 Should those you befriended in distress 
 
 Forget you 'tis the fashion 
 Ne'er let them know their worthlessness 
 
 Had power to move your passion ; 
 
188 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Be cool, and smile ; the war of life 
 
 Again may place you far above them ; 
 And, should you chance to meet in strife, 
 Then prove how much you love them. 
 For life's a fight a varying fight, 
 
 Defeat and victory blended, 
 Though wrong may triumph for a while, 
 Right wins ere all is ended. 
 
 Should she who shared your summer lot 
 
 Now shun your cold caresses, 
 Oh, blame her not oh, hurt her not, 
 
 But loose her golden jesses ; 
 She never loved : no power on earth 
 
 Can change a woman's true affection, 
 Nor is the haggard falcon worth 
 A moment's sad dejection. 
 
 Forget her frailty in the fight 
 
 Where brain and bold endeavor 
 Still win at will a changeless crown 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 Avoid the fruitless strife of creed 
 
 You can not turn or guide it ; 
 Let heaven award the victor's meed, 
 
 And priest with priest decide it ; 
 Believe that life is fleeting breath, 
 
 Be just to man and love your neighbor, 
 And take this ritual for your faith 
 " Truth, temperance, and labor ;" 
 
 And thus the clouds of wrong that veil 
 
 The heaven of life will sever, 
 And the palm be his who wears the mail 
 Of faith and firm endeavor. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE NO. XI. 
 
 BOOK III., ODE XXI. VERY FREELY TRANSLATED BY CHARLES BROADfiEXT. 
 
 Thou precious cask, sealed up on the same morning 
 
 Mine eyes first opened to the sun's bright ray, 
 My dusty cellar-bin so long adorning, 
 
 Come forth, and shed your fragrance on my way. 
 Whether you hold within you food of quarrel, 
 
 Or wit, or love, or gentle sleep, or play, 
 Come*from your shelf, my old and trusty barrel, 
 
 We'll tap your side on this auspicious day. 
 
Charles Graham. Halpine. 189 
 
 Descend ! for Wideswarth comes, and would inspect thee' 
 
 Pour forth a flood of rich and mellow wine ; 
 His soul will not Maine-lawishly reject thee, 
 
 Though it has drunk the music of the Nine. 
 Old Cato's iron virtue is recorded, 
 
 When full of thee, more tenderly to shine, 
 And many a careworn spirit is rewarded 
 
 By the soft stimulant it finds in thine. 
 
 You ease the cares, and fears, and secret sorrows, 
 
 Even of the wise, with each inspiring drop ; 
 The trembling soul from you fresh courage borrows, 
 
 And weak men cry to wealthy tyrants " Stop !" . 
 Inspired with thee, the coward fears no longer, 
 
 For thou unto him art a sturdy prop ; 
 And poor men bow not down unto the stranger, 
 
 But call them truly either knave or fop. 
 
 Come, Father Bacchus, and thou, Cyprian goddess, 
 If in good humor, come, and bring along 
 
 The Graces, each with an ungirdled bodice 
 
 . Come to the wine-cup and the gladdening song. 
 
 Come ; and with mirth, and reveling, and dancing, 
 We'll drive away whatever doleful seems, 
 
 Until bright Phoebus, o'er the mountain glancing, 
 Outshines our light in his more plenteous beams. 
 
 THE SOUVENIR. 
 
 Ah ! lady, howsoe'er it fall 
 
 In Time's protracted race, 
 No flowers are needed to recall 
 
 Thy pure and gentle face. 
 Within my heart thy image lives 
 
 Through all life's busy hours, 
 While hope a greater perfume gives 
 
 Than e'er was breathed by flowers. 
 
 But thanks for the memorial sent, 
 
 The leaf and pansy too, 
 So neatly and so sweetly blent 
 
 Within the ribbon blue. 
 When fades from every leaf the tint, 
 
 Yet prized by me the same ; 
 My beating heart shall proudly hint 
 
 From whence the leaflets came. 
 
190 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Fit emblems of our summer hours, 
 
 Without a cloud o'ercast, 
 The ribbon with its votive flowers 
 
 Shall well recall the past 
 Recall me to the beach of sand 
 
 Where still the breakers shine, 
 And the gentle lady from whose hand 
 
 This pansy passed to mine. 
 
 TO A WEALTHY AMATEUR CRITIC. 
 
 NOT AT ALL SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 They tell me 'tis decided you condemn ; 
 
 You may be wrong, or I, perhaps, too vain ; 
 I have no power the critic-power to stem, 
 
 Nor, though I had, should I incur the pain ; 
 Far easier is it for me to contemn 
 
 You and your censure, as you scorn my strain. 
 My verse, it seems, calls forth your moral fears, 
 And o'er each page you shed " Pecksniffian" tears. 
 
 I wrote still scribble and for this have lost 
 Some idle hours and your esteemed esteem ; 
 
 Nor do I yet regret what it hath cost, 
 
 Nor your sharp stricture as conclusive deem ; 
 
 No tender flower that -withers in the frost, 
 No milksop minstrel in a sickly dream, 
 
 I still can sleep, walk, dance, and drink and dine, 
 
 Read your critiques and some are really fine. 
 
 Your pen is of your life a thing apart 
 It is my whole existence. You may gain 
 
 An hour's amusement from the scribbling art 
 I write for bread ; and if this be a stain 
 
 Upon my muse's 'scutcheon, ask your heart 
 What could you do should fortune not remain 
 
 Your friend as now ? Is this conclusion right 
 
 I eat and scribble ; you would starve and write ? 
 
 You will proceed in your unguerdoned way, 
 Condemning fifty and perusing one ; 
 
 For me, so long as publishers will pay, 
 I own my course of rhyming but begun. 
 
 Scalp as you will no leniency, I pray ; 
 I neither hate a critic nor a dun ; 
 
 Both, to be sure, are necessary evils 
 
 Bad r.t the best, but not entirely devils. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 191 
 
 " My verses are unequal." Be it so. 
 
 The world itself is full of woe and weal : 
 My pen still follows where my feelings flow, 
 
 And, good or bad, I speak the thing I feel. 
 As the muse wills it, why the jade may go ; 
 
 I own no snaffle, and I use no heel ; 
 The spavined Pegasus just takes her leisure, 
 Nor e'er for business will forego her pleasure. 
 
 I have no more to say yet scribble still, 
 Eking out lines as spinners do their flax ; 
 
 I had not lived till now could critics kill 
 
 (What rhyme will serve ? Oh tell me, John G. Saxe ! 
 
 In words, I know, thou hast a pretty skill 
 Arch wielder of the jingling lingual axe. 
 
 See! conjured thus by him, their master-spirit 
 
 Khymes hap into my lines soon as his name they hear it.) 
 
 And so farewell, my critic. I have brought 
 
 A friend to help me in the dire distress 
 Of that last stanza, where I else was caught 
 
 In what the world calls "an infernal mess." 
 Four out your vials ; let each sentence, fraught 
 
 With scorn and hatred, down upon me press ; 
 I wait with meekest patience your review, 
 But, for the present, wish you well. Adieu ! 
 
 SYLVIA. 
 
 Oh fly, my heart, to Sylvia fly, 
 And tell her that I pine I die 
 That every breath is but a sigh 
 
 Of grief of pain for love's desires. 
 Oh ! tell her that so fondly shrined 
 Within my heart her image kind, 
 To all beside my soul is blind, 
 
 And love consumes me with its fires. 
 
 Oh ! tell dear Sylvia that my brain 
 
 Awakes to life and hope again, 
 
 And thoughts that long have dormant lain 
 
 Come rushing at a headlong pace. 
 Oh say, my heart, that she alone 
 Has taught thee secrets long unknown, 
 And all my soul to her has flown 
 
 The queen of beauty, love, and grace. 
 
!!)> The Poetical Works of 
 
 Return, my heart, from Sylvia's arms, 
 
 And say responsive love alarms 
 
 Her breast so fair from virgin charms 
 
 And bids me to her bosom fly. 
 
 My passion knows no purer bliss 
 No love no other life but this ; 
 One hour of heaven in Sylvia's kiss 
 
 One warm embrace of love then die ! 
 
 OLDEN MEMORIES. 
 
 Once again, with memory toying, 
 
 Brings a vision of the past 
 Every olden will employing, 
 
 Opening treasures rich and vast. 
 Comes the early passion, seeming 
 
 All a world of rapturous bliss, 
 Boyhood's youthful hopes and dreaming 
 
 Crowned and radiant with a kiss. 
 
 borrowing pass in endless number 
 
 Shadowy files of marching years, 
 Buried in perpetual slumber, 
 
 Dimmed and stained with bitter tears. 
 Falls, in gentle dalliance, longing 
 
 O'er the mirror of my brain 
 One fond shape, and round it thronging, 
 
 Love and hope awake again. 
 
 Ah ! that phantom let me follow ; 
 
 Nothing can its place supply ; 
 All succeeding hopes are hollow 
 
 Dust and ashes to the eye. 
 Gone the glorious inspiration, 
 
 Girdling life with passion's zone, 
 Leaving but the dull stagnation 
 
 Of the heart when all is known. 
 
 Panting, longing for the highest, 
 
 And condemned to sigh in vain, 
 Seeing hopes that seemed the nighest 
 
 Vanish like a ghostly train : 
 Little left to make exertion 
 
 Worth the labor of its cost . -* 
 All that is a weary version 
 
 Of the perished" and the lost. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 193 
 
 Oh ! in many a night of sorrow, 
 
 When the hours have no relief, 
 And the darkness seems to borrow 
 
 Deeper shadows from our grief 
 Then again, with memory toying, 
 
 Comes the vision of the past, 
 And on these our thoughts employing, 
 
 Daylight breaks on us at last. 
 
 THEATRICAL GINGERNUTS. 
 
 In the upper crust ring there's a gay little clique, 
 
 Who greatly admire one another, 
 And who go to the theatre once in a week 
 
 To splurge it and kick up a bother. 
 They hire a cheap box, and Avithin it they crowd 
 
 Till as full as a bandbox they've packed it, 
 And they laugh and tell stories so noisy and loud 
 
 That the whole of the house is distracted. 
 
 * ' The Gingernut Club" they are happily called, 
 
 And a gingerbread crew you will find them ; 
 By frowns of impatience and raps unappalled, 
 
 No restraints of decorum can bind them ; 
 They grin and they smirk, do these small upper "crust," 
 
 On a mutual plan of admiring, 
 And you'd think, as you watched them in pain and disgust, 
 
 'Twas the house, not the box, they were hiring. 
 
 THE MARCHIONESS. 
 
 A summer languor dreaming o'er her face, 
 A look half smile yet breathing half a sigli 
 
 Her step an echo whispering every grace, 
 The stately marchioness sweeps grandly by. 
 
 A form that no rude gesture ever mars, 
 
 Its glowing beauty radiant in repose ; 
 Warm as the sunbeam tranquil as the stars 
 
 Chaste as the lily sensuous as the rose. 
 
 A brow as clear as April morning air, 
 
 A mild gray eye of rich and lustrous hue ; 
 
 Soft waving tresses of dark auburn hair, 
 
 And shell-shaped ears, small and vein-penciled blue. 
 
 13 I 
 
194 
 
 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Lips, rivaling Cupid's roseate bed of flowers, 
 Stand sentry at a gate of glistening pearl ; 
 
 A voice like melodies of childhood's hours 
 Bridging the lost years of the budding girl. 
 
 A vesture regal as an Orient queen, 
 A single jewel flashing vainly bright, 
 
 Seeking to rival Avith its brilliant sheen 
 
 Her swan-like bosom, pure and ivory white. 
 
 Her motion was one grand harmonious swell 
 Of charmed music Avhen the eye is fair ; 
 
 And as she walked, a fragrant incense fell 
 From garment perfumes to anoint the air. 
 
 All ! life, that lingered in that placid look 
 
 Like dreams of sunset on some autumn day 
 
 Ah ! grief, my very soul its God forsook, 
 And in her smile passed all content away. 
 
 Fair marchioness, to every memory dear, 
 A glance of Eden's symmetry was given 
 
 To thee, to show how angels even here 
 
 Are found and draped to fill the choirs of heaven. 
 
 COOL OF THE EVENING. 
 
 Lady, it but little matters 
 Matters least of all to you 
 
 Whether I am warm or callous, 
 False to love, or fond and true. 
 
 Be assured you need not fear me 
 Ne'er to you a pledge I'll break ; 
 
 For the plain and simple reason 
 That I have no pledge to make. 
 
 All the sighs to you I offer 
 
 Shall be passionate and sincere ; 
 
 Only when you hear them, tell me, 
 For I too might like to hear. 
 
 Blame not that my eyes will kindle 
 Gazing on a beauteous form 
 
 Heaven has saved you from the insult 
 Of such glances, keen and warm. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 195 
 
 Madam, from your thoughts dismiss me, 
 Cease to rail against my name ; 
 
 Time has been when you grew careless, 
 And 'twas my care saved your fame. 
 
 I am careful, when not eager, 
 Where to love would be a task ; 
 
 And chaste as Joseph when temptation 
 Woos me in an ugly mask. 
 
 Therefore silence, and forget me, 
 
 Or my memory, at last, 
 May present some startling pictures 
 
 Sketched and painted in the past. 
 
 THE. MYSTIC VOICE. 
 
 Earth is a realm of ceaseless change, 
 
 Where forms are merged in fresher forms, 
 And still the beautiful and strange 
 
 Are cradled in destructive storms ; 
 For Nature's alchemies impart 
 
 New life to all transmuted things, 
 And lend the flesh-decaying heart 
 
 The external spirit's tireless wings. 
 
 The sordid shrine, whose vestal fire 
 
 Burns dim within the grosser frame, 
 May perish, but the rays aspire, 
 
 And reach once more from whence they came. 
 We pass, as through the entrance'd flood,' 
 
 From Egypt's toil to Canaan's bloom, 
 And with the sacrifice of blood 
 
 We find new life beyond the tomb. 
 
 Still, through the vast and deepening void, 
 
 Like sentient flames the spirits come 
 Eternal, changeless, undestroyed, 
 
 And speaking, though the grave be dumb. 
 Within the soul their vital spell 
 
 Reveals the fount from whence it rose 
 The beautiful the terrible 
 
 The strange preamble to the close. 
 
 And thou whose soul with ardor filled 
 Hast seen the fire and heard the voice, 
 
 For whom the future field is tilled, 
 
 And waits the harvest, make thy choice. 
 
196 The Poetical Works of 
 
 It lies before thee ; struggle, strive, 
 Thou canst not beat conviction back ; 
 
 Weak fugitive from higher life, 
 Eternal wings pursue thy track. 
 
 Ah ! traitor soul, for whom in vain 
 
 The veil of heaven was drawn aside, 
 As if to give thy cleansed brain 
 
 An ampler scope, a steadier guide 
 Thou slave of sense, still madly hurled 
 
 Across the unfruitful waste of years 
 Thou stagnant ship, whose white sails, furled, 
 
 Kot idly, dropping stagnant tears. 
 
 Awake ! Beyond the impassive grave 
 
 The spheres of being spread afar, 
 Circle on circle, wave on wave, 
 
 An ocean, where each freighted star 
 Is as a bark that bears along, 
 
 From suffering to the blissful shore, 
 The beautiful, the good, and strong, 
 
 Their term of sad probation o'er. 
 
 Earth dies, and heaven with purer light 
 
 Prepares to clothe our mystic orb ; 
 Bright spirits move in viewless flight 
 
 To cheer the dying, and absorb 
 The falsehoods which have mingled still 
 
 Their pain in life's enchanted bowl ; 
 Heaven's 6nly keys are human will, 
 
 A striving love, an earnest soul. 
 
 A DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Oh ! here's to the wine the ruby wine, 
 
 That touches the lips with bloom, 
 Like a purple fire consuming care, 
 
 And lighting our darkest gloom. 
 It gladdens the heart with rosy light 
 
 May its glory ne'er decline ; 
 For our souls are glad and our hopes are bright 
 
 While quaffing the purple wine. 
 
 Then here's to the wine the flashing wine, 
 
 As it beadeth the cup of joy, 
 And, king like, mounts upon Reason's throne, 
 
 Making dull sense its toy. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 197 
 
 Oh, it claspeth the hand of our fainting soul, 
 
 With passion lights the eyes, 
 And radiant from out the burning bowl 
 
 We see young Love arise. 
 
 Then here's to the wine the deathless wine ; 
 
 No kingly jewels surpass 
 The liquid rubies which flash and shine 
 
 In the depths of each brimming glass. 
 All praise Ave give* to the nectar sweet, 
 
 All praise to the bearing vine 
 Praise to the board at which true friends meet, 
 
 And praise to the purple wine. 
 
 THE RUBY RING. 
 
 Dear brother, when the listless pen 
 
 Sways idly in my wearied fingers, 
 And round my throbbing heart and brain 
 
 No ray of brighter fancy lingers, 
 I catch the sparkle of the stone 
 
 That speaks of friendship undecaying, 
 And straight the clouds aside are thrown 
 
 A fresher light is round me playing. 
 
 They say that talismans of old 
 
 Protected from all hidden dangers ; 
 That spirits lay within the gold, 
 
 At once protectors and avengers. 
 The ring you gave, like these, may prove 
 
 The bane of grief, the source of pleasure ; 
 For all is pleasing that can move 
 
 Remembrance of an absent treasure. 
 
 Like friendship's fire, the brilliant toy, 
 
 Deep set in memory's golden circle, 
 Throws back the ruddy beam of joy, 
 
 And in the dullest night will sparkle. 
 The ring, like memory endless both 
 
 Its warmth from out my heart is getting, 
 And, like myself, of foreign growth, 
 
 Rejoices in a Yankee setting. 
 
 My muse a woman, and you know 
 The female heart inclines to jewels 
 
 Whene'er she wants "full speed" to go, 
 Her engine at the ruby fuels. 
 
198 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The pistons of alternate rhyme 
 
 Move up and down with steady motion ; 
 
 The train of thought, defying time, 
 
 Speeds on through earth, and air, and ocean. 
 
 The Koh-i-noor in Britain's crown 
 
 Is India's blood-mark set upon her ; 
 The sapphire clasp of beauty's gown 
 
 Perchance was purchased by dishonor. 
 The miser's gold is dim with tears, 
 
 And rusted thick with cent, per centage ; 
 My ring, then, clearly it appears, 
 
 O'er these can claim immense advantage. 
 
 The lips, by Cyprian Venus planned, 
 
 Convey love's telegraphic greeting, 
 But friendship meets us hand to hand, 
 
 To feel how cither's pulse is beating ; 
 And on that hand this ring I hold, 
 
 As prized as talisman by dervis, 
 And may that hand be foul and cold 
 
 When 'tis not warmly at thy service. 
 
 TO NEA. 
 
 I never dreamed that you could love me, 
 
 And now 'tis time we part ; 
 You are too fair, and far too high above me 
 
 I may not reach thy heart. 
 On different paths our feet must press : 
 
 You, bound for pleasure's blossomed altar ; 
 While o'er the hills, with heavier stress, 
 
 My fainting footsteps falter. 
 
 Alas ! the hopes my soul that haunted 
 
 In the now spectral past ; 
 You the sole treasure that my spirit vaunted, 
 
 My first love and my last ; 
 This single passion filled my breast, 
 
 Through all my manhood burning clearer ; 
 And Fame I measured by the test 
 
 To thee it brings me nearer. 
 
 But gone all gone the glorious vision ; 
 
 Shadows across it fall ; 
 And time has taught me, with its chill precision, 
 
 The lesson taught to all : 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 199 
 
 That love, like other mortal things, 
 Grows weary of protracted waiting, 
 
 And that it rends its shining wings 
 Against the rough world grating. 
 
 I've learned the world more fully now, 
 
 But still, till memory perish, 
 Your image, with its radiant brow, 
 
 My faithful heart shall cherish ; 
 And wheresoe'er your fate be cast, 
 
 In shade or sunshine, gloom or lustre, 
 Borne from the friendships of the past, 
 
 My thoughts shall round thee cluster. 
 
 With all a lover's eager care 
 
 I watch thy happy lot, 
 Praying for thee a fortune fair 
 
 Myself perhaps forgot. - 
 And still I feel through all my strife 
 
 Thy holy influence gliding 
 Thou art the loadstar of my life, 
 
 My soul from earth dividing. 
 
 THE FERRY-BOATS OF GOTHAM. 
 
 The ferry-boats of Gotham, 
 
 How gloriously they glide, 
 With lamps of red and lamps of blue, 
 
 Across the starless tide; 
 Through long defiles of blazing light 
 
 On each street- studded shore ; 
 No sound to break the hush of night 
 
 Except the paddles' roar. 
 
 Around the Island City lie, 
 
 Encircling block and mart, 
 Vast ships that rear against the sky 
 
 A forest-growth of art ; 
 And girdled thus with winged might 
 
 Though now the wings are furled 
 Manhattan is, what Venice was, 
 
 The Sea-Queen of the world. 
 
 Oh, feny-boats, the argosies 
 That tyrants launched of yore, 
 
 To bring them gold, and gems, and spice 
 From India's plundered shore, 
 
200 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Ne'er knew a freight so rich as this, 
 
 That humbly, day by day, 
 To Brooklyn homes and social ease 
 
 From business ye convey. 
 
 Let Russia launch her birds of prey 
 
 Against the Crescent Moon, 
 And butcher in Sinope's Bay 
 
 The convoy of Batoon , 
 Let France and England, holding back, 
 
 Deny the aid they swore, 
 Until the sea that once was Black, 
 
 Grow red with Turkish gore. 
 
 But ye, undaunted ferry-boats, 
 
 Your pathless course pursue, 
 Nor any nobler navy floats, 
 
 Nor manned by hearts more true ; 
 Your mission is to spread content, 
 
 Love, joy, and wealth to bear 
 Odd's life ! I haven't got a cent 
 
 To pay my-blessed fare. 
 
 THE FIRST OF MAY. ;i 
 
 The first of May, the first of May, 
 What lying poet called it gay ? 
 There is the very devil to pay, 
 And no pitch hot, on the first of May. 
 
 The house I took a twelvemonth since, 
 And furnished fit to lodge a prince 
 That cheerful house I quit to-day, 
 Because it is the first of May. 
 
 My carpets all are torn to shreds, 
 We have not where to lay our heads ; 
 The beds are all unscrewed, and we 
 Are "screwed" as tight as men can be. 
 Our new piano, new no more, 
 In fragments lies upon the floor ; 
 Our China service, once so neat, 
 Now helps to pave the laughing street. 
 
 " Alas !" I cry in utter grief, 
 "Would heaven I were an Arab chief! 
 He roams about unrented places, 
 And camps in every green oasis." 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 201 
 
 The wagoners alone can say 
 The festival is truly gay ; 
 The scallawags get a fortnight's pay 
 For working on the first of May. 
 
 A LOST LOVE. 
 
 The glory of the dream is past, 
 The sweet illusion melts in air, 
 And, calmly facing a despair, 
 
 I whisper, 'tis the last the last 
 The last and most divinely fair, 
 
 The brightest, sunniest, and the last. 
 
 All forms of life, with rapid eye, 
 To seize, to ponder, and survey ; 
 To watch the scales turn either way, 
 
 And every truth to test and try 
 To try, and yet how far we stray 
 
 When judging that for which we sigh ! 
 
 Your friendship in its gilded bark 
 Glides on as calmly as before ; 
 But my impetuous fancy bore 
 
 A helmless boat beyond the mark, 
 And on a far surf-whitened shore 
 
 The wreck beats, drifting through the dark. 
 
 Henceforth we meet with less to dread, 
 And less to hope on either side ; 
 You balanced on a holy pride, 
 
 And I on that which serves instead 
 A stubborn jealousy to hide 
 
 The wound which most of all hath bled. 
 
 THE REJECTED. 
 
 He bowed his head as if the chords 
 
 Of life had snapped in twain ; 
 I could not catch his hurried words, 
 
 But they sounded full of pain ; 
 His eyes were lit with a feverish fire, 
 
 His cheek had a hectic stain, 
 And as he stooped to kiss my hand, 
 
 His tears fell down like rain. 
 
 I 2 
 
The Poetical Works of 
 
 We met once more in after years, 
 
 When I another's bride 
 Had learned to measure by my tears 
 
 The costliness of pride. 
 Amid the gay, unheeding crowd, 
 
 Chance threw us side by side ; 
 He seemed the wreck of a noble heart 
 
 Whose hope had early died. 
 
 The unforgotten look returned 
 
 The sad, impassioned look ; 
 It seemed to pierce my very soul, 
 
 And read it as a book. 
 He bowed his head and strove to smile 
 
 Alas ! I could not brook 
 To know how worthless all I gained, 
 
 And see what 1 forsook. 
 
 THREE OF US AT THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 BY WIPEBWARTH. 
 
 Come, Broadbent, Creyton, sit ye by my side, 
 
 And view yon column with its foamy crest 
 Upspringing from the frog pond's glassy tide, 
 
 To fall again in snow upon its breast. 
 Oh, it is very beautiful ; and mark 
 
 The golden glow it borrows from the west, 
 As the red sunlight dwindles to a spark, 
 
 And fevered day sinks languidly to rest. 
 Yet that hoarse measure sadly fills my ear 
 
 My soul with dark emotions is oppressed ; 
 A voice comes mingling with the murmur here 
 
 A stern and solemn voice that may not jest 
 Wideswarth, it says, 'tis thus you vainly climb, 
 To fall as flat as this upon the tide of rhyme. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN ON BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 TO CIIA.R1/E8 BEOADBENT AND PROFESSOR WIDESWARTH, BY PAUL CREYTON. 
 
 The heart of childhood is a virgin soil 
 
 All bright with birds, and brooks, and sunny showers 
 
 A paradise, whose vernal vines and flowers 
 The hounds of youthful folly spurn and spoil, 
 And manhood tears it with the plow of toil, 
 
Charles Graham Hal/pine. 203 
 
 And builds thereon a city towers' of pride, 
 
 And temples for its idols, side by side, 
 And streets jarred with the crash of life's turmoil ; 
 But noble souls like yours, oh honored friends, 
 
 One pure bright fountain in the midst will leave, 
 
 All green-begirt, like this, which now, at eve, 
 A liquid silver willow heavenward tends, 
 Its murmurous branches in the moonlight blends, 
 And to the peaceful scene a sweet enchantment lends. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 TO W1DEBWAETH AND CEEYTON, BY CIIAELE8 BROADBEXT. 
 
 Green wooded fountain, with how glad a rush 
 Thou leapest up from the surrounding clay, 
 Cleaving toward heaven thy rainbow-colored way, 
 And gleaming brightly in the crimson flush 
 Spread o'er the west ! Anon the starry hush 
 Of night will lull thee, and thy drifted spray 
 No more shall fall, like an alighting fay, 
 On the dry leaves now reveling in thy gush ! 
 ISay, friends, if Love's rich fountain e'er shall fail 
 To fling its freshening waters from the heart, 
 In sorrow's night shall its loud tide depart, 
 And its bright plumage cease to fan the gale, 
 Shall we, who shared its noontide, ever know 
 That Love, like it, has but a summer flow T 
 
 THE OPIUM DREAM. 
 
 BY AN EATEB OP THE DRUG. 
 
 The shadows gather deeper round, 
 They come with a tumultuous sound 
 Of muttering'thunder, and 'they swim 
 Above me, o'er me, faint and dim. 
 A thousand forms of speechless dread 
 Flap on with slow wings o'er my head, 
 And slowly stooping while their eyes 
 Dilate to an unnatural size 
 Let fall a ghastly funeral gleam 
 Upon their own self-conjured dream. 
 
 They come ! They sail from darkness out, 
 A hideous and fantastic rout 
 
204 ' The Poetical Works of. 
 
 Red eyes in every formless head, 
 Red clots upon the ghastly dead, 
 Red robes on every sweltering corse, 
 Red squadrons, rider, rein, and horse 
 They leap from the walls and fill the air, 
 Their flying garments fan my hair 
 God ! what an icy touch was there ! 
 
 Old wrinkled women, in russet clad, 
 
 Advancing silently and sad 
 
 Old wrinkled women, whose gleaming eyes 
 
 Hint of immortal agonies, 
 
 Peeping from under each shadowy hood 
 
 Like phosphor sparks in a rotten wood. 
 
 Stealthy and silent the beldames all 
 
 Creep up the perpendicular wall, 
 
 And, turning, drop in my lidless eyes 
 
 Their own unspeakable agonies. 
 
 Oh, tide of doubt and utter woe, 
 Horrible tide, that lies below 
 The unsounded sea of waking thought 
 Dim tide with every monster fraught 
 While others, nor more pure nor strong, 
 Hear in their sleep the seraph's song, 
 And mount, as ne'er awake they rose, 
 Superior to our common woes 
 What weird, magnetic spell is thine, 
 That drags me to your hateful brine 
 Whene'er my weai-ied Reason lowers 
 Her strained hands from the burning oars ? 
 
 VENICE'S NEW CHANCE. 
 
 The hands that moved on Freedom's clock 
 
 Already strike the appointed hour ; 
 The tocsin sounds, the people flock, 
 
 Majestic in their banded power. 
 Italia wakes ! From town to town 
 
 The leaders cry " To arms ! obey us !" 
 The Austrian sword, the papal crown, 
 
 Reel on the verge of chaos. 
 
 Up ! all who bear the Latin heart ; 
 
 Up ! all who love the vengeful joy ; 
 Let your fierce wrath like lightning dart 
 
 Upon the tyrants, and destroy ! 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 205 
 
 Up ! from the Tiber to the Arve ; 
 
 Let Insurrection's tocsin toll, 
 While wea.poned arms united carve 
 
 A path for the free soul. 
 
 Let Austria's cut-throat legions learn 
 
 To feel and fear the Roman rage ; 
 Let the fierce pontiff's eyes discern 
 
 The dawn of the millennial age. 
 Tell fratricidal France her hordes 
 
 No more shall bid Italia weep ; 
 Reap a full harvest with your swords, 
 
 And garner what you reap ! 
 
 Up, Latins ! by the foulest wrongs 
 
 That ever suffering manhood bore ; 
 By ruffian steel and priestly thongs 
 
 Imbued in patriot gore ; 
 By every scaffold through the land ; 
 
 By dungeons, vault, and leprous spy 
 Up ! up ! and with an armed hand 
 
 Strike down this living lie. 
 
 No more be scourged by priestly cords 
 
 No more be ruled by foreign steel, 
 No more be robbed by foreign lords 
 
 Arise ! the tyrants reel. 
 Expect no mercy, breathe no sigh 
 
 In this last desperate throe for life ; 
 Let " Death or Victory !" be the cry, 
 
 And war unto the knife. 
 
 TO LAURA SINGING. 
 
 A breathless hush is in the hall, 
 
 A silence deep as death ; 
 The sculptured cherubs on the wall 
 
 Appear to hold their breath, 
 While floating forth in silvery strain 
 
 Thy voice rings clear and high, 
 Now filled with passion's rapturous pain, 
 
 Now lost in sorrow's sigh. 
 
 Ah ! Lady Laura, such a tone 
 
 As thine is seldom fyeard ; 
 So lightly breathed, so quickly flown, 
 
 And yet how deep it stirred 
 
200 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Those chords of feeling that have lain 
 
 Unmoved and silent long, 
 Now roused again in heart and brain 
 
 By thy awakening song. 
 
 Thy thoughts into the music flow, 
 
 And mingle with its tide, 
 And thou dost share the poet's woe, 
 
 Or feel the poet's pride. 
 Thy genius, like the crystal spring, 
 
 Reflects each passing form, 
 If rosy boughs above it swing, 
 
 Or drifts the wintry storm. 
 
 I've heard, and yet again would hear 
 
 The music of thy tongue : 
 Entranced in pleasure, eye and ear, 
 
 My soul upon thee hung. 
 Thy voice, like the old Hebrew's rod 
 
 Stretched o'er the prisoning sea, 
 Kolls back the dark and shadowy flood, 
 
 Making our spirits free. 
 
 OH, WANTON WIND. 
 
 Oh, wanton wind, world-kissing kind, 
 
 Thy zephyrs twined my Laura's tresses ; 
 Bathed lip and hand with fragrance bland, 
 
 And even fanned those deep recesses 
 Where love is seen warm couched, serene * 
 
 A rose-leaf dropped on summer billows. 
 Oh, heedless wind, to beauty blind, 
 
 Where couldst thou find more tempting pillows ? 
 
 The lily bell, whose anthers tell 
 
 The time so well, by you set ringing ; 
 The rival rose, wherein repose 
 
 Queen Mab, and those unto her clinging 
 The violet sweet, the daisy neat 
 
 Should I repeat each fragrant blossom 
 Oh, careless wind, could all combined 
 
 So please thy mind as Laura's bosom ? 
 
 Insensate still ! hence hence and fill 
 
 The idle sail of yon bright vessel ; 
 And yet ah stay ! ere hence you stray, 
 
 Leave me, I pray, your right to nestle ; 
 
Charles Graham If alpine. 207 
 
 Give me to seek her damask cheek, 
 
 And, whispering, speak what thou ne'er dreamest ; 
 For me to lie one moment nigh 
 
 Her heart, and die, were bliss supremest. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY. 31 
 
 Lost, a politician's wallet, 
 Portmonnaie, or what-you- call-it, 
 
 And the happy man who .saw 
 What the fate that did befall it 
 
 May on RUFUS ANDREWS draw 
 For a* place a sinecure 
 Worth two thousand dollars sure ; 
 Yea, to this snug sum each year 
 He can "read his title clear." 
 
 'Twas a pocket-book mysterious, 
 Filled with papers jocund, serious, 
 Business, social, patriotic, 
 Journalistic and erotic ; 
 Plans of caucus and Convention 
 Swelled its bulk beyond dimension ; 
 Every kind of scrip and docket 
 Found its place in THURLOW'S pocket ; 
 But the book is lost, and we 
 Search for its recovery. 
 
 It contained a note from GREELEY, 
 Asking THURLOW ' ' if he really 
 Had decided as to who 
 Should be suddenly put through 
 For BILL SEWARD'S vacant shoe ? 
 GREELEY was prepared to take it 
 If all right ' my lord' could make it ; 
 And he then no more would tramp 
 In the wake of any scamp ; 
 But he wanted ' Yes' or ' No,' 
 That he might be governed so." 
 
 Then there came a note from RAYMOND, 
 With a sort of oblique aim and 
 Purpose cautiously suppressed : 
 He in Paris wished to rest, 
 And for consul would be glad 
 If LORD THURLOW'S aid he had : 
 
208 The Poetical Works of 
 
 " The prospects of the times were bad 
 Very dismal, very sad ; 
 But whate'er the Times could do 
 Of service zealous, constant, true 
 LORD THURLOW might make up his mind 
 He ever in its page should find, 
 If he to SEWARD a word would slip 
 For RAYMOND'S Paris consulship." 
 
 And next there came that we should pen it 
 
 A sharp, clear note from J. G. BENNETT : 
 
 "French mission wanted circulation 
 
 Larger than any in the nation 
 
 Why is the weak, dull DAYTON sent 
 
 To where wit rates at cent, per cent., 
 
 Wilh PENNINGTON for his secretary, 
 
 Who, when they speak French, answers ' Nary ?' 
 
 The administration then may sway 
 
 The Herald's influence day by day, 
 
 And THDRLOW, without cost of dollar, 
 
 Become ' a gentleman and scholar.' " 
 
 This note from CDMMINGS short and sweet 
 
 " The World, my lord, is at your feet ; 
 
 Its empty columns gape to find 
 
 The astute impress of your mind ; 
 
 But don't let CAMERON dispose 
 
 Of all the jobs in army clothes, 
 
 Rations and weapons, transportation 
 
 The royal profits of the nation 
 
 Without remembering mine and me, 
 
 Stanchest of all your friends, A.C." 
 
 Dozens of other papers were 
 
 Confided to the lost book's care, 
 
 All equally of weight with those 
 
 The drift of which we here disclose. 
 
 Now who, by any "crook" or "hook," 
 
 Can find for us this wondrous book, 
 
 And gain at WEED an "inside" look ? 
 
 Who can reveal to after ages 
 
 The curious secrets of its pages, 
 
 And let us know how THURLOW noted 
 
 The schemes which round his path have floated ? 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 209 
 
 MY DOVE IN HER NEST. 
 
 ' ' Nay, your wine will make me heady ; 
 We have ta'en enough already ; 
 Let us go while we are steady ; 
 
 Do not stir I know my way. " 
 So I lit my chamber candle, 
 Sought my room, and turned the handle 
 Lady togs, from ruff to sandal, 
 
 Loose across the lounger lay. 
 
 " Heavens !" I cried, alarmed and shaken, 
 ' ' Surely I have been mistaken ; 
 If the sleeping beauty waken, 
 
 What excuse for me remains ?" 
 Fear the dangerous joy enhances, . 
 Love with eager step advances 
 Oh, the dreams, the languors, trances, 
 
 Throbbing in my dove's young veins. 
 
 Blissful watch above her keeping, 
 Angels guard their sister sleeping 
 Would they wake her should a peeping, 
 
 Bearded mortal ope the door ? 
 Cautiously a pace advancing, 
 Round the rose-silk draperies glancing 
 Oh ! the sight divine, entrancing, 
 
 Haunts my dreams for evermore. 
 
 Flushed as May's young wealth of roses, 
 Laura on the couch reposes, 
 And the billowy snow discloses 
 
 Outlines worth a sculptor's note : 
 Tresses loose a golden wonder 
 Crimson lips that smile asunder, 
 And one small hand creeping under 
 
 The crisp lace which fringed her throat. 
 
 Now a kiss were easy stealing, 
 But I dared not trust the feeling, 
 For my very soul seemed reeling 
 
 In the fullness of her view ; 
 So I bowed my head and blessed her, 
 Prayed the angel host to rest her, 
 Softly said, " Sweet dreams, fair sister !" 
 
 And from that small heaven withdrew. 
 
 14 
 
210 The Poetical Works of 
 
 A BRACE OF SONNETS, 
 
 DEDICATED TO PROFESSOR WIDE8WAETU BY CHARLES BKOADBENT. 
 I. 
 
 Oh, Wideswarth ! Feebly in these latter days 
 
 We seek to build the imperial sonnet's throne, 
 
 Monarch of verse and poesie : the tone 
 Of modern converse ill can reach the lays 
 Which bound old Petrarch with immortal bays, 
 
 And gave him o'er this rhythm to rule alone. 
 
 Milton, who drank his spirit, and made known 
 To our rough tongue the harmony that plays 
 And lightens o'er the undivided thought 
 
 ' Of this intensest poetry, hath shown 
 How near the rude Norse utterance may be brought 
 To the soft music in Italia wrought. 
 
 And thou alas ! to mockery sometimes prone 
 A portion of the melody hast caught. 
 
 II. 
 
 And I have listened gladly to thy strain, 
 
 And thrilled in spirit to the solemn swell 
 
 Of music poured from > out the rosy shell 
 Which some pale muse had touched nor touched in vain- 
 With her white feet when wandering on in pain 
 
 Of meditation through the sea-worn cell ; 
 
 Her white brows knit, and crowned with asphodel 
 Gathered by moonlight on the breezy plain 
 Which skirts Parnassus ; and I wondered how 
 
 Thy soul could deem so lightly of the spell 
 With* which Apollo had adorned thy brow 
 (Still niggard to my prayer and earnest vow) 
 
 As to enweave the silken-threaded muse 
 With darning-cotton, such as housewives nee. 
 
 THE TROPIC BIRD. 
 
 Not of our forests art thou ! Here the cold 
 Of winter soon would mar 
 
 Thy glittering plumage from afar, 
 From lands of gold, 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 211 
 
 And from the streams that roll along beneath 
 
 The quivering lotus bowers, 
 Where spreads the palm, and amaranthine flowers 
 
 In blushing wreath 
 Aye greet the kisses of the Eastern dawn, 
 
 Comest thou to us, bright bird. 
 I envy not his heart who, all unstirred, 
 
 Can look upon 
 Thy glittering wing, nor give his fancy rein 
 
 To tropic shore and glowing sky, 
 Streams, temples, woods, and with a sigh 
 
 Receive it back again. 
 For me, I look on thee, and in a dream, 
 
 Before the gazing eye, 
 The gorgeous pageant of the East rolls by 
 
 On Ganges' stream. 
 Gem-studded galleys, and the crimson slaves 
 
 (Their tunics woven o'er 
 With sapphire studs and braids of yellow ore), 
 
 The cedar waves 
 Her emerald boughs above them ; and on high, 
 
 Throned on the ivory poop, 
 The swarthy sultan, with a hoop 
 
 That well might buy 
 Our barren kingdoms on his ample brow ; 
 
 And those young Georgian girls 
 The raven tresses looped with sparkling pearls 
 
 Before him bow, 
 All duteous to his nod. The silver oars 
 
 Flash as they hurry on 
 The peopled argosies ! 'Tis gone ! 
 
 The purple shores 
 Are silent, save the speechless melody 
 
 Poured from the myrtle bowers. 
 What is't to me that here the hours 
 
 Of daylight flee? 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 TO DOU.Y B , TEN YKAE8 OLD. 
 
 On this pleasant day, dear Dolly, 
 When, from young Love's lips, 
 
 Touched by sweet Saint Valentine, 
 The bond of silence slips ; 
 
212 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Now, when 'tis allowed us 
 
 All our hearts to bare 
 At your modest maiden shrine, 
 Thus I kneel and swear : 
 
 " Hear and heed me, Dolly, 
 
 I pledge my love to-day, 
 And when you come to womanhood, 
 Oh, then the debt repay." 
 
 The bright glad hours of girlhood, 
 
 The frolic soul that trips 
 On silvery feet o'er rosy paths 
 
 The pure and laughing lips ; 
 The golden curls, the mantling blush, 
 The blue and sinless eyes , 
 
 Oh, never may the future bid 
 A cloud o'er these arise. 
 
 " But hear and heed me, Dolly, 
 
 I pledge my heart to-day, 
 And when you come to womanhood, 
 Oh, then the debt repay. " 
 
 Each year, while ripening beauty 
 Gives roundness to your form ; 
 When the heart now full of gayety 
 
 Grows softer and more warm ; 
 When your blush hath deeper meaning, 
 
 And your eyes are darker hued, 
 Again, before your altar-shrine, 
 This pledge shall be renewed : 
 
 " So hear and heed me, Dolly, 
 
 My heart is thine to-day, 
 And when you come to womanhood, 
 Oh, then the debt repay." 
 
 MY SOUL IS SAD. 
 
 NEW VERSION. 
 
 My soul is sad ! Oh, quickly bring 
 
 The cup I yet can love to drain, 
 And let its fragrant sweetness fling 
 
 Delicious languor round my brain. 
 If in this heart one joke remain, ' 
 
 The cup shall charm it into line ; 
 If there be any balm for pain, 
 
 It is it is in glorious wine. 
 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 213 
 
 But bid the cup at first be mild, 
 
 Nor let its strength come on too soon ; 
 I tell thee, waiter, I have smiled 
 
 At least a dozen times since noon. 
 And now I ask of thee a boon 
 
 (Here take this quarter for your trouble) 
 Do you observe a double moon, 
 
 Or is it I that now "see double?" 
 
 MORE LIGHT. 
 
 More light more light more light ! 
 This is the cry of unhappy humanity, 
 This is the prayer of poor blinded humanity, 
 Groping in passion, in pain, and inanity 
 Round the bleak walls of the prison of vanity 
 Every where seeking a ray of divinity, 
 Every where finding the terrible trinity ! 
 Darkness, and dolor, and doubt inexpressible 
 Numbness, and dumbness, and pain inexpressible 
 Doubts irrepressible, woes unendurable, 
 Tears that fall laughingly, smiles that are sorrowful ; 
 Longings and gleams of superior existences, 
 Voices that whisper from infinite distances 
 Mystical distances soul-haunted distances 
 Beauty that flings back the folds of a cerement, 
 Skeletons veiled in the garments of merriment, 
 All that is exquisite, all that is wonderful, 
 Earth a vast theatre, over and under full 
 Full to the brim of discordant existences, 
 Matter and spirit, and powers and resistances 
 Every where opposites : anguish and levity, 
 Mortal reality, hoped immortality, 
 Art for long years, and man's life but a brevity. 
 Oh, in this shadowed and whispering night, 
 This mystical stage with its curtain of night, 
 Grant us Thy wisdom Thy comfort Thy light 
 Grant us more light, or we perish. 
 
 PHILIP AND I. 
 
 You, asking me how Philip fared, 
 Received reply that he and I, 
 Some years ago, had said good-by, 
 
 Since which I neither knew nor cared. 
 
The Poetical Works of 
 
 It was a peevish answer, spoken 
 In bitter sorrow and regret 
 That such a brilliant, brightly set 
 
 As was our friendship, should be broken. 
 
 Shattered with purpose fell and strong, 
 Without the warning of a word 
 An arrow whistling through a bird, 
 
 Even while her throat was full of song. 
 
 Happy her fate ! The spirit winging 
 Ere sense of treachery or pain 
 Can reach conception in the brain, 
 
 She dies within the act of singing. 
 
 So the shrill shaft which sudden cast 
 Our dream of friendship to the ground, 
 Of its dread coming gave no sound, 
 
 But smote and shattere'd and was past. 
 
 One moment in amaze I stood, 
 Thinking it can but be in jest ! 
 Another, and within my breast 
 
 The laboring heart gave sobs of blood. 
 
 Less happy than the bird, I live 
 
 To know the treachery, bear the pain, 
 And feel that on this earth again 
 
 Such friendship I no more can give. 
 
 So to your quest how Philip fared, 
 I made reply that he and I, 
 Some years ago, had said good-by, 
 
 Since which I neither knew nor cared. 
 
 FORENSIC ELOQUENCE A PORTRAIT. 
 
 "What is the secret of your friend Brady's success T' Query in a private 
 Utter. 
 
 . . Not with fast-flashing volleys of vain speech 
 Fired off at random, and revealing naught 
 But verbiage used to hide the want of thought 
 Mere summer- thunder the kind schoolmen teach 
 And never to a definite purpose wrought ; 
 
 But with most apt precision, and a tongue 
 
 Linked in such harmony with the weighing brain 
 That every phrase is balanced there again, 
 
 Dropping like gold on truth's own touchstone rung 
 Results arrived at by a perfect chain : 
 
Cliarles Graham Halpine. 215 
 
 Quick sympathy with every trait and touch 
 Reflected in the natures round him brought, 
 And an assimilating power of thought 
 
 So like our own, we let it pass for such, 
 
 Priding ourselves as teachers when but taught. 
 
 One other power an undecaying flame 
 Of human charity soft, religious warmth ; 
 Never was wreck but tells him of some storm ; 
 
 And, pitying what his judgment yet must blame, 
 He sees God's image in the meanest form. 
 
 These are the weapons wielded by my friend 
 These, and an orderly, analytic mind, 
 Grouping strong facts beneath the heads assigned, 
 
 And making all to one conclusion tend : 
 Ears to the deaf, and eyesight to the blind. 
 
 A VISIT. 
 
 Ah me ! how time doth gallop now 
 With headlong stride and pace ; 
 
 But yesterday thy youthful brow, 
 And gentle girlish face, 
 
 Were set in memory like a gem 
 
 Worn in some queenly diadem. 
 
 How changed to me the picture seems 
 
 In tinting, shape, and air ; 
 The child I thought of in my dreams 
 
 Now smiles a woman fair ; 
 And while her graceful form I see, 
 The past seems but an hour to me. 
 
 A light heart glows within thee still, 
 Though not exempt from pain ; 
 
 And Nature, in her task to fill, 
 Let all thy youth remain, 
 
 And gave thee, with a woman's form, 
 
 A charm to keep all friendship warm. 
 
 Since last in by-gone years we met, 
 How many hopes are fled! 
 
 What joys we think of with regret, 
 To all save memory dead ; 
 
 l?ut with our being still will dwell 
 
 The magic of their holy spell. 
 
216 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Thus may the future yet reveal 
 
 New joys to equal those, 
 And o'er our spirits too may steal 
 
 The bliss of calm repose, 
 Coming like gentle summer showers 
 To give new life to drooping flowers. 
 
 THE TROOPER TO HIS MARE. 
 
 Old girl, that hast borne me far and fast 
 
 On pawing hoofs that were never loth, 
 Our gallop to-day may be the last 
 
 For thee or for me or perchance for both. 
 As I tighten your girth, do you nothing daunt 
 
 Do you catch the hint of our forming line ? 
 And now the artillery move to the front, 
 
 Have you never a qualm, Bay Bess of mine? 
 
 It is dainty to see you sidle and start 
 
 As you move to the battle's cloudy marge, 
 And to feel the swells of your wakening heart 
 
 When our cavalry bugles sound a charge. 
 At the scream of the shell and the roll of the <lrum 
 
 You feign to be frightened with skittish glance, 
 But up the green slopes where the bullets hum, 
 
 Coquettishly, darling, I've known you dance. 
 
 Your skin is satin, your nostrils red, 
 
 Your eyes are a bird's or a loving girl's ; 
 And from delicate fetlock to dainty head 
 
 A throbbing vein-cordage around you curls. 
 i^Oh, joy of my soul ! if you they slay, 
 
 For triumph or rout I little care ; 
 For there is not in all the wide valley to-day 
 
 Such a dear little bridle-wise, thorough-bred mare. 
 
 BREVET RANK. 32 
 
 TO THE SENATORS OF THE TTNITED STATES. 
 
 To Sheridan's heroes and Sherman's men, 
 
 And the bull-dogs of Grant who drove Lee from his den, 
 
 Give brevet promotions of honor ; and then 
 
 Find some foul detective, some leprous spy, 
 
 His labors a loathing, his life but a lie, 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 217 
 
 Some wretch who hath planned half the crimes he exposed, 
 
 Chief plotter himself of the plots he disclosed, 
 
 And place on his shoulders not cowhide thongs, 
 
 But the brevet which rightly to honor belongs ; 
 
 And when this you have done, will your brevets then 
 
 On Sheridan's heroes and Sherman's me.n, 
 
 And the bull-dogs of Grant who drove Lee from his den, 
 
 Sit proudly as trophies they won in the fray, 
 
 Or shrivel to shameful mementoes away ? 
 
 Oh, think of it, senators ! Thousands have died, 
 
 Pouring out their young lives in an eager, tide, 
 
 While to win this prize of honor they vied ; 
 
 And this prize past price can you now degrade 
 
 To a badge of the mouchard's odious trade ? 
 
 If the spy hath done well, pay him store of gold 
 
 By thousands, or fifties of thousands told ; 
 
 Or should you lack means his reward to defray, 
 
 Take all that we have our last dollar of pay, 
 
 But leave us the honor our swords have won 
 
 As a glory to boast, not a shame to shun ; 
 
 Nor bid Sheridan's heroes and Sherman's men, 
 
 And the bull-dogs of Grant who drove Lee from his den, 
 
 On their straps, as a blistering symbol to bear, 
 
 What this human sleuth-hound is' free to share. 
 
 GENERAL ORDERS OF THE CITIZEN. 
 
 GENERAL ORT>ER NO. I. 
 
 A paragraph to make one laugh 
 Should be of ten lines just a half; 
 A trivial theme a brilliant stream 
 Of verbiage, metaphor, and dream 
 Such as this paragraph, I deem. 
 
 A stirring song is never long, 
 But must be fiery, terse, and strong, 
 With much of thought, not fully wrought, 
 But in quick glimpses shown and caught : 
 Such are the rules Bob Burns has taught. 
 
 A good critique should ever seek 
 
 To check the proud and help the weak ; 
 
 Not swayed by fame, nor prone to blame 
 
 Calm, energetic never tame 
 
 And free from mercenary shame. 
 
 K 
 
218 The Poetical Works of 
 
 A tale or sketch should never fetch 
 Its hero from thy hand, Jack Ketch ; 
 Though for a time the tide of crime 
 Roll down white-crested and sublime, 
 It leaves a track of venomed slime. 
 
 In short, be brief. Each added leaf 
 Is so much to your reader's grief 5 
 The point is gone ; the lightning shone 
 And dies while yet we labor on ; 
 True wit ne'er knows a second dawn. 
 
 Observe these rules, and mock the schools 
 Of composition taught by fools. 
 Briefness and wit together fit, 
 And fly, like Parthians, when they hit 
 The urchins are too wise to sit. 
 
 By order of the Editor commanding. 
 
 JOHN JONES, Lieut. Col. and A.A.G. 
 
 TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS, OR THE FORTUNE-HUNTER. 
 
 I love oh, more than words can tell 
 
 (Your ninety thousand golden shiners) ; 
 You draw me by a nameless spell 
 
 (As California draws the miners) ; 
 You are so rich in beauty's dower 
 
 (And rich in several ways beside it), 
 Had I your hand within my power 
 
 (Across a banker's draft to guide it), 
 No care my future life could dim 
 (My tailor, too what joy to him I). 
 
 Oh, should you change your name for mine 
 
 (I've given my name on bills to twenty), 
 Existence were a dream divine 
 
 (At least so long as cash was plenty) ; 
 Our home should be a sylvan grot 
 
 (Bath, billiard, smoking-room, and larder), 
 And there, forgetting and forgot 
 
 (My present need, I'd live the harder), 
 Our days should pass in fresh delights 
 (Lethargic days, but roaring nights). 
 
 Oh say, my young, my fawn-like girl 
 
 (She's old enough to be my mother), 
 Let "Yes"oerleap those gates of pearl 
 
 (My laughter it is hard to smother) ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 Let lips that Love hath formed for joy 
 (For joy if they her purse resign me) 
 
 Long hesitate ere they destroy 
 
 (And to a debtor's jail consign me) 
 
 The heart that beats but to adore 
 
 (Yourself the less, your fortune more). 
 
 Consent consent, my priceless love 
 
 (Her price precise is ninety thousand) ; 
 I swear by all around, above 
 
 (Her purse-strings now, I feel, are loosened), 
 I have not loved you for your wealth 
 
 (Nor loved at all, as I'm a sinner) ; 
 Oh bliss ! you yield ; one kiss by stealth ! 
 
 (I'm sick that kiss has spoiled my dinner) ; 
 Now early name the blissful day 
 (My duns grow clamorous for their pay). 
 
 THIRD ODE, FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE 
 
 Him on whose humble birth a gentle light, 
 () Muse ! you shed, no wrestling-prize may win, 
 No war-steed bear him in the triumph bright, 
 Nor shall his voice be heard above the din 
 Of armed hosts ; for him no laurel springs 
 From threats hurled back on subjugated kings. 
 
 But where through Tibur's vale sweet waters flow, 
 Amid dense bowers of thickly shadowing leaves, 
 ' There shall his brow beneath dark ivy glow 
 
 As his wild harp the vEolian measure weaves ; 
 For queenly Rome hath deigned to hear his song, 
 Nor envy dares to do him farther wrong. 
 
 Oh, gentle Muse, whose fingers modulate 
 The dulcet music of the golden shell 
 
 Thou whom from dumb fishes even canst create 
 Such notes as from the dying cygnet swell, 
 
 It is your gift that I can touch the lyre, 
 
 While those who pass me hearken and admire. 
 
 'Tis by thy gift oh bounteous beyond measure 
 That I to strangers as a bard am known ; 
 
 Yea, that I live, and that my songs give pleasure 
 (If please they do), the praise is thine alone, 
 
 For thou hast given his all of poet-fire 
 
 To thy poor stringer of the Roman lyre. 
 
220 The Poetical Works of 
 
 IGDRASIL. 
 
 The tree of life, that shone so fair 
 
 In spring's alternate shine and shower, 
 What bitter fruit its branches bear 
 
 How soon 'tis stripped of leaf and flower, 
 As if athwart the sheltering glade 
 
 Had swept the pestilent simoom ; 
 Nor ever more beneath its shade 
 
 Shall violet ope or primrose bloom. 
 
 No more beneath its spreading leaves 
 
 Shall weary lambs at noontide throng, 
 While overhead the linnet weaves 
 
 The silken tenor of his song. 
 No more the pale and sorrowing moon 
 
 Her dewy tears above it weep ; 
 No more at night's unbroken noon 
 
 Shall Muse beneath its branches sleep. 
 
 For blight hath fallen on bud and leaf, 
 
 And turned its fruitful sap to gall, 
 And, mildewed in the showers of grief, 
 
 It totters to an early fall. 
 The bough the redbreast used to love 
 
 Now nightly hears the owlet hoot 
 The locust gnaws the leaves above, 
 
 The cankerworm is at the root. 
 
 Then shall it fall, and leave behind 
 
 No record of the brighter past, 
 Uprooted by the idle wind, 
 
 And whirled away upon the blast. 
 Forfend it, Heaven! a soil too warm 
 
 Hath nursed this plague ; transplant it now 
 Where drifting rain and eddying storm 
 
 May purge the root and cleanse the bough. 
 
 And Hope who long had listened mute 
 
 Now raised her azure eyes and smiled ; 
 She whispered low of future fruit, 
 
 And pointed to the distant wild. 
 Oh. bear it thither ; trust in God ; 
 
 Have faith in my prophetic words 
 Again 'twill spread its arms abroad, 
 
 And shelter its deserted birds. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 221 
 
 THE FENIAN SCARE. 
 
 Half in terror, half in wonder, 
 
 Johnny Bull, with open mouth, 
 Just begins to feel the blunder 
 
 Of his favor to the South ; 
 And he sees, wherever turning 
 
 His distraught and haggard view, 
 Minatory meteors burning 
 
 In our banner's field of blue ; 
 And within the panorama 
 
 Which foretells his flag's eclipse, 
 He beholds the Alabama 
 
 And her kindred pirate-ships ; 
 And he sees the Fenians reaching 
 
 To assault him in his lair 
 And, his own bad conscience preaching, 
 
 This explains " the Fenian scare." 
 
 AN ANTI-MAINE-LAW LYRIC. 
 Air: " The Old Oaken Bucket" ' 
 
 How dear to the heart is the bottle of brandy, 
 
 When fond recollection presents it to view, 
 As it stood in the cupboard, so neat and so handy, 
 
 With its neck tapered off, and its belly of blue! 
 The old cottage walls are now crumbling to pieces, 
 
 As I, who am old, must soon crumble myself, 
 But ah ! every woe and embitterment ceases 
 
 When I think on the bottle that stood on the shelf 
 The big-bellied bottle the taper-necked bottle 
 
 The bottle of brandy that stood on the shelf. 
 
 The loosely-corked bottle, I held it a treasure. 
 
 For often, when weary I came from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure 
 
 Such pleasure as brandy and weariness yield. 
 In a moment I seized it, and, hastily bringing 
 
 Some spice from the closet, I mixed me a bowl, 
 And soon was my weariness changed into singing, 
 
 And the dust of rny labor was washed from my soul 
 By the big-bellied bottle the taper-necked bottle 
 
 The bottle of brandy that stood on the shelf. 
 
222 The Poetical Works of 
 
 How sweet from the thin crystal brim to receive it, 
 
 As I turned up my finger and moistened my lips ; 
 Not a fountain of diamonds could tempt me to leave if, 
 
 Nor all the cold water that lies under ships ; 
 And still, though in Maine is my present location, 
 
 And although 'tis a good, one for gathering pelf, 
 As fancy reverts to the ruby temptation, 
 
 I sigh for the bottle that stood on the shelf 
 For the big-bellied bottle the loosely- corked bottle 
 
 The gurgling blue bottle that stood on the shelf. 
 
 PARTANT POUR LA SYRIE. 
 
 \ 
 
 FROM THE FKENCU. 
 
 Dunois, the young and gallant, 
 
 For Syria sailing soon, 
 Prayed to the Virgin Mary 
 . That she would grant his boon : 
 "Grant, Mary, thou who savest, 
 
 Immortal Queen! "he cried, 
 "That I may be the bravest, 
 
 And win the loveliest bride." 
 
 Upon her shrine engraven 
 
 His prayer forever shone, 
 And, with his lord to battle, 
 
 Dunois rushed bravely on ; 
 And, to that good oath steady, 
 
 This charging cry he gave : 
 " Love to the fairest lady, 
 
 And honor to the brave !" 
 
 His lord cried, "All the triumph 
 
 Is thine, Dunois, I swear ; 
 And as you have given me conquest. 
 
 Thy fortune is my care. 
 My daughter Isabella, 
 
 Thou shalt wed her to-night 
 She is the fairest maiden, 
 
 And you the bravest knight. ' ? 
 
 At the altar of the Virgin 
 
 Their nuptial troth they plight 
 
 Oh, blessed is the union 
 
 Where hands and hearts unite. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 223 
 
 And all who thronged the chapel 
 This benediction gave 
 
 "Love to the fairest lady, 
 And honor to the brave!" 
 
 NINTH ODE OF HORACE, THIRD BOOK. 
 
 FREELY TRANSLATED BY CHARLES BROADBENT. . 
 
 A DUET BETWEEN HOKACE AND LYDIA. 
 
 HORACE. 
 Whilst thou wert mine, and round your bosom tender 
 
 No youth more loved his happy arms might fold, 
 I envied not the Persian monarch's splendor, 
 More proud of thee than he of all his gold. 
 
 Whilst thou with warmer fire adored no other, 
 Nor Lydia bowed to Chloe's hated name, 
 
 I envied not Rome's Ilia, our great mother, 
 Proud of thy love as she of her son's fame.* 
 
 The Cretan Chloe now commands my duty, 
 Skillful in song, and mistress, of the lyre, 
 
 For whom, if Fate but spared her shining beauty, 
 I would not dread this moment to expire. 
 
 Calais, of Thurian Orynthus descended, 
 
 Inflames my passion with love's fiery breath ; 
 
 Were his life spared when my brief days were ended, 
 Twice, and that gladly, would I suffer death. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 What if our love returned, and, reunited, 
 Our spirits beat in harmony and hope? 
 
 If Chloe of the golden locks be slighted, 
 Would Lydia's arms to me, repentant, ope ? 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 Though he yon star's rich lustre is excelling, 
 You, light as cork, and passionate as the storm, 
 
 With you, my love, should be my happy dwelling, 
 And in your grave would I resign my form. 
 
 * Eomulus, son to Ilia. 
 
224 The Poetical Works of 
 
 A COLLEGE SONG. 
 
 Well, the world goes round forever, 
 
 Whether we are sad or gay, . 
 Floats the cloud and rolls the river, 
 
 Though we pine our lives away ; 
 
 Night usurps the throne of day, 
 And, when morning's lances quiver 
 
 O'er the mountains, flies away, 
 But returns at sunset ever 
 
 Earth alternates night and day, 
 Grave and gay. 
 
 If the world so little care us, 
 
 Why should we regard the world ? 
 Still her flowery meadows bear us, 
 
 And the star-tent is unfurled ; 
 
 Even the stars from heaven are hurled ; 
 And the grasp of death will tear us 
 
 From the tree round which we curled 
 From the tree of life will tear us, 
 
 Round which our affections curled 
 From the world. 
 
 Comrades, soon the world will leave us 
 
 Stranded on the shores of time ; 
 Years of all our joys bereave us, 
 
 Age is like the serpent-slime, 
 
 Staining roses in their prime ; 
 Every day will deeper grieve us, 
 
 Every parting hour will chime 
 A knell for the sweet hopes that leave us 
 
 Buried in the by-gone time 
 Hear it chime. 
 
 Comrades, seize the passing moment 
 
 Lent us by eternity ; 
 Use it wisely, for 'tis so lent, 
 
 As a drop from out the sea, 
 
 Rolling backward instantly ; 
 Age advances, gray and low bent 
 
 As the waves of pleasure flee ; 
 Drives us to our latest moment, 
 
 To the dread eternity 
 
 To that vast and trackless sea, 
 Over which the clouds are low bent, 
 
 And uncounted shadows flee. 
 
Charles Graham Hcilpine. 225 
 
 FOUKTH ODE, FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. 
 
 Once more, thank heaven, the western breeze is sounding, 
 
 And Winter yields to Spring's delightful sway ; 
 The skiffs, long moored in ice, are bounding % 
 
 O'er the bright waters of the rippling bay ; 
 The flocks we stall-fed seek the tender clover, 
 
 The plowman quits his fire and yokes his team, 
 The snowy robes that lately covered over 
 
 The swelling uplands melt into the stream. 
 
 Now, by sweet moonlight, Venus and the Graces 
 
 O'er the green sod the flying dancers urge ; 
 The Cyclops toil in their appointed places, 
 
 And fiery Vulcan labors at his forge ; 
 Now let the myrtle wreath be placed upon us, 
 
 And all the flowers that earliest brave the cold ; 
 Now let us offer sacrifice to Faunus t 
 
 In shady groves, the. firstling of our fold. 
 
 Pale Death, with equal step, is seen approaching 
 
 The peasant's hut and palace-home sublime, 
 And the dark flood of age so fast encroaching, 
 
 Forbids us fix our hope on distant time ; 
 Darkness and death, oblivion of the spirit, 
 
 Soon from our brow shall tear the shining crown ; 
 The grave is all from Nature we inherit, 
 
 And Pluto there in silence binds us down. 
 
 In that cold mansion, farewell the dominion 
 
 Of jovial cheer, the wine-cup, and the song; 
 Love in its gloom ne'er bathes his rosy pinion, 
 
 Nor grants his pleasures to the ghostly throng. 
 Nothing can please that erstwhile did excite you, 
 
 Nor from your face remove the heavy frown ; 
 Not even can Laura's tender glance delight you, 
 
 She now the toast and beauty of the town. 
 
 AN EXILE'S GRAVE. 
 
 He sleeps, and o'er his humble grave 
 No gilded trophy meets the view, 
 And yet the man beneath was true, 
 Just, resolute, and brave. 
 
 15 K 2 
 
226 -The Poetical Works of 
 
 He paid his folly's farthest debt 
 Inurn it with his mortal part ! 
 His qualities of mind and heart 
 Will long survive him yet. 
 
 Oh, friends, it is a bitter thing 
 To die alone in a wide land, 
 Without a friend, without a hand, 
 Or hope, or help to bring ; 
 
 To know our bones may never rest 
 In the green valleys of our youth 
 To feel that many a foul untruth 
 Our memory may molest. 
 
 He bared against a vengeful foe 
 The steel to freedom consecrate, 
 And died, the victim of a hate 
 
 That spares nor high nor low. 
 
 For there, are ways of killing men 
 Beside the sword, the axe, the rope 
 Great hearts will break when lost to hope, 
 And yet no blood be seen. 
 
 In simplest guise, and borne by some 
 Who knew his worth hit will to bless 
 He presses, as our noblest press, 
 The couch of martyrdom. 
 
 Peace to his soul ! Let him who ne'er 
 Hath felt the long-protracted pains, 
 The life in death of prison-chains, 
 Speak lowly and* beware. 
 
 Let him who ne'er was gagged, and torn 
 From home and kindred far away 
 Who hath not steeped from day to day 
 His bread in tears of scorn, 
 
 Let him be mute, or meekly pray, 
 Thus kneeling on the grassy sod 
 "Thy sore temptations, known to God, 
 Have washed thy sins away." 
 
 WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 
 
 There is a whisper ringing clear 
 In every sleepless listener's ear 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 227 
 
 A whisper of but scanty cheer, 
 And heard more clearly year by year 
 " You might have been you might have been." 
 
 Breathing throughout the hush of night, 
 It shuns companionship and light ; 
 A knell, a blessing, and a blight, 
 We profit if we hear aright, 
 "You might have been you migh^ have been." 
 
 As memory bids the past arise, 
 The soaring hopes that swept the skies 
 (Each in its narrow grave now lies), 
 We hear, and not with tearless eyes, ".- 
 "You might have been you might have been." 
 
 We might have played a nobler game, 
 Essayed and reached a worthier aim, 
 Had less of grief and more of fame, 
 Nor heard, as from a tongue of flame, 
 "You might have been you might have been." 
 
 FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE, THIRTEENTH ODE. 
 
 FEEBLY TRANSLATED BY CHARLES BBOADBENT. 
 
 The gods have heard my prayer, girl, 
 
 The gods have heard my prayer ; 
 For thou art old, yet still dost wish 
 
 To be reputed fair. 
 You drink the rosy wine, girl, 
 
 And coo like any dove, 
 With your half-tipsy, husky voice, 
 
 The tender hymn of love. * 
 
 The butterfly of love, girl, 
 
 Still shuns the withered tree ; 
 His home is in the summer bower, 
 
 And such is not for thee. 
 Your foul and straggling teeth, girl, 
 
 The wrinkles on your brow, 
 The elf-locks of your whitening hair 
 
 Can little please him now. 
 
 Nor purple robes restore, girl, 
 
 Nor gems bring back the age 
 Which winged Time in passing wrote 
 
 On History's open page. 
 
228 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Oh ! where is beauty gone, girl ? 
 
 The grace ? the bloom ? what' part 
 Hast thou of her remaining now 
 
 Who once o'erswayed my heart ? 
 
 Next to Cynara wert thou 
 
 In wit, and form, and face, 
 But the gods removed Cynara 
 
 Ere time destroyed her grace. 
 But the gods preserved Vestina 
 
 To rival the raven's years, 
 And that glowing youth should mock the torch 
 
 Now quenched in time and tears. 
 
 WIDOWOLOGY PHILOSOPHIZED. 
 
 Oh ! none of your boarding-school misses, 
 
 Your sweet, timid creatures for me, 
 Who rave about Cupid and blisses, 
 
 Yet know not what either may be. 
 I don't feel at all sentimental, 
 
 Nor care I for Byron a rap 
 But give me a jolly and gentle 
 
 Young widow, in weeds and a cap. 
 
 II. 
 
 To her I would offer my duty, 
 
 For, in truth, all belief it exceeds 
 How vastly the blossom of beauty 
 
 Is heightened by peeping from "weeds." 
 She is armed cap-a-pie for the struggle, 
 
 To her cap I a captive belong ; . 
 And the wink of her magical ogle 
 
 Is a challenge to courtship and song. 
 
 III. 
 
 The tremors of girlhood are over, 
 
 Love's blossom has ripened to fruit ; 
 And her ' ' first love" asleep under clover, 
 
 Is the soil where my passion takes root. 
 'Tis pleasant to know "the departed 
 
 Was tenderly cared to the last," 
 And that she will not die broken-hearted 
 
 If I should pop off just as fast. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 229 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her temper is never so restive 
 
 Her duty she knows and a shape 
 Is never so sweetly suggestive 
 
 As when it is muffled in crape. 
 The maid wears one ring when she marries, 
 
 In proof she all others discards, 
 While the widow-wife wiselier carries 
 
 A pair of these marital guards. 
 
 V. 
 
 So none of your boarding-school misses, 
 
 Your sweet, timid creatures for me, 
 Who rave about Cupid and blisses, 
 
 Yet know not what either may be. 
 I don't feel at all sentimental, 
 
 Nor care I for Byron a rap 
 But give me a jolly and gentle 
 
 Young widow, in weeds and a cap. 
 
 UNCLE THAD STEVENS. 
 
 Gnarled and tough from seventy winters, 
 A gritty, grisly, bitter "Had" 
 
 Though our Union fall to splinters, 
 Here's to Pennsylvania Thad ! 
 
 Brown his wig, but green his vigor, 
 
 Angry often, never sad 
 Full of wit and prone to rigor, 
 
 Here's to Pennsylvania Thad ! 
 
 Though lame his leg, his mind is rapid, 
 And all the House is hushed and glad 
 
 When, to squelch some talker vapid, 
 Eises Pennsylvania Thad. 
 
 He's in candor a believer ; 
 
 All may know the thought he had ; 
 For no mealy-mouthed deceiver 
 
 Is our wrinkled Uncle Thad. 
 
 Into epithets he rushes : 
 
 All are " traitors" or are " mad" 
 All who dare to cross the wishes 
 
 Of our Pennsylvania Thad. 
 
230 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Thad, we like you ; you are able ; 
 
 And the biggest brick that we have had 
 In our loud congressional Babel 
 
 Is our Pennsylvania Thad. 
 
 Spite of age, he still is human, 
 And while to man he is not bad, 
 
 Oh dear ! a good man to a woman 
 The kindliest man is Uncle Thad. 
 
 Naked truth for him hath charms ; 
 
 And for the negroes, like a " Rad," 
 And for their right to "be in arms," 
 
 Nobly fought our Uncle Thad. 
 
 Go it, my old shoulder-hitter ! 
 
 For, though we think your logic bad, 
 You're just as brilliant as you're bitter 
 
 Here's to Pennsylvania Thad ! 
 
 THE HILL OF KILLENAEDEN. 
 
 Though time effaces memory, 
 
 And griefs the bosom harden, 
 I'll ne'er forget, where'er I be, 
 
 That day at Killenarden ; 
 For there, while fancy reveled wide, 
 
 The summer's day* flew o'er me ; 
 The friends I loved were at my side, 
 
 And Irish fields before me. 
 
 The road was steep ; the pelting showers 
 
 Had cooled the sod beneath us ; 
 And there were lots of mountain flowers, 
 
 A garland to enwreath us. 
 Far, far below the landscape shone 
 
 With wheat and new-mown meadows, 
 And as o'erhead the clouds flew on, 
 
 Beneath swept on their shadows. 
 
 Oh, friends, beyond the Atlantic's foam 
 
 There may be nobler mountains, 
 And in our new far Western home 
 
 Green fields and brighter fountains ; 
 But as for me, let time destroy 
 
 All dreams, but this one pardon, 
 And barren memory long enjoy 
 
 That day on Killenarden. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 231 
 
 THE LIFE CHASE. 
 
 They started when the morning blushed 
 
 Above the wave, 
 Earth, in its dewy freshness, hushed 
 
 As is the grave ; 
 They started whence a torrent rushed 
 
 Down from the hill, 
 And many a flower their footprints crushed, 
 
 On hurrying still. 
 
 A rosy child the quarry tripped 
 
 Adown the vale ; 
 Each dew-drop from the rose he sipped, 
 
 And lily pale ; 
 Oft in the crystal stream he dipped, 
 
 Nor thought of fear, 
 But, merry-eyed and cherry-lipped, 
 
 Made music there. 
 
 He recked not that he was pursued 
 
 So youth is blind, 
 But mocked the dull decrepitude 
 
 That lagged behind ; 
 He sought the covert of a wood, 
 
 And loudly laughed, 
 " Old huntsman of the fearful mood, 
 
 I scorn thy shaft." 
 
 Nor frowned nor smiled the huntsman old, 
 
 But tottered on ; 
 His eyes were keen, his hands were cold,. 
 
 His visage wan ; 
 A drapery of darkness rolled 
 
 Around his form, 
 And still he chased through wood and wold, 
 
 Through shine and storm. 
 
 When evening o'er the mountains came, 
 
 The child grew weak ; 
 Gone the rich vigor of his frame, 
 
 And pale his cheek ; 
 But the huntsman's eyes are still aflame, 
 
 And deep his breath 
 Life is that huntsman's dying game, 
 
 That huntsman, Death. 
 
232 The Poetical Works of 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 33 
 
 When the news of Jim Lane's suicide 
 Was bruited through the city, 
 
 Some few a very few men sighed 
 " Dear me ! oh, what a pity !" 
 
 But when the news " Lane has not died' 
 
 Fell sadly on the city, 
 Then all the town, like one man, cried 
 
 " Dear Savior ! what a pity !" 
 
 LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE. 34 
 
 A SONG OP THE CHARLESTON CONVENTION. 
 
 Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade, 
 With the treasury of a nation drained to pay for hireling aid ; 
 All the weapons of corruption the bribe, the threat, the lie 
 All the forces of his rivals leagued to make this one man die, 
 Yet smilingly he met them, his heart and forehead bare, 
 And they quailed beneath the lightnings of his blue eye's sudden 
 
 glare ; 
 
 For all behind him thronging the mighty people came, 
 With looks of fiery eagerness and words of leaping flame 
 "A DOUGLAS and a DOUGLAS !" 
 
 Hark to the people's cry, 
 Shaking the earth beneath their feet, 
 And thundering through the sky. 
 
 Crooked and weak, but envious as the witches of Macbeth, 
 Came old and gray BUCHANAN a-hungering for his death ; 
 And full of mortal strategy, with green and rheumy eyes, 
 JOHN SLIDELL he of Houmas each poisoned arrow tries. 
 With cold and stony visage, lo ! BRECKINRIDGE is there, 
 While old JOE LANE keeps flourishing his rusty sword in air ; 
 But still the " LITTLE GIANT" holds unmoved his fearless way, 
 While the great waves of the people behind him rock and sway 
 "A DOUGLAS and a DOUGLAS ! 
 
 No hand but his can guide, 
 In such a strait, our ship of state 
 
 Across the stormy tide." 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 233 
 
 A poisonous reptile, many-scaled and with most subtle fang, 
 Crawled forward CALEB GUSHING, while behind his rattles rang ; 
 And, mounted on a charger of hot and glossy black, 
 The Alabamian YANCEY dashes in with fell attack : 
 Lo ! BAYARD is aroused, and quits his favorite cards and dice, 
 While JEFF DAVIS plots with BIGLER full many a foul device ; 
 But, smiling still, against them all their One Foe holds his own, 
 While louder still and louder the cry behind has grown 
 "A DOUGLAS and a DOUGLAS, 
 
 Who every base trick spurns ; 
 The people's will is sovereign still, 
 
 And that to DOUGLAS turns." 
 
 Half horse, half alligator, here from Mississippi's banks 
 
 The blatant BARRY caracols and spurs along the ranks ; 
 
 From Arkansaw comes BURROWS, with his "toothpick" in its sheath, 
 
 While that jaundiced Georgian, JACKSON, shows his grim and ugly 
 
 teeth ; 
 
 And BARKSDALE barks his bitterest bark, and curls his stunted tail, 
 And snarls like forty thousand curs beneath a storm of hail ; 
 But smiling now almost a laugh the DOUGLAS marches on, 
 While many million voices rise in chorus like to one 
 "A DOUGLAS and a DOUGLAS!" 
 
 Louder the war-song grows : 
 "God speed the man who fights so well 
 Against a thousand foes. " 
 
 Long and fierce was the encounter beneath the burning sky, 
 Fierce were the threatening gestures the words rang shrill and high ; 
 In a struggle most protracted, after seven and fifty shocks, 
 Like those old gigantic combats in which Titans fought with rocks 
 (And with "rocks," but of a different kind, no doubt BUCHANAN 
 
 fought), 
 
 This first pitched battle of the war unto its end was brought ; 
 And smiling still, with stainless plume and eye as clear as day, 
 The "LITTLE GIANT" held his own through all that murderous fray: 
 "And a DOUGLAS and a DOUGLAS !" 
 
 Still louder grows the roar 
 Which swells and floats from myriad throats 
 Like waves on some wild shore. 
 
 Oh ! a cheer for Colonel FLOURNOY, who to help our chief did press, 
 May memory perish if^his name we cease to love and bless ! 
 And a cheer for all the good and true who faced the music's note, 
 Who seized old HYDRA* in his den, and shook him by the throat. 
 
 * i. e., The too domineering spirit of the Slave Power, which expected the 
 Northern delegations to accept whatever candidate and platform the South 
 demanded. 
 
234 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Though our country stand forever, from her record ne'er will fade 
 The glory of that combat with Lecompton's black brigade ; 
 And when June comes with her roses, at Baltimore we'll crown 
 The " LITTLE GIANT," who has met and struck corruption down. 
 So a DOUGLAS and a DOUGLAS ! 
 
 While hearts have smiles and tears, 
 Your name will glow, your praise shall flow, 
 Through all the coming years. 
 
 THE LYEIC OF TWEDDLE HALL. 35 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE CENTRAL RAILROAD AND THE STATE 
 CENTRAL COMMITTEE. 
 
 Who killed the Democracy? 
 
 "It was I," said Pete Cagger, 
 
 " With my poisonous dagger 
 It was I killed Democracy. " 
 
 And who helped him to do it ? 
 
 " It was I," said D'ri. Ogden, 
 
 " 'Twas an act by a hog done, 
 And I helped him to do it." 
 
 And who held the blood-basin ? 
 
 " It was I," said Sam Tilden ; 
 
 " When the red blood was spilled in, 
 It was I held the basin." 
 
 And who'll have to pay for it ? 
 
 ' * Alas ! " cried the ' ' Central, " 
 
 " I feel in my ventral 
 And heart that I'll pay for it." 
 
 And who'll keep the soul quieted ? 
 " I'll gladly," sighed Cassidy, 
 ' ' Pay the priest for a mass a day 
 
 To keep its soul quieted. " 
 
 And who'll have revenge for it? 
 
 " We, we," yelled the young men 
 
 " Bold, honest, and strong men, 
 We'll have deep revenge for it " 
 
 And who'll write its epitaph ? 
 
 "Woe's me," sang O'Reilly, 
 
 "It was butchered most vilely, 
 But 111 write its epitaph." 
 
Charles Graham Hal/pine. 235 
 
 When and where shall we bury it ? 
 " We'll do that next November, 
 With our watchword ' Remember !' 
 
 Oh, most nobly we'll bury it." 
 
 What may mean. this " Remember?" 
 " Cagger's yoke to shake off, man, 
 As we should have done Hoffman 
 
 When he ran last November." 
 
 Can't the thing be " made nice," boys ? 
 
 " No ; we'll fight as we've chosen 
 
 Till a hot place is frozen- 
 Then we'll fight on the ice, boys." 
 
 Dare you beat the state ticket ? 
 " To disgrace we're not wedded, 
 And we'll go * double-headed,' 
 
 Just to beat that state ticket." 
 
 What ! let Radicals win, boys ? 
 "Ay, we'll vote for the devil 
 Till we get this thing level 
 
 We'd let Beelzebub win, boys." 
 
 Are you all of this thinking ? 
 "All ! all !" cried the masses : 
 " Too long we've been asses, 
 
 But we now do tall thinking." 
 
 Will you hold to this pledge, boys ? 
 
 "Ay, so help us our Savior! 
 
 All our future behavior 
 Shall be true to this pledge, boys." 
 
 What ! no bargain or compromise ? 
 
 "Everlastingly damn any 
 
 Man who, with Tammany, 
 Talks of a compromise. " 
 
 Then you hoist the black banner ? 
 
 "Ay, it's war to the knife 
 
 It is now life for life, 
 And we hoist the black banner." 
 
 Against odds you'll be fighting ? 
 
 " 'Gainst * the deck and the devil,' 
 
 Till we get this thing level, 
 We'll do nothing but fighting." 
 
236 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Don't you fear old Pete Cagger ? 
 "Pooh ! the red-faced, wee fellow, 
 With his wig of bright yellow 
 
 We'll just p-p-p-p-puff at Pete Cagger." 
 
 "GIVE ME GUANO OR GIVE ME DEATH!" 36 
 
 Jerry Black to Johnson. 
 
 Alack ! alack ! poor Jerry Black, 
 
 Do you call yourself a man, oh, 
 Yet on the President go back 
 
 For a dunghill of guano ? 
 Your bust let Cloacina hold, 
 
 While Clio will record your 
 Foul name, as one who Freedom sold 
 
 For so much penguin's ordure. 
 
 TO UNCLE SAM. 37 
 
 A ORY FROM THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS IN MOUNTJOY PRISON, NEAR DUBLIN. 
 
 Air : " The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 Oh, Uncle Sam, and did you hear 
 
 The news that's going round? 
 Protection in your starry flag 
 
 No longer can be found ; 
 For Seward he is England's tool, 
 
 A truckler cold and mean, 
 And he outlaws every citizen 
 
 Whoever wore the green. 
 
 Oh, as citizens Americans 
 
 We gloried in the name, 
 And on many a field our blood we shed 
 
 To guard your flag of fame ; 
 But to-day we lie in bonds, as if 
 
 Mere felons we had been : 
 The only charge that England brings, 
 
 " These boys were for the green." 
 
 We are citizens twice over, 
 
 By the law and by the sword, 
 By adoption and by service 
 
 But our claims are now ignored. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 237 
 
 Say, Uncle Sam, is this your wish, 
 
 And do you really mean 
 That you've outlawed all your faithful sons 
 
 Whose birth was of the green ? 
 
 We have had no trial every prayer 
 
 For justice is refused ; 
 Never heard of our accusers, 
 
 Nor of what we are accused. 
 But England, grinning, holds us here 
 
 In bondage close and keen, 
 While Seward smiles, and says no word 
 
 To save the boys in green. 
 
 Say, Uncle Sam, did England earn 
 
 Our Seward's wish to please, 
 When her pirates drove your peaceful flag 
 
 Of commerce from the seas ? 
 And it was from her great arsenals 
 
 The South was armed, I ween, 
 While we were fighting on your side 
 
 We boys who wear the green. 
 
 Oh, if we are not citizens, 
 
 Then for your own fair fame 
 Disclaim us quickly, openly, 
 
 And save your flag from shame. 
 But if citizens you think us yet 
 
 (And made so twice we've been), 
 Bid Seward write : " Eelease at once 
 
 Our boys who wear the green." 
 
 THE PRESIDENT TO CONGRESS. 38 
 
 Air: " Yankee Doodle Dandy." 
 
 General Orders, No. 1. 
 Headquarters in the White House, January 31, 1867. 
 
 I. 
 Andy Johnson is my name, 
 
 Tennessee my nation, 
 " Swinging round" it is my game, 
 
 And President my station. 
 Yankee Doo may squirm and screech, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 But Yankee Doodle won't impeach 
 His " great plebeian," Andy. 
 
238 The Poetical Works of 
 
 ii. 
 
 Uncle Thad is drunk or mad 
 
 When he the scheme proposes, 
 For heaven's own plan made me the man 
 
 To be your " second Moses !" 
 Let Ashley rave and Phillips preach, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 But Wall Street can not yet impeach 
 
 The " second Moses," Andy! 
 
 III. 
 It seems that I'm the ' ' anvil" now, 
 
 And Congress is " the hammer ;" 
 The sparks of fight fly far and bright, 
 
 And deafening is the clamor ; 
 But no " dead duck" by hunter struck. 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 So far can reach as to impeach 
 
 The "circle-swinging" Andy." 
 
 IV. 
 
 I had better, p'r'aps, have shut my mouth 
 
 Than Congress so have pelted ; 
 Perhaps too quickly for the South 
 
 My bowels may have melted ; 
 But 'twas a generous fault, you'll own, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 And not enough to cost his throne 
 
 To your repentant Andy. 
 
 V. 
 
 You've stripped me of my dearest power 
 
 To use it none were braver ; 
 Even Mrs. Cobb can't get a job 
 
 Of pardoning now to save her ; 
 I'm only President in name, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 Then why impeach, and blast the fame 
 
 Of the once " most pop'lar" Andy ? 
 
 VI. 
 I can't appoint the man I want 
 
 To aid my re-election ; 
 My spoils are lost, and, tempest-tossed, 
 
 My friends are in dejection. 
 I nominated men of fame, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 But the Senate won't confirm a name 
 
 That so much as smells of Andy. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 239 
 
 vn. 
 
 And once 'twas in the Cleveland scrape, 
 
 When the boys required a preacher 
 My private Miles, wid his " winnin' smiles," 
 
 Seduced even Father Beecher ! 
 But worse to keep than to seduce, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 For Beech., as never did my " goose," 
 
 Took wings and fled from Andy. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Along the railroads, near and far, 
 
 With patriot resolution, 
 I left "the flag with eveiy star," 
 
 Likewise "the Constitution." 
 I did the level best I could, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 But " by fantastics misunderstood" 
 
 Is the epitaph of Andy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Impeach me if you think 'twill pay 
 
 But it won't pay, I'll be bound, sirs ; 
 For, driving things this reckless way, 
 You'll drive 'em in the ground, sirs. 
 The people may have thought me wrong, 
 
 Yankee Doodle Dandy, 
 But a punishment too long and strong 
 
 Will win them back to Andy. 
 By order of the Commander-in-Chief, 
 
 MILES O'REILLY, 
 Asst. Adjt. Gen. and Chief of Sinners. 
 A true copy : 
 WRIGHT RIVES, Colonel and A. D. C., U. S. A. < 
 
 ST. TAMMANY'S TERROR. 
 
 Ah ! I sicken contemplating 
 
 Next election day 
 Sicken with a sad forewarning 
 That, when comes' that fatal morning, 
 Fifty thousand freemen waiting, 
 
 All will block my way ; 
 Yes, my heart sinks contemplating 
 Next election day. 
 
24:0 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Ah ! my heart grows full of terror 
 
 Terror of the fray 
 And my mind is busy shaping 
 Some small loop-hole for escaping 
 'Scaping from the fatal error 
 Of provoking such a day ; 
 Yes, my blood congeals with terror, 
 Thinking of that fray. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing 
 
 " Were I safe away !" 
 But my wish must fall unheeded, 
 Now the sacrifice is needed 
 I must do my public dying 
 
 On election day ; 
 And my heart is full of sighing 
 " Were I safe away !" 
 
 Ah ! my heart is pained with thinking- 
 Thinking of lost sway 
 Thinking of a city plundered, 
 Party bonds and friendship sundered, 
 All the honest voters shrinking 
 
 From my side away ; 
 Yes, my heart is pained with thinking 
 Of next election dav. 
 
 MANHOOD AGAINST THE MACHINES." 39 
 
 Air: " The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 Oh, brothers dear, and did you hear 
 
 The woful news to-day ? 
 The "Lunch Club" of the City Hall 
 
 Aspire to boundless sway. 
 So Connolly, he must die the death, 
 
 And Hardy not be seen, 
 Nor Walsh, nor any other boy 
 That ever wore the green"; 
 
 For Sweeny of the black mustache, 
 
 And Hoffman of the brown, 
 And Tweed with no mustache at all, 
 Now claim to own the town. 
 
 These princes of Mustachiodom 
 
 Their spirits black and brown 
 Now claim that they, and they alone, 
 
 Are masters of the town ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 241 
 
 So Waterbury he must fall 
 Beneath their guillotine, 
 In favor of A. Oakey Hall, 
 Who cursed the Irish green. 
 
 And the children of the Rhineland 
 
 Were cursed by him, I ween, 
 
 But now we all must vote for'Hall, 
 
 Both German boys and green. 
 
 But before we own the "Lunch Club" 
 
 Has arrived at boundless sway, 
 We'll have a rising of the pikes 
 
 On next election day. 
 Our beltane fires we'll kindle, 
 
 As in Ireland they were seen, 
 When Ireland's sons, in 'ninety-eight, 
 Were rising for the green. 
 
 And the heroes of the black mustache, 
 
 The no mustache, and brown, 
 Will find, before the fight is o'er, 
 They do not own the town. 
 
 Oh, against the grim Excise Law, 
 
 And to crush the Tammany '"King," 
 And against an Albany Police 
 Our flag abroad we'll fling ; 
 For the people's rights we staud.arrayed 
 
 An army grand, I ween, 
 
 As Sarsfield led at Fontenoy 
 
 Beneath the Irish green. 
 
 And we mean to win the battle ; 
 
 For among us here are seen 
 The Germans and the native-born, 
 And the boys who wear the green. . 
 
 We have chieftains tried and gallant 
 
 As ever faced a foe 
 The " Big Judge" and the " Long Judge" 
 
 Arm-in-arm we see them go ; 
 Smith Ely, too, and Billy Walsh, 
 
 Are brigadiers, I ween, 
 While the color-bearer of our line 
 Is Miles, who wears the green. 
 
 So Sweeny, Tweed, and Hoffman now 
 
 May fairly set it down, 
 The "Lunch Club" reign is over, 
 And \ve bovs have won the town. 
 
 '16 L 
 
The Poetical Works of 
 
 SOON WE'LL HAVE THE UNION BACK. 
 
 CAMPAIGN SONG: M'CLELLAN AGAINST LINCOLN. 
 Air : " The Hunters of Kenttxky." 
 
 Good people all, both great and small, 
 
 I sing a tale of pity, 
 My hand I fling across the string, 
 
 And waken up the ditty ; 
 A ruined land that once was grand 
 
 Is not a joking matter, 
 Though Abe, we know, the more our woe, 
 The more his jokes he'll chatter ; 
 Oh, M'Clellan, 
 
 Georgie B. M'Clellan, 
 Shall we have the Union back ? 
 Tell us "Mac" M'CleUan. 
 
 All evils sure we could endure, 
 
 Thrice all the ills we suffer, 
 Could we but glance on any chance 
 
 Our Union to recover ; 
 There gleams one way a flash of day, 
 
 But one bright bow of promise * 
 Good Lord, alack ! just give us " Mac," 
 An' take Abe Lincoln from us ! 
 Oh, M'Clellan, 
 
 Georgie B. M'Clellan, 
 The one to bring the Union back 
 Is only "Mac' M'Clellan. 
 
 Then not a rag of our old flag 
 
 Should ever part asunder ; 
 " Fair terms of peace if you will cease 
 
 If not, we'll give you thunder !" 
 A million swords to back our words 
 
 Beneath M'Clellan gleaming, 
 And soon, you know, Jeff D. and Co., 
 For France they would be steaming. 
 Oh, M'Clellan, 
 
 Georgie B. M'Clellan, 
 Soon we'll have our prisoners back 
 Under Mac M'Clellan. 
 
 The people all, both great and small, 
 
 Except the sons of " shoddy," 
 Are on the track for Little Mac 
 
 They're with him soul and body ; 
 
Charles Graham Ilalpine. 243 
 
 For well they know the nation's woe 
 
 Can never be abated, 
 Till in command of all the land 
 Our chief we have instated. 
 .Oh,M'Clellan, 
 
 Georgie B. M'Clellan, 
 The Union will come leaping back 
 Under Mac M'Clellan. 
 
 EPIGRAM BY THE COLLECTOR. 
 
 Around my neck he placed his wing, 
 And cooed and billed as doves may sing 
 
 This treacherous and dull bird ; 
 While yet his beak, with bloody art, 
 He strove to fasten in my heart 
 
 This vulture Judas Hulburd. 
 
 JOHN MORRISSEY MY JO, JOHN. 40 
 
 AN EARNEST CRY AND PBAYER THAT I1E MAY NOT BE COEECPTED BY HIS 
 ASSOCIATIONS IN CONGEESS. 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 
 When first I kenned ye weel, 
 Your airms were like twa iron flails, 
 
 Your hands like slugs o' steel ; 
 But now ye've gaithered pelf, John, 
 
 An' to Congress ye maun go, 
 Where they fight less fairly than yourself, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo. 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 
 Wi' braid and monly breast, 
 Ye hae faced fu' mony a mon, John, 
 
 To try which mon was best ; 
 There were tough knocks fairly dealt, John, 
 
 But to Congress now ye go, 
 Where they gouge an' strike below the belt, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo. 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 
 We hae played an' drank thegither, 
 
 An' fu' mony a "tiger" fight, John, 
 We hae had AVI' ane anither ; 
 
244 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Oh, at cheatin' still ye mocked, John, 
 
 But to Congress now ye go, 
 Where the dice are cogged and the cairds are stocked, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo. 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 
 Wi'. grief our hearts are stirred, 
 For still to friend an' foe, John, 
 
 Your bond was aye your word ; 
 But I fear ye'll learn to lie, John, 
 
 When to Congress now ye go, 
 For twad tak a saint to resist the taint, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo. 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 ' On your good pluck ye relied, 
 An' against no pitted foe, John, 
 
 The " hocussing game" ye tried ; 
 But ye'll find it " hocus" all, John, 
 
 When to Congress now ye go, 
 An' we fear frae your high stand ye'll fall, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo. 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 
 These politicians deal 
 From a faro-box false-bottomed 
 
 Wi' springs o' patent "steal." 
 Will your scruples never melt, John, 
 
 When to Congress now ye go ? 
 Can ye deal the same square game ye dealt, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo ? 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 
 It ne'er was kenned your plan 
 To kick a fallen -foe, John, 
 
 Or spurn a helpless man ; 
 But ye'll find.a different rule, John, 
 
 When to Congress now ye go, 
 For they kick the South, having gagged its mouth, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo. 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John, 
 
 My heart in terror beats, 
 For you've got into unco' company 
 
 A gang o' patent cheats. 
 Ye hae fought an' gambled fair, John, 
 
 But to Congress now ye go, 
 An' I fear they may corrupt you there, 
 
 John Morrissey my jo. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 FERNANDO'S CARD. 41 
 
 TO THE VOTERS OP THE NINTH CONGRESSIONAL DISTRICT. 
 The royal prince who reigns in hell 
 
 Has been maligned in various matters, 
 And now would have the people tell 
 
 How silly they regard such clatters. 
 He asks your votes ; 'tis not for pelf, 
 
 But to rebuke all saints and sages 
 Who say the archangels and himself 
 
 Have not been cronies through all ages. 
 
 FOURTH CONGRESSIONAL DISTRICT." 
 
 Our theatres with ' ' Box and Cox" 
 Were crammed from pit to rafter, 
 
 But now the farce of "Cox and Fox" 
 Fills the whole town with laughter. 
 
 A BUMPER TO GRANT. 
 
 FIRST GUN OF THE LYBIOAL CAMPAIGN. 
 
 Air: "Benny Havens, oh!" 
 Come, fill your glasses, fellows, 
 
 And stand up in a row, 
 On a presidential drinking 
 We are going for to go ; 
 Let us have no more sobriety 
 
 At least no more to-night 
 While for President Ulysses Grant 
 We take our foremost flight. 
 Oh, for President Ulysses 
 
 Let every glass be bright 
 May he rule the country he has saved, 
 And God defend the right. 
 
 His hand is soft to meet a friend, 
 
 And mailed to meet a foe 
 He's the Mississippi River horse, 
 
 Resistless as its flow ; 
 He's the conqueror of leaguered towns, 
 
 And victor in the field 
 No foe has ever grappled Grant 
 
 That was not forced to vield. 
 
'246 
 
 The Poetical Works of 
 
 So to President Ulysses 
 Brim every glass to-night, 
 
 May he rule the country he has saved, 
 And God defend the right. 
 
 In the world to-day no prouder name 
 
 Is borne on any breeze, 
 And with Grant to steer the ship of state, 
 
 Our flag shall rule the seas ; 
 No "dominion" shall be north of us, 
 
 And south of us no foe 
 Our stars and stripes in the Canadas, 
 And likewise Mexico. 
 
 For with President Ulysses 
 
 There'll be few who care to fight 
 May he rule the country he has saved, 
 And God defend the right. 
 
 No more shall Irish officers 
 In English dungeons pine, 
 No more shall Seward's endless notes 
 
 In endless terror whine ; 
 We'll assert our place of nationhood, 
 
 And take our proper rank, 
 With iron-clads to guard our shores, 
 And bullion in the bank : 
 
 All this when Grant is President, 
 To whom our faith we plight 
 May he rule the country he has saved, 
 And God defend the right. 
 
 Oh, the Queen of the Antilles 
 
 Must be wooed and must be won, 
 With her groves of palm and orange 
 
 Flashing brightly in the sun ; 
 And our brethren of the beaten states, 
 
 Who suffer wrong to-day, 
 Will find a generous hand held out 
 When Grant has come to sway ; 
 For generous 4s Ulysses 
 
 To the men who felt his might 
 May he rule the country he has saved, 
 And God defend the right. 
 
 We are sick of old Thad Stevens, 
 
 We are sick of Butler too ; 
 Sick of Kelly, Ashley, Sumner, 
 
 And that God-forsaken crew. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 Let the men who faced the music 
 
 When the storm ran high and hard, 
 All join to make Ulysses Grant 
 Our captain of the guard. 
 
 For with candidate Ulysses 
 -We can make the bulliest fight 
 To rule the country he has saved, 
 And God defend the right. ' 
 
 Then old John Bull at Liverpool 
 
 Will some day wake and groan, 
 Finding Farragut at anchor 
 
 And his ports wide open thrown : 
 " Settle up your Anglo-rebel bills, 
 
 And quickly, if you please, 
 For General Grant is President, 
 And I command the seas." 
 To this we pledge Ulysses, 
 
 And to him we drink to-night 
 May he rule the country he has saved,. 
 And God defend the right. 
 
 So, boys, a final bumper, 
 
 While we all in chorus chant 
 "For next President we nominate 
 
 Our own Ulysses Grant." 
 And if asked what state he hails from, 
 
 This our sole reply shall be, 
 " From near Appomattox Court-house, 
 With its famous apple-tree." 
 
 For 'twas there, to our Ulysses, 
 That Lee gave up the fight 
 Now, boys, "To Grant for President, 
 And God defend the right." 
 
 A STOftM BREWING. 
 
 "You are growing masculine, my dear," 
 
 Said a husband to his wife ; 
 " You are disimproving with every year 
 
 Since you became my wife." 
 
 "A bitter thing of yourself you have said," 
 
 Was the lady's answer true ; 
 ' ' For an angel you thought me when I was wed- 
 
 What has changed me to be a shrew ? 
 
248 The Poetical Works of 
 
 "And if I have now a harder heart, 
 
 Tis in order my griefs to bear ; 
 For when husbands forget what is manhood's part, 
 
 Then the wives for themselves must care." 
 
 A PRESIDENTIAL WARNING. 
 
 Air: " OuU Ireland, you're my darling" 
 
 Musha, Andie dear, 
 I mightily fear 
 
 That your chance is ashleep can you wake it ? 
 For the Faynian vote 
 Seward gripped by the throat, 
 An' clane out of its boots did shake it. 
 The gallant O'Nale 
 He did impale 
 
 The wrong side of the Canada bordhers ; 
 An' the Faynians wor shtopped, 
 An' their rations wor lopped, 
 Undher Grant's imperative ordhers. 
 
 Faixl Seward and Shpeed 
 Who detest you indeed 
 May well choke with malicious kmghter ; 
 For, while this is the deed 
 Of Bill Seward an' Shpeed, 
 It is Johnson the Faynians are afther. 
 
 Sind Seward away, 
 Clane across the say, 
 To them English he loves so dearly ; 
 An' that you are for Pat 
 If you'll only do that 
 The Faynians will recognize clearly. 
 But in case you don't, 
 Or you can't or won't 
 Though they like you, an' like your notions 
 The Faynians, I fear, 
 May start off right here, 
 To the Radicals payin' devotions. 
 
 An' then Seward an' Shpeed 
 Who detest you indeed 
 May well choke with malicious laughter ; 
 For, while this is the deed 
 Of Bill Seward an' Shpeed, 
 It is Andie the Faynians are afther. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 2'40 
 
 I am for you, my boy, 
 My jewel an' joy, 
 
 Till a sartain warm raygion is frozen ; 
 And if my friendship firm 
 Could prolong your term, 
 
 Faix ! the chair you now fill you might doze in ; 
 But these Faynians grand 
 Are a hot-headed band, 
 An' they think they wor thrated unfairly ; 
 An' if somethin' ain't done 
 To cut short their fun, 
 Och, their votes will be cast mighty quarely. 
 An' then Seward an' Shpeed 
 Who detest you indeed 
 Their midriffs may shplit wid laughter ; 
 For, while this is the deed 
 Of Bill Seward an' Shpeed, 
 It is Johnson the Faynians are afther. 
 
 CHURCH, C AGGER, AND PIPER. 43 
 
 Poor dead " Regularity," 
 
 Claiming our charity, 
 Lies in a plight most horrid 
 
 Mangled all sadly, 
 
 Lifeless, and badly 
 Gashed in the breast and the forehead. 
 
 Who used the dagger ? 
 With insolent swagger, 
 "Twas I, "says PETE CAGGER, 
 Of the murder a bragger 
 ' ' 'Twas I used the dagger. " 
 
 And who'll have to pay for it ? 
 
 Who'll rue the day for it ? 
 Who'll have to do all the weeping ? 
 
 " We, we," said the REGENCY ; 
 
 ' ' We a grim legion see 
 On to avenge her sweeping." 
 
 And think you that CAGGER, 
 
 Who now has the swagger 
 Of a bravo who slays for his stipend, 
 
 Will still be a bragger 
 
 Of using the dagger 
 When the time to avenge her has ripened ? 
 
 L 2 
 
260 The Poetical Works of 
 
 " No," said DEAN of the Central, 
 
 Slow patting his ventral, 
 
 As if in each entrail 
 An agony rose which half rent it ; 
 
 "He who killed ' Regularity,' 
 
 PETE CAGGER the carroty, 
 
 That man without charity, 
 You'll find him the first to repent it. 
 
 " In each Presidential 
 
 Convention, essential 
 We found the strong aid she supplied us ; 
 
 Oh, deed of dark horror ! 
 
 At Charleston, but for her 
 The South would our seats have denied us. 
 
 " It was CHURCH held the basin, 
 
 That grim anti-mason, 
 He caught her, and gagged her, and bound her ; 
 
 But 'twas PETER who killed her, 
 
 'Twas his dagger spilled her 
 Most innocent life-blood around her. 
 
 "Assisted by PIPER, 
 
 That venomous viper, 
 In secret the plan was agreed on ; 
 
 But now in blank terror 
 
 They see their mad error, 
 And fear is the food they must feed on." 
 
 These men without charity 
 
 Killed " Regularity ;" 
 
 Yonder small carroty 
 Man used the dagger : 
 
 " Down with Old Tammany ! 
 
 Butcher her damn any 
 
 Man who can't sham any 
 Love for PETE CAGGER." 
 
 PETE is not mendable 
 Salable, vendible, 
 Prone to assumption, 
 Wanting in gumption, 
 Playing Old Nick with the Central ; 
 CORNING must stop him, 
 RICHMOND close crop him, 
 Snub and subdue him, 
 Wholly undo him, 
 
Charles Graham Hal/pine. 251 
 
 Or TAMMANY HALL will yet give to the Central 
 A punch in that region which doctors call ventral 
 A twinge in each kidney, and membrane, and entrail 
 
 Just to make it remember 
 
 That, after November, 
 
 The Avar-path before us, 
 
 The Wigwam's flag o'er us, 
 
 Knives and tomahawks ready, 
 
 Our warriors all steady, 
 
 We can whip such Old Fogydom till it begs charity, 
 And surrenders each wretch who assailed "Regularity." 
 
 LINES TO A CONGRESSMAN. 44 
 
 Air: "Jeannette and Jeannot." 
 
 You are voting the wrong way, 
 
 Oh my Congressman of note ; 
 You spoke against it t'other day, 
 
 But now it has your vote. ^ 
 
 You're on this and t'other tack, 
 
 Alternating like my rhymes, 
 And in vain we try your course to track 
 
 Through the columns of the Times. 
 
 When you wear a Johnson coat, 
 
 In the Philadelphia style, 
 Then you're sure to cast a Radical vote, 
 
 Howe'er the House may smile ; 
 Let whatever happen hap, 
 
 Disregarding all advice, 
 Oh, you turn your coat and turn your cap 
 
 As jugglers change their dice. 
 
 Now if I were in your seat, 
 
 I would make an open rule, 
 One day with the Johnson men to meet, 
 
 And the next with the Stevens school ; 
 Consistency 'twould give, 
 
 And we should not think you mad 
 If each odd day "Conservative," 
 
 Each even day a " Rad." 
 
 Take an almanac for guide, 
 
 And your prospects will improve ; 
 
 Heed not although Le Blonde deride, 
 And the House with laughter move. 
 
252 The Poetical Works of 
 
 With this odd and even rule 
 
 We may guess at your " posish," 
 
 While now you're neither hot nor cool, 
 Neither cabbage, meat, nor fish. 
 
 VOICE OF THE ARMY. 
 
 A CAMPAIGN SONG FOE M'OLELLAN AGAINST LINCOLN. 
 
 Air: "Scots who, hoe icf Wallace bled." 
 
 Comrades of the tented field, 
 Who the flag would never yield, 
 Making of your breasts a shield 
 
 Where the pennon flew 
 Men who have with steady breath 
 Rushed on lines of blazing death, 
 Thus a wounded brother saith 
 
 " To yourselves be true ! ' 
 
 Faithful to the nation's chief, 
 Work he bliss or work he grief, 
 Till the hour of just relief, 
 
 When our votes we fling ; 
 If he err, not ours to heed ; 
 If he err, 'tis ours to bleed 
 This the soldier's simple creed, 
 
 And to this we cling. 
 
 But, at length, the hour is here, 
 When with soldier conscience clear, 
 We in judgment may appear 
 
 On his hateful thrall ; 
 Past respect for his high place 
 Bids us only veil the face 
 Shrinking back from the disgrace, 
 
 Sad and silent all. 
 
 Turn, oh comrades of the tent 
 Of the flag with bullets rent 
 Of the field with blood besprent, 
 
 Turn to brighter skies. 
 See, with soldier brow and hand, 
 Sympathizing, calm, and grand, 
 Chosen chief of all the land, 
 
 Our own M'Clellan rise. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 253 
 
 Let no ribald king or clown 
 Lie away our chief's renown 
 Strike the coward scoffers down ; 
 
 Teach them what they are. 
 Bats and owlets dread the dawn, 
 Cowards, plunderers all the spawn 
 Far from our dread work withdrawn 
 
 Strive his way to bar. 
 
 Vain their efforts, brother tried 
 
 Sharer of our woe and pride, 
 
 " Little Mac," our friend and guide, 
 
 Our watchword and our star~ 
 Hail him, drums, with glad alarms 
 Hail him with your fiery charms 
 All the din of battling arms 
 
 Ye his music are. 
 
 SOLEMN POLITICAL DEATH-BED. 
 
 LAST WORDS OF FERNANDO WOOD TO HIS BROTUER HEN BY WOOD, OF WOOD'S 
 NEGKO MINSTRELS. 
 
 Bring the fiddle, bones, and banjo play a dirge, my brother Hen, 
 For I feel that I'm a goner, down among the deadest men ; 
 In the Limbo, drear and dismal, where lost politicians roast,. 
 They are stoking up the furnace for the brownest kind of toast ; 
 
 And I feel it in my bones, Hen, 
 
 And hence are all my moans, Hen, 
 
 That the toasting-prongs are ready, 
 
 And the white heat sure and steady, 
 
 The hungry imps all grinning, 
 
 And .the cooks prepared for skinning, 
 While I feel myself the victim doomed to feed this hungry host. 
 
 *Well, I played my last card boldly, but the Wigwam trumped my 
 
 trick, 
 
 And when I heard the ticket named, that moment I grew sick. 
 On that instant flashed before me all my dark and hideous past, 
 And I heard them in the Limbo cry, " We'll get our own at last.' 1 
 
 You may think it was some "Birds," Hen, 
 
 Who chirped those fatal words, Hen, 
 
 But no ; I felt them wreathe me 
 
 From the deep, fierce pit beneath me, 
 
 Like serpents coiled and hissing, 
 
 Their forked fangs never missing, 
 And I know 'twas Limbo shouted, " Oh, we'll get our own at last." 
 
254 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Since the game at length is over, and my bully hand played out, 
 Of the past and its achievements I begin to feel a doubt ; 
 Perhaps it had been better had I played a squarer game 
 Been less false and heartless to my friends, less selfish in my aim ; 
 
 But it's now too late to think, Hen, 
 
 I can only cower and shrink, Hen, 
 
 For they're piling up the fagots, 
 
 And I see some fiery maggots 
 
 Wriggling upward to receive me 
 
 When the last puffs, panting, leave me 
 Through all my limbs political I feel the creeping flame. 
 
 No use to sigh or struggle, 'twas a bold, bad game I played 
 No private ties, no public ties to break was I afraid ; 
 Still my loaded dice threw sixes, and my dupes paid out their gold, 
 And my coat-sleeve had an open mouth the ace and king to hold. 
 
 Oh, the tricks were easy won, Hen, 
 
 And my dupes so nicely done, Hen, 
 
 That I stood knee-deep in clover, 
 
 While long years and years rolled over, 
 
 Cheating all the fools around me, 
 
 Breaking all the bonds that bound me, 
 Impassive as a granite rock as bloodless and as cold. 
 
 But after all, perhaps there are some surer cards to play ; 
 It is not wise all friends we have to use and fling away ; 
 There may be policy in faith and folly in deceit 
 I think, had I a partner now, I'd try hard not to cheat. 
 
 But the knowledge comes too late, Hen, 
 
 Comes while the yawning gate, Hen, 
 
 Revolves on fiery hinges, 
 
 And the red heat redly tinges 
 
 The fiery hands extended 
 
 To tell me life is ended 
 
 They have found an "altered invoice," which they tangle round my 
 feet. | 
 
 Well, I had some friends at one time the Irish, warm and true, 
 And the Germans, who, for many a year, my standard would pursue ; 
 Lord ! in our secret lodges, our encampments, and grim schools, 
 How we of the Know-Nothings used to mock these generous fools ! 
 
 'Twas a desperate game to play, Hen, 
 
 But it won for many a day, Hen ; 
 
 Too monstrous for believing, 
 
 'Twas the easiest thing deceiving ; 
 
 Secret oaths in secret muttered, 
 
 False professions loudly uttered 
 These were the stock in trade with which I duped the generous fools. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 255 
 
 No matter. Let your tears, Hen, for other griefs be kept ; 
 At Lorenzo Shepard's funeral a thousand good men wept ; 
 Against my schemes of rapine he taxed his glorious mind, 
 Till his great soul shattered the weak case in which it moved en 
 shrined ; 
 
 But not a tear for me, Hen, 
 
 This weakness must not be, Hen ; 
 
 If I lived for self, and perish 
 
 With none my name to cherish 
 
 False, hating men and hated, 
 
 To long oblivion fated 
 The King of Terrors nears me, and to death I stand resigned. 
 
 When I'm dead and in my coffin, under fifty thousand nails 
 When the News, released from mortgage, my cruel yoke assails 
 When even Plumb and Brisley, Tom Hen Ferris and Ben Ray, 
 Regard me as a played-out dog who has no future day 
 
 Oh, then I ask of you, Hen, 
 
 To this last office true, Hen, 
 
 With Mer. Brewer to deposit 
 
 The papers in that closet ; 
 
 Round my coffin-edge and borders 
 
 Hang my full Know Nothing orders 
 Cold as clay must be the nearest I can come to Hemy Clay. 
 
 So bring the bones and banjo play a requiem, Brother Hen, 
 For I feel that I'm a goner, down among the deadest men ; 
 In the Limbo, drear and dismal, where lost politicians roast, 
 They are stoking up the furnace for the brownest kind of toast ; 
 
 And I feel it in my bones, Hen, 
 
 And hence come all my moans, Hen, 
 
 That the toasting-prongs are ready, 
 
 And the white heat sure and steady, 
 
 The hungry imps all grinning, 
 
 And the cooks prepared for skinning, 
 While I feel myself the victim doomed to feed this hungry host. 
 
 TWEEDLEDUM AND TWEEDLEDEE. 45 
 
 That eternal cocklorum old jamboree 
 Betwixt H. Greeleygrum and T. Weedledee 
 Has burst out again worse than ever, you see, 
 And they're deep in a high old sparring spree, 
 And cross-buttocking other to such a degree 
 That it forms a sight for all Christians to see. 
 
256. The Poetical Works of 
 
 But th'e public, I notice that's you and me 
 Have to bear all the blows of the sparring spree 
 Betwixt H. Greeleygrum and T. Weedledee. 
 
 T. Weedledee blows on a mighty horn, 
 
 And blows with a vengeance, as sure as you're born ; 
 
 And crows like a rooster who finds in the morn 
 
 vSix new pullet wives and a bushel of corn 
 
 Lying loose near his dunghill ; and crows to warn 
 
 All the rest of creation, with loftiest scorn, 
 
 That they neither must tread on his pullets or corn. 
 
 While H. Greeleygrum, from his sanctum's height, 
 
 Puts on his whole armor to face the fight, 
 
 And cries to Sid. Gay, ' ' Where my coat of white 
 
 Gleams in the battle, be sure all your might 
 
 Js directed to doing some grievous despite 
 
 To that elderly rooster who still will write 
 
 His letters and paragraphs, keen and bright, 
 
 Against me and mine, and against truth and right, 
 
 Above the initials, so hateful to me, 
 
 Which mark out the old man known as T. Weedledee.' 
 
 THE HEALTH BILL.* 6 
 
 A TALK BETWEEN TWO BEPUBS AT ALBANY. 
 
 "Shall we pass this great bill for the public health ?" 
 
 ' ' Why, that is no longer the question ; 
 
 But shall endless sources of power and wealth, 
 
 And unlimited chances of public stealth 
 
 On the cholera-plea and the public health 
 
 Be secured for our party's digestion ?" 
 
 "And if to our party this power is to glide, 
 
 And these chances of wealth be won for us ?" 
 " Why, the next question, then, we have got to decide 
 Is this : Shall we make it 'an equal divide' 
 Betwixt the Weed-Seward and the Radical side, 
 Or give all to Lord Thurlow or Horace?" 
 
 The Senate think Weed should be given the whole, 
 
 And the Board of Police therefore packed on ; 
 But the bully Assembly's as black as a coal, 
 And the Radical rascals say ' Thurlow's control 
 Is already too great for the good of his soul, 
 
 And thevYe down like Old Scratch on Tom Acton. " 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 257 
 
 " So between them the Health Bill is dragged either way, 
 And all kinds of fools' errands is sent on ?" 
 
 "Why. yes ; but you'll find they'll agree some fine day 
 
 Not to lose such rich chances for pickings and pay; 
 
 And the Health Bill at least so I heard Lyman say 
 Will be given to Lord Horace through Fenton." 
 
 THE TKIBUNE'S PRESIDENTIAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Soon forget the bread that's eaten, 
 
 And let policy be shown ; 
 Don't take Seward, or we're beaten 
 
 Take some ninny quite unknown. 
 Take some fossilized curmudgeon, 
 
 One with no obstreperous brain's, 
 And we'll hook the popular gudgeon, 
 
 Ay, and cook it for our pains. 
 
 Let us get our Bates all ready, 
 
 And go cruising near the Banks ; 
 Years of service, stanch and steady, 
 
 We'll repay with many thanks. 
 Gratitude with us is gammon, 
 
 But we'll win the spoils we wish, 
 Chase-ing that Ohio Salmon, 
 
 Or enjoying New York Fish. 
 
 Give us some old dancing dervis. 
 
 Just a puppet for our wire ; 
 Seward has done too much service 
 
 Has more brfiins than we desire. 
 Give us some old dumb curmudgeon, 
 
 One who neither writes nor prates,. 
 And we'll hook the public gudgeon, 
 
 If some Weed don't snarl our Bates. 
 
 "MR. JOHNSON'S POLICY OF RECONSTRUCTION." 
 
 Greeley. 
 
 SOME COMMENT FKOM THE BOYS IN BLUE. 
 
 " His policy," do you say? 
 By heaven, who says so lies in his throat ! 
 'Twas our policy, boys, from our muster-day, 
 Through skirmish and bivouac, march and fray 
 
 ' ' His policy, " do you say ? 
 
 17 
 
258 The Poetical Works of 
 
 " His policy" do but note ! 
 'Tis a pitiful falsehood for you to say. 
 Did he bid all the stars in our banner float ? 
 Was it he shouted Union from every throat 
 
 Through the long war's weary day ? 
 
 " His policy" how does it hap ? 
 Has the old word " Union" no meaning, pray ? 
 What meant the " U. S." upon every cap 
 Upon every button, belt, and strap ? 
 'Twas our policy all the way. 
 
 " His policy ?" That may do 
 For a silly and empty political brag ; 
 But 'twas held by every Boy in Blue 
 When he lifted his right hand, stanch and true, 
 And swore to sustain the flag. 
 
 We are with him none the less 
 He works for the same great end we sought ; 
 We feel for the South in its deep distress, 
 And to get the old Union restored we press 
 
 'Twas for this we enlisted and fought. 
 
 Be it his or whose it may, 
 'Tis the policy, boys, that we avow ; 
 There were noble hearts in the ranks of gray, 
 As they proved on many a bloody day, 
 
 And we would not oppress them now. 
 
 " Let us all forgive and forget :" 
 It was thus Grant spoke to General Lee, 
 When, with wounds still raw and bayonets wet, 
 The chiefs of the two great armies met 
 Beneath the old apple-tree. 
 
 RING RHYMES. 47 
 
 Ho, brothers ! drawn from many lands, 
 
 Who drive the plane or swing the hammer 
 Beneath whose swift and knotted hands 
 
 Our shops and ship-yards clamor. 
 Ho ! all who live by thinking brow, 
 
 By touch of art or strain of sinew 
 Rise, brothers ! rise and swear a vow 
 That the foul Ring-rule, rampant now, 
 
 No longer shall in power continue. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 259 
 
 Choked sewers of filth and streets of mire 
 
 These to King Pest a premium proffer ; 
 And the young, and the old, and the weak expire, 
 
 That the Ring may fill its coffer. 
 And who are these men who can thus afford 
 
 To plunder and spurn our princely village ? 
 See this beetle-browed, skulking, and ruffian horde, 
 Who, when true men sprang to the musket and sword, 
 
 Remained home here to organize pillage. 
 
 They have seized all posts of power and pride, 
 
 They mock as vain our passionate struggle, 
 Conscious how well is fortified 
 
 Their rule of theft and juggle. 
 They think us weak, for they know how long 
 
 We have borne their sway of shame and plunder 
 Up, brothers, now against the wrong ; 
 Up, in one effort fierce and strong, 
 
 And rend their villainous Ring asunder. 
 
 Up, for our city's tarnished fame 
 
 Let justice urge and manhood quicken ; 
 Up, ere we grow quite dead to shame, 
 
 With moral palsy stricken ; 
 Up, and hunt down this brood of Theft, 
 
 As bloodhounds bay the wolf's hot -haunches ; 
 Up, ere of all we prize bereft ; 
 Up, and if nothing else be left 
 
 Let's swing the rogues on gallows-branches. 
 
 "OUR BIG THING ON ICE." 
 . . Air: " Tim Donnelly, the Giant." 
 
 Success to you, big Mike Connolly, 
 
 So burly an' so defiant, 
 You're twice bigger than ould Tim Donnelly, 
 
 That was our great "Irish giant." 
 Your heart is big, an' your brain is big 
 
 Out o' jail you're our " biggest big thing," 
 And 'tis Big Judge Mike, wid his big sh'tick, 
 That'll break the Tammany " Ring." 
 
 So long life to you, Big Mike Connolly, 
 
 So jovial an' so defiant, 
 You're twice bigger than ould Tim Donnelly 
 That was our great "Irish giant," 
 
260 The Poetical Works of 
 
 It was our Big Mike, wid his big shtick, 
 
 That gave the " Excise" its bolus, 
 An' he's taught Tom Acton many a trick 
 
 In spite of all his poliss. 
 It's him that shmites for the poor man's rights, 
 
 It's to him that wid hope they cling, 
 An' it's his big fist into smithers will twist 
 The "Lunch Club" an' its " ring." 
 
 Och, bully for you, Judge Connolly, 
 
 So plucky an' so defiant, 
 You're twice bigger than ould Tim Donnelly, 
 That was our great " Irish giant." 
 
 John A. Kennedy calls you "blatherin' Mike?" 
 
 An' the Tammany leaders curse you, 
 But the more at you, Mike, such haythins sthrike, 
 
 The more in our hearts we'll nurse you. 
 Och, you'll fill the place wid most mortial grace, 
 
 An' you'll do the hangin' highly ; 
 But I want you to shwear (for I'm undher a scare) 
 That you'll never hang Miles O'Reilly. 
 
 Now, good luck to you, Big Mike Connolly, 
 
 It's well you may be defiant, 
 For you've twice the shtuff of Tim Donnelly, 
 That was our great "Irish giant." 
 
 And here's a glass to you, Billy Walsh, 
 
 My king of the bould Fourth Warders ; 
 It's you that can shtump, an' it's you that'll jump 
 
 Like a li'n over Tammany's bordhers. 
 You're of dacint shtock you have brains an* pluck 
 
 You have faith you have youth an' honor 
 An' I wouldn't, 'tis thrue, whin he meets wrd you. 
 For a five-dollar bill be Bill Connor. 
 
 So I dhrink to you, Billy, in good poteen, 
 My king of the bould Fourth Warders,- 
 For it's you that can shtump, an' it's you that'll jump 
 Like a li'n over Tammany's bordhers. 
 
 Come round me, ma bouchals, come all of you near me, 
 
 For, faix ! I'm the boy that can faithfully sing 
 All the blessin's stand back there, and let the boys hear me 
 
 All the blessin's we get by supportin' the " Ring." 
 Sure we see our "ring-masthers," wid gorgeous inspection. 
 
 From the hoighths of gilt coaches our labors survey ; 
 An' we get a month's work comin' on near election 
 
 A-clanin' the sewers for two dollars a day. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 261 
 
 Look at Brennan. Time was he was ' ' Mat" when we met him, 
 
 An' so civil he always 'ud bow whin we'd pass ; 
 An', och! many's the good game o' "muggins" we bet him, 
 
 Whin he sould us bad rum at three coppers a glass. 
 But since by our votes to the " Ring" he was lifted, 
 
 On the Bloomin'dale Road he's a palace, they say ; 
 And the flapjacks he ates must wid goold-dust be sifted, 
 
 An' poor divils like us must keep out of his way. 
 
 An' there's Charley Cornell God be wid the time, Charley, 
 
 Whin dressed in your butcher-sleeves, blood to the edge*, 
 Yourself and bould Terry now Aldherman Farley 
 
 Sat down wid us boys to a game of " ould sledge"." 
 But it's now you're worth millions an' how did you get it ? 
 
 Didn't our votes first give you a sate in the " Ring?" 
 But we're honest and poor and you sthrive to forget it, 
 
 An' the door in our faces, if callin', you'd fling. 
 
 An' there's Pether B. Sh weeny they say he is wiser, 
 
 An' cuter, an' darker than most in the " Ring ;" 
 To the whole of them chickens he plays the adviser, 
 
 And shows how to cover their eggs wid their wing. 
 By me sowl, little Pether, the day will come hoppin' 
 
 That for all your " ring shwindles" you'll get what's your due ; 
 An' aich three in the Park will be gayly out croppin* 
 
 Wid a rope and a noose for such spalpeens as you. 
 
 Look at Tweed holy Father ! Bill Tweedie look at him ; 
 
 Did you ever see feedin' like that in your life ? 
 Like a Suffolkshire pig when you stuff him and fat him 
 
 An' I guess like the pig he's just fit for the knife. 
 Musha Tweedie, ahagur ! 'tis you have soft weather, 
 
 It was we- tuned your pipes and we taught you to sing ; 
 Do you mind o' the time we wor " bunkers", together, 
 
 Before you grew rich, fat, and proud in the "Ring?" 
 
 An' there's Boole ! Oh, be jabers ! the scoundhrelly Blue-nose 
 
 Has brought all his brothers to share in the swag ; 
 He has houses, seven-thirties, and greenbacks, and few knows 
 
 The size of the ' ' stale" he has tied in his bag. 
 "An' the moment, "he says, "that they shtop him from thievin', 
 
 He'll to Canady carry his bones and his purse." 
 May the divil go wid him our counthry when leavin' 
 
 On the black British spy be the Irishman's curse. 
 
 Och, boys ! shall the rule of these villains continue - 
 Shall we still be the*slaves o' the rogues we despise ? 
 
 These trauneens who use neither brain-work nor sinew. 
 And forget us the moment we help them to rise ? 
 
262 The Poetical Works of 
 
 By the Church of Ardagh and the great Cross of Cashel, 
 To the dioul both themselves and their tickets we'll fling , 
 
 Let us thry a new game just for fun, boys and smash all 
 The schaimes, an' the heads, an' machines o' the ' ' Ring. " 
 
 Air: " The Shan Van VogJit" 
 
 Och, Fernandy Wood, the bould, 
 
 It is he has got a hould 
 On the votes an' the affections of the Mozart choir ; 
 
 An' they'll sing,- as he expects, 
 
 All the chimes that he directs, 
 An' they'll only call their sowls their own at his desire. 
 
 TSow Fernandy Wood, he made 
 Wid Cornell an' Tweed a thrade, 
 
 Sellin' out his Mozart chickens, feathers, bones, an' hide, 
 On a promise that they should 
 Make himself, Fernandy Wood, 
 
 Their mayor in next December, let whatever else betide. 
 
 An' for this Fernandy shwore 
 
 To do up a little chore 
 In the sindin' of Cornell to the Sinate o' the shtate, 
 
 Where Charley, shpry an' firm, 
 
 Might extind his little term, 
 An' fix up some other matthers on the lobby-shlate. 
 
 An' for this bould Charley then 
 Shwore to carry " Brother Ben" 
 
 To the Sinate by the power o' cash the Wigwam wields ; 
 While Weed might oust Laimbeer, 
 Placin' Stewart there this year, 
 
 An' put Thomas Murphy snugly in the place o' Tom C. Fields. 
 
 An' sure Brennan was to take, 
 
 As his private " little rake," 
 The Law Department, placin' John E. Devlin on the shelf; 
 
 And this to Weed's abhorrence 
 
 He might give to A. R. Lawrence, 
 As the nominee of George Law and his very noble self. 
 
 'Twas the purtiest little plot 
 
 Out of somewhere that is hot 
 But Fernandy, as he oulder grows, is proner still to gabble ; 
 
 An' so it cum by-an'-by 
 
 That this saycret threaty shly 
 Was developed in the Herald to "the outside haythin rabble." 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 263 
 
 Whereupon blue murdher rose 
 
 'Twixt Fernandy 's friends and foes, 
 An', faix ; Weed was in a corner, an' Cornell was much the same ; 
 
 For the Tribune axed the blood 
 
 Both of Weed and Benjie Wood, 
 An' the Herald vowed to fight to death agin the schaime. 
 
 Upon this Fernandy fine 
 
 Sinds for Daniel M. O'Brine, 
 To whom he had pledged the Mozarts in Cornell's disthrick ; 
 
 An' says he, " My bully Dan, 
 
 Such an' such things are my plan, 
 So in favor of Cornell, Dan, you must back out quick;" 
 
 "Divil resayve the fut I'll back 
 
 From the sinatorial thrack," 
 Shpakes out the brave O'Brien, more courageous nor a brick ; 
 
 " You have pledged my elevation 
 
 By the Mozart nomination, 
 An' 'tis I will be next senator from my disthrick." 
 
 Then Fernandy, mad wid rage, 
 
 Findin' flatthery wouldn't assuage, 
 Shwore a pistil-ball should whistle through O'Brien his heart, 
 
 If to tell he ever dared 
 
 The bad bargain thus declared, 
 An' by which Fernandy hoped again as mayor to shtart. 
 
 " Now, by this an' by that," says Dan, 
 
 "You're mistaken in your man, 
 If you hope to frighten any boy who is called O'Brien;" 
 
 An' wid that right off he goes, 
 
 Writes an' signs a full expose, 
 An' wid this has put a tombstone on Cornell's design. 
 
 So Fernandy's cake is dough, 
 
 An' the bould Bill Tweed's also, 
 An' the ould man's busy writin' dodgin' letthers o' denial ; 
 
 An' the sea for Thomas Murphy 
 
 Now looks tempest-black an' surfy, 
 An' Stewart in his cockle-boat doesn't dare to make a thrial. 
 
 And the galliant "Brother Ben," 
 
 Down among the deadest men, 
 Is decayin' like a stale jack-pike the honest fish-wife shpurns ; 
 
 While o'er him, high in air, 
 
 As the emblems o' despair, 
 Gleam the banner and bright sabre of the brave young Col. Burns. 
 
iV, I The Poetical Works of 
 
 \ to Hreunan t'aix, 'lis he 
 
 Is the co\\ed cst man you'd see, 
 While of Lawrence an' his ruined ho|u-s he Mill is fiercely stonnin' ; 
 
 An' lor corporation counsel. 
 
 I'll bet tulips agin jj;rouiisel 
 That the next to till tin- place will he our own houkl Dick O'Connan. 
 
 ( Hi, Ill-others one an' all 
 
 Let us orpmi/e this tall, 
 An' charge agin the Kini: ehiet's in resist | r ss line : 
 
 An' tor leaders let us take 
 
 lMucK\, honest, \\ide awake 
 Just such candidates lor every place as Daniel M. O'Brien. 
 
 Air: " Tune, the old coir died o/." 
 
 Musha. hoys, did ye/, hear the news? 
 
 Sure Hen Wood is tuk had \vid "the hlues." 
 
 An' Fernandy's turned nil soorts o' hues 
 
 That a. shkin from the rainhow could horrow. 
 J<iuce he hcerd that ihe bargain or thrade 
 \\'id Cornell an'tho fck ould man" he made 
 Has jrono up in a hiir balloon 
 Twist higher nor is the moon, 
 
 An' himself an' poor Hen must sup sorrow. 
 
 For T.iMi sec<. howsiiindever he turns, 
 
 The victhory lanin' to Hums. 
 
 \Vhile all kinds o' hard kickin's an' shpnrns 
 
 Are Imped on Fei-nandy's alliance: 
 An' Karl SpracktMi^ie r.rxant O' Dutch 
 In't popilar not overinueh 
 An' Mat Hrennan's attimpts to <-onthrol 
 llo\\ the people shall vote at the poll 
 
 Are met w id most haynious defiance. 
 
 An' Cornell! Sure the seoundhrel O'Hrine 
 lla< jn-l wheeled all the bo\ s into line. 
 Au'l-ad hu^k to the hope or the siirn 
 
 ( M' poor Charley'^ eleeti<n this minnit ; 
 l-'or the Tribune's had somethin' to HQ 
 In pMtin' Dane out o' the way : 
 An' no dodges or ' Albany thricks" 
 That the "onld man's" so famious to fix 
 
 Can now sind poor Cornell to the Sinate. 
 
 As 10 Kiolds well, the thinj: was too plain 
 That il lay between him an" M'Lane, 
 An' |Q poor Touuny Murphy in \ain 
 
Spinds the proliis ho made upon shoddy; 
 K.U- ilu- inns : ;o M' I. .MHO noiliiir shorter 
 N'e^leelin' "the Mioror Mini snorter," 
 'I'.'in Fields, who, in somnolent riot, 
 So ot'i hroko the diirnilied miiet 
 
 ( >f our state sinatorial hotly. 
 
 An' to me. \\ ho :im loud o' the >- Kin.:;;." 
 An' to Bronnan ;ni' Shwoeny, who eling, 
 An'lielie\e |>uhlie theft is the tiling 
 
 That our hoys should admire an' rememhor 
 Faix! I'm siek ;it the heart whin I look 
 At tho figures flint's writ in tlu> hook ; 
 l-'or to me it 'ml seem, dnrlin's de;ir. 
 Tluit the " l\in,i;-" ehnnee looks inortinlly queer, 
 
 An' will die the lirst \\eek in Peci-mlier. 
 
 All', hoys, should (hut s:id hour :i|>|>ro:ieh, 
 Tnek me dneintly into ;i eo;irh, 
 An' siud me, without reproneh. 
 
 A\\:iy lo ihe ,1,-irsi'ys hi.lin' ; 
 
 Air sind nrenn.Mii. .MI'I' Shweeny, tin' Ilnidlc'v along, 
 An' let A. O;ikey Hull swell the monrnin' throng, 
 l-'or the town will ho then fur too hot :ind lot) stliron:-; 
 
 IMH- sneh jorki>ys n^ them lo nhide in. 
 
 A ir (with a recitative chorus) : " VuM Ireland, t/otV myjewtl, wire." 
 Oeli, boys, hurra! now eomes the d.iy 
 
 The '* King's" rank rule for smitm': 
 W1i mika smithereens o' their foul u innehines," 
 
 An' sind their schniiucs n-kitin' ; 
 An' tliiv^ shall he tho song for me, ' 
 
 Corruption's bulwark stormin' 
 ' Hurra ! hurra ! we win the day, , 
 
 Wid lleeker and Kiehard Q'Goimnti ;" 
 May theOuld Hoy elin- foyer fhievin' '* Ring," 
 
 An' the |.hmdor ye/, jioekoted handy ; 
 Hut \o'\e dhrained lh> eii|i. an' the -lime is :dl up 
 
 For licit e\erli-.|in' > jii.h'ineiit |,\ default allowm' .John I-'.. 
 
 . 
 
 and hll OOngAVnlal partner in all soorts o' villainies. 
 thai purk.M- f.ired. still' dirkied ould rappaiee an' si-:llvwng 
 
 in 
 
 Sure av eoor-e I mane Feniandv. 
 The "l{iu K "..,.es dOWH wr'll clear the town 
 
 Of all the brood o' P.rennaiis ; 
 An'. fai\! Charley Cornell, an'Tueed as well, 
 
 Shall llv I.efore our pennons. 
 
 ' M 
 
266 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Their day is past, an' we'll see the last 
 
 O' their crew to Jarsey swarmin', 
 Afeard to be caught, an' be hung as they ought, 
 
 By Hecker an' Richard O'Gorman. 
 " God grant it soon" is the only chune 
 
 That honest men can be singin', 
 "That from every three in the Park we may see 
 Some plundher-fed ' Ring'-rogue (an', by me sowl ! whin I say 
 thim words, Terry Farley, it isn't a hundhred miles away 
 from your mother's son that my mind's eye is wandherin', 
 an' it's thinkin' I am what a purty corpse you'd make) 
 Some plundher-fed villain swingin'. " 
 
 Ay, an' then there's Boole that Blue-nose tool 
 
 An' his pack o' rapayshis brothers, 
 Who have gorged their fill at the public till 
 
 Until aich o' thim nearly smothers. 
 Och, we'll sind them back on the Canada thrack, 
 
 The Faynians behind thim swarmin' ; 
 All such scamps we'll put down, an' dhrive out o' the town, 
 
 Undher Hecker an' Richard O'Gorman. 
 Wirra, boys ! it will be a nate sight to see 
 
 How the flight o' those Booles will quicken 
 Whin behind thim, hot sweep, two or three inches deep, 
 
 A few Faynians their bayonets (an' sure the world knows 
 there's no nater nor purtier weapon than a bagnet, an' it's 
 only a pity the bright point of it should ever be soiled in the 
 corrupt bodies of such varmints) 
 
 A few Faynians their bayonets are stickin'. 
 
 Then rents will come down, an' throughout the town 
 
 There will be a proud day of enjoyment ; 
 For wages will rise, an' the loaf grow in size, 
 
 An' no lack there will be of emplojonent. 
 As our taxes decrease, all the blessin's of peace 
 
 Our hearts an' our hopes will be warmin' ; 
 An' we'll have a good time, in our city sublime, 
 
 Undher Hecker an' Richard O'Gorman. 
 "To the dioul we fling all the rogues of the .'Ring,'" 
 
 Is the cry both of palace an' shanty,' 
 An' next month we'll inurn, takin' aich in his turn, 
 
 John E. Develin (that corporation counsel ours, who seems to 
 think he is paid for no other living thing than to find out 
 how we can be ch'ayted an' plundhered, an' then employ his 
 friend Fields to do the job, an' divide fair wid all consarned 
 afther that) 
 John E. Develin an' Sheik Fernandv. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 267 
 
 GRAND DEMOCRATIC CHOWDER. 
 
 In our city aquarium's shining bound, 
 
 Fish of all species enjoy free quarter, 
 Poking with cold snouts round and round 
 
 The crystal walls of their limpid fortress. 
 Fish with the biggest eyes are here ; 
 
 With fins the pectoral, anal, dorsal ; 
 Scales that like proof of mail appear, 
 
 And wide mouths gaping for every morsel. - 
 
 Over the pebbles and shining sand, 
 
 Down on the bottom they grope and wander ; 
 Next their little air-bladders expand, 
 
 And up they shoot as of sunlight fonder. 
 In through the stems of the cool green reeds, 
 
 Under the lilies and pendent mosses, 
 Still the sub-aqueous play proceeds, 
 
 While porgies and pikes have their joys and crosses. 
 
 In our city aquarium all the choir 
 
 Of fish have particular flies to follow ; 
 Hackles and cocktails many desire, 
 
 While palmers, well oiled, nearly all will swallow. 
 Lady-bird flies are a tempting bait ; 
 
 With duns, blue, or brown, your sport will be meager ; 
 But with spinners or governors all are elate, 
 
 And for shiners the yellow, you'll find them eager. 
 
 But the day of our sport was a cloudy day, 
 
 And the fly we used of a new description ; 
 Senator-fly it is called, they say, 
 
 And its use shall be told without color or fiction. 
 Never had anglers such royal sport 
 
 As we all can have when it comes in season, 
 For the fishes their destiny seem to court, 
 
 And rise at this fly as if reft of reason. 
 
 FOURTH SENATORIAL. DISTRICT. 
 
 Dropping a senator-fly called Fourth, 
 Tied to a string, just above the surface, 
 
 Lo ! from the east, south, west, and north, 
 Numberless fishes rise up, all nervous. 
 
268 
 
 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Mather, of Albany, first is found 
 
 Poking his hungiy nose above water ; 
 
 He carries an old hotel-key round, 
 And his carpet bag shows him a scaly squatter. 
 
 Jacob L. Smith, like a pike, we see 
 
 Feeding all round on emigrant minnows ; 
 William M. Tweed, and a rockfish he, 
 
 Floats on his supervisorial sinews. 
 Moneghan Pete works his gudgeon fins. 
 
 Watching the fly, in hopes to earn it ; 
 While Alderman Stephens to work begins, 
 
 Looking the stoutest of all red gurnet. 
 
 Bob Livingston Linn would be glad to Avin, 
 
 And swims on his belly, a marshal flounder ; 
 Richard T. Compton, we count him in 
 
 As a fine iced cod, "many years a rounder." 
 Hughey Boy Smith is a trout of mark, 
 
 Prompt to assume the stage of action ; 
 While Winne Dick is a lawyer shark,. 
 
 W T ho to win would enlist in whatever faction. 
 
 Bold Johnny Shea is a fine fat carp, 
 
 Red in the gills, and stout, an'd posted ; 
 Kivlin Tom is a pickerel sharp 
 
 Who will one day or other get hooked and roasted. 
 John Y. Savage is long and grim, 
 
 Best of sub-aqueous swordfish fighters 
 And such were the fish who appeared to swim 
 
 'Neath the eye and the fly of the present writer's. 
 
 Round and round in a whirl they go, 
 
 Working their gills in a fishy smother, 
 Making their glutinous eyeballs glow, 
 
 And biting like devils at each and other. 
 Sides are peeled and the flesh is bare, 
 
 Fins are lopped from our liquid cattle ; 
 Scales and skin from each other they tear, 
 
 And rage is the rule of the fishy battle. 
 
 FIFTH SENATORIAL DISTRICT. 
 
 Dropping a fly of another kind 
 Senator Fifth above the water, 
 
 Wagging their tails and going it blind, 
 Infinite victims rise up for slaughter. 
 
Charles Graham Ilalpine. 
 
 269 
 
 Smith Ely rises a senator eel, 
 
 Tough as his leather this deep-sea conger ; 
 
 And Fields, though his chance has improved a deal, 
 We're afraid has to wait a little longer. 
 
 Chubb Theodore Tomlinson don't look bad, 
 
 And with sardine sauce might be made taste pleasant ; 
 Sam Webster we think quite a promising shad, 
 
 But shadowed (though under the gas) at present. 
 Jim Reilly could hardly be taxed to rise 
 
 For so small a bait, and he well may brag it : 
 But Winthrop Chanler, if only wise, 
 
 Can hook all the rest with a Chanler's maggot. 
 
 Round and round they wriggle and dart, 
 
 Bending the reeds and scattering the water, 
 Spry in their spines and terribly smart, 
 
 Every one eager the other to slaughter. 
 With mouths wide open and goggling eyes, 
 
 Fins in bedlamite motion working, 
 All for the Fifth Senatorial rise, 
 
 While their tails and their heads have a crazy jerking. 
 
 SIXTH SENATORIAL DISTRICT. 
 
 Soon with a new senatorial fly 
 
 Called the Sixth on our line suspended, 
 With much " speculation" in his eye, 
 
 A sleek mud-turtle at once ascended ; 
 Schell by name, with a shell on his back, 
 
 Snapping voracious beyond all telling ; 
 At valuing forts or flies not slack, 
 
 But afraid of snells since his fatal Snelling. 
 
 Wheeler John like a weakfish rose, 
 
 Irresolute whether to pass or besiege it ; 
 Dunham J. Grain poked a tautog nose, 
 
 But hadn't the spring in his tail to reach it. 
 Philip W. Engs made a bully leap 
 
 A sort of big drum not easily beaten ; 
 While the catfish Baldwin, though lying deep, . 
 
 Has a faith that this fly will by him be eaten. 
 
 John T. Hoffman, whose birth we ascribe 
 To the big-headed species of sculpin finners, 
 
 And Livingston Bob of the Sheepshead tribe 
 These both on our fly hope to make their dinners. 
 
270 The Poetical Works of 
 
 So round and round in an endless coil, 
 
 Biting and fighting, they dart and splutter ; 
 
 Their chance of success is not worth the toil, 
 
 But their play may give somebody bread and butter. 
 
 SEVENTH SENATORIAL DISTRICT. 
 
 Last of our flies for the present week, 
 
 Seventh Senatorial we now exhibit 
 A fly which all Mackerells eagerly seek, 
 
 While the squidfish Connolly jumps to crib it. 
 That Dick feels sure you can see at a glance 
 
 He dallies- and dandles, appearing listless ; 
 While the luminous sunfish Johnny Vance 
 
 Is advancing claims which appear resistless. 
 
 That perch of a Peck, if we take his word, 
 
 Guarantees to return us double measure ; 
 And the herring P. G. Moloney is heard 
 
 Proclaiming the fly to be his at pleasure. 
 The mullet M'Spedon to Avin is bound 
 
 A fish full of humor, provoking laughter ; 
 While the tipsy-fish Rutherford squirms around, 
 
 But a cocktail fly is the one he's after. 
 
 Like a jolly fat halibut, Bartlett Smith 
 
 Plashes around with uneasy jerkings ; 
 Harry Genet shows his bottom and pith 
 
 By biting the tail of Hosea Bream Perkins. 
 Noah A. Childs, an audacious dace, 
 
 Has the thick, hard scales of the old-school hunkers; 
 And Masterson Pete, in his fireman face, 
 
 Shows a clear descent from the line of bunkers. 
 
 Round and round in a whirl they go, 
 
 Working their gills in a fishy smother, 
 Making their glutinous eyeballs glow, 
 
 And biting like devils .at each and other. 
 Sides are peeled till the bones lie bare, 
 
 Fins are lopped from our liquid cattle ; 
 Scales and skin from each other they tear, 
 
 And rage is the rule of the fishy battle. 
 
 ST. TAMMANY AND THE NABOBS. 
 
 Oh, there was a delusion, in the good days of old, 
 That party was an army with soldiers enrolled ; 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 271 
 
 There were privates with muskets, and sergeants on pay, 
 And captings with epaulettes both gallant and gay, 
 
 Singing tooral-liooral, etc. 
 
 In the good times we speak of promotion was won 
 By a record of friendship and services done ; 
 Men marched in the ranks ere they rode in the van, 
 And the purse was no object we looked at the man, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 Oh, shoulder to shoulder right onward we press'd, 
 All passions but envy had room in each breast ; 
 Heart beating to heart, every thought seemed to blend, 
 And each looked to the banner which all would, defend, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 Yes, triumph and sorrow, joy, anger, and pride, 
 We shared with the brothers who marched by our side ; 
 When the bugle was heard, every soldier took arms, 
 And the world had no prize to give treachery charms, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 But a new light has dawned on political war, 
 And 'tis now "Will it pay ?" ere you say who you're for ; 
 'Tis no longer ' ' What, he ! my old friend wants my aid ; 
 He shall have it." Ah no ; the game's otherwise played, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 This course was all wrong, as some big nabobs say, 
 Who have kindly agreed o'er our lives to bear sway ; 
 The man counts for naught till we see how he stands 
 In the matter of rent-roll, stock-jobbing, and lands, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 These nabobs have shirt-fronts with diamonds a-gleam, 
 And their Verzenay bubbles, an amber-hued stream ; 
 Grand junction, commercial politicians they are, 
 And in ' ' selling for cash" each man shines like a star, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 They sit in gay rooms under glass chandeliers, 
 And each bulbous-nosed squatter at Tammany sneers ; 
 Oh, they look with big eyes on political jobs, 
 And then rattle the tin in their corpulent fobs, 
 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 Big chunks of a golden humanity these, 
 Fat ingots with heads swelled as big as a cheese ; 
 They twiddle their thumbs as they dream of their checks, 
 And 'tis they hold the people ker-chuck by the necks, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
272 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Greedy handlers of bullion, bold signers of bills, 
 Immense in the matter of cleaning out tills ; 
 The masses are asses so Nature ordains, 
 For we all know that cash is the measure of brains, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 The only grand Icey to which Fortune accords 
 The power of revolving in popular wards, 
 Is a key made of gold by some nabob applied, 
 Which will give access free to the jam-pots inside, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 Oh, no more we'll look down to the leaders of wards, 
 But we'll all raise our eyes to these "national" lords ; 
 They wear leather medals to which we bow low, 
 And at Charleston they'll make a splendiferous show, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 No man in this city could righteously dare 
 Over grandees like these to aspire to be mayor ; 
 So they sail up North River the land to inspect, 
 And a mayor they'll "import" whom, of course, we'll elect, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 All the papers will spend full two thirds or a half 
 Of their space to extol this auriferous calf; 
 Times, Herald, and Tribune will bless the bright day,. 
 And the Leader will kneel, singing hal-le-lu-jay, 
 And tooral, etc. 
 
 So, in view of this new rule, all rising young men 
 Who have done party service don't do it again ; 
 For, until things are changed, this no longer can be 
 To party promotion the ladder and key, 
 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 But change a bad check for good value, and run, 
 Or find a rich wife who will pay for your fun ; 
 Either get rich or seem rich, for both will avail, 
 And you may join the nabobs if not put in jail, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 So down with all weakness of friendly regard ; 
 To cheat for the first time we know may be hard ; 
 But whoever to cheat perseveringly tries, 
 Oh, he'll find cheating come just as easy as lies, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 So hurra for the nabobs, and long may they reign ; 
 We kiss their kind whip, and we cuddle the chain ; 
 
CJiarles Graham Halpine. 273 
 
 We'll pull down the Wigwam, and choke the big spring. 
 While the praise of " commercial transactions" we sing, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 But perhaps, ere the Wigwam a ruin is found, 
 Ere we take our farewell of the old hunting ground, 
 Just to hear the last echo 'twill fling from its roof, 
 Of this rhymed invocation 'tis well to make proof, 
 Singing tooral, etc. 
 
 THE APOTHEOSIS OF JAY COOKE. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! I "heard them say, 
 
 Hurra for the Cooke who is christened Jay 
 
 A greater old joker than Rabelais. 
 May his name, be great, and his purse expand, 
 And his fame and his shadow fill the land ; 
 For 'tis he has proved, in a manner as yet 
 
 Defying all skill but his alone, 
 That of all great blessings, a national debt 
 
 Is the jolliest blessing that ever was known. 
 
 Our Jay like a jay-bird well may crow, 
 
 For a thousand millions of dollars or so,. 
 
 To this side or that, like a ball, he can throw ; 
 
 And it is by the skill of this mighty Cooke 
 
 That our last seven-thirties all "got took;" 
 
 And of all the nations that ever were known, 
 
 The richest and greatest is now our own ; 
 
 And of all the cooks in the moneyed line, 
 
 " Doing things up brown" with a crisp that is fine, 
 
 There is never a chef, we swear by the book, 
 
 That can equal our own immortal Cooke. 
 
 His discovery acts like a Brandreth's pill 
 For the cure of all forms of national ill ; 
 And the louder he cries as we nearer sink 
 To the verge of bankruptcy's dreadful brink 
 " Oh, go it, ye cripples ! your cares forget ; 
 Plunge deeper in blessings that is, in debt ; 
 To pay what you owe, and to pay as you go 
 These are old fogy notions our age below ; 
 But believe with me, and never forget, 
 That the way to be blessed is to rush into debt. 
 At the cautions of fogy financiers scoff, 
 Never bother your head about paying it off; 
 
 18 M 2 
 
274 The Poetical Works of 
 
 But keep borrowing still, with a greedy clutch, 
 For of blessings you never can have too much ; 
 And of all the blessings the Avorld knows yet, 
 The greatest, I swear, is a national debt." 
 
 Oh, crown him with greenbacks, and let his heir 
 
 A chaplet of ten-cent currency wear ; 
 
 And down from his shoulders, broad and tall, 
 
 Let a mantle of bonds (seven-thirties) fall ; 
 
 And place in his hands a baton, rolled 
 
 With the thinnest film or foil of gold ; 
 
 And with this for his sceptre, a sorcerer's rod 
 
 Let his feet with brazen shoes be shod 
 
 Shoes like to Mercury's, wing combined, 
 
 To show the flight that our wealth is taking ; 
 And brazen, to typify the mind 
 
 That a "blessing" of our great curse is making. 
 
 NEW YORK IN A NUTSHELL. 
 
 THE NUT CRACKED AND NUT-KITIOUSLY DIGESTED. 
 
 Ye curious Yankees, who, alas ! 
 
 Desire to visit Gotham, 
 Attend unto the dangers as 
 
 We presently shall show them ; 
 And ere with bodies safe and sound 
 
 You launch upon the Sound, sirs, 
 Get up upon our Pegasus, 
 
 And peg with us around, sirs. 
 
 The city stands upon an isle 
 
 Or sand-bank called Manhattan ; 
 It is a place given wholly up 
 
 To brandy, silk, and Satan. 
 Its people love the broad Broadway, 
 
 The " narrow path" they scoff at ; 
 Their worship now is the cholera ghoul, 
 
 And Schultz is their chief prophet. 
 
 The city's statutes are as dead 
 
 As statues made of plaster ; 
 Its streets are blocked hxAstor Place 
 
 Can neither horse nor ass stir. 
 In Pearl Street there are pearl-ous vaults, 
 
 Down which we turn pearl-divers ; 
 And Bleecker is a bleaker street 
 
 For passengers and drivers. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 275 
 
 In Amity no friendship is, 
 
 In Bond Street no security, 
 In Grand Street nothing great or grand, 
 
 In Water Street no purity ; 
 In Broome there's not a broom at work, 
 
 Dry Dock is quite a puddle ; 
 In Carroll Street no carol sounds, 
 
 And Congress is a muddle. 
 
 The street called Gay is very, sad ; 
 
 Both Ann and Catharine plague you ; 
 The very name of Hague Street gives 
 
 A Cockney bard the h'-ague. 
 In Dey Street we are like to die, 
 
 Gramercy Place is pert, sirs, 
 And Chestnut Street and Cherry make 
 
 A dessert we desert, sirs. 
 
 There's Bayard Street but not, like him, 
 
 Sans peur et sans reproche, sirs ; 
 And in Attorney Street you find 
 
 A tourney-coach to coach, sirs. 
 In Rose I never saw a rose 
 
 Except a colored woman, 
 And Clement Street and Mersey are 
 
 Most thoroughly inhuman. 
 
 In Greene Street not a blade of grass, 
 
 In Fountain not a pailful ; 
 The streets, with bales and boxes piled, 
 
 Become each day more baleful ; 
 A walk through Varick Street would give 
 
 A varic-ose complaint, sirs, 
 And White Street is as black a place 
 
 As ever mud did paint, sirs. 
 
 Our streets are piled with* piles of brick, 
 
 And " bricks" go staggering by them ; 
 The rotten shingles covering pits 
 
 With cautious feet we try them. 
 Our rich men's faces tell their wealth 
 
 Ten thousand for each wrinkle, 
 And on a ten times wizened face 
 
 Each lady's glance will twinkle. 
 
 These ladies all are thin and tall, 
 Large-eyed and pale refined, too ; 
 
 Superbly dressed and for the rest, 
 Ask them, if you've a mind to. 
 
2Y6 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Some people say they have a way 
 
 False calves and busts of padding, 
 And their teeth are sought and complexions bought 
 
 When they take their daily gadding. 
 
 Oh, Muse of mine ! thy classic foot 
 
 Once wore a golden sandal, 
 But thou hast fallen on punning ways, 
 
 And c ! it is a s(c)andal. 
 Thy thoughts are turned to quiddities, 
 
 The tortured language teasing, 
 For he who once but lived to please, 
 
 Has now to live by pleasing. 
 
 POLITICAL OPIUM DREAM. 
 
 WRITTEN, AFTER SWALLOWING THREE DOVER'S POWDERS, BY THE POIOK OF 
 
 THE "PEWTER MUG.". 
 
 In weary, nervous plight, one night 
 
 I sighed and panted for the light, 
 
 While buzzing in my ear a clear 
 
 Shrill whisper breathed these words of fear : 
 Fernando Wood had forty-one thousand, 
 Vowed and swore he had forty-one thousand, 
 Swore that he owned full forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand votes. 
 
 I groaned and could not sleep ; a deep 
 
 And dread unquiet made me keep 
 
 Still asking, soon or late, their fate ; 
 
 Then came the dream I now relate. 
 
 A vision it was of the forty-one thousand, 
 All that is left of the forty-one thousand, 
 The wretched remains of the forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand votes. 
 
 Suppose some giant " bore" of yore 
 Had found a gimlet more and more 
 Gigantic than himself, "and he 
 Nine miles in height circumference three. 
 
 Suppose the tool so found around 
 He turned and twisted in the ground, 
 Working to let some daylight through 
 On Kaffir Land or Timbuctoo. 
 
 Such was the tortuous pit, unlit 
 By any cheery ray of day, 
 
.Charles Graham Hal/pine. 277 
 
 Down which a winding, slippery stair 
 Curled, black and dismal as despair. 
 
 Still from the dripping walls there falls 
 An ooze of death ; each step appalls 
 As giddily I wound around 
 This monstrous corkscrew under ground. 
 
 Each step new echoes woke, which broke 
 Like booming guns from battle smoke, 
 And, stifling for fresh air, the stair 
 Seemed leading down to you know where. 
 
 Before me strode a guide, with wide 
 Funereal drapery loosely tied 
 Round head and waist ; a bull's-eye lamp 
 Shot sickly rays through dark and damp. 
 
 At length we reached a hall, where all 
 A thousand galleries met, and yet 
 In each five yards of corridor 
 Stood in the dripping walls a door. 
 
 At one my grim guide paused, and caused 
 
 A door, which opened with a spring, 
 
 Back on its rusty hinge to swing 
 
 And I beheld a hideous thing. 
 
 Alack and alack for the forty-one thousand, 
 Hither had come the forty-one thousand, 
 All that was left of the forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand votes. 
 
 There is a low vault, bare and square 
 (Blue burned the lamp in the stagnant air) : 
 I saw green lizards sprawl and fall 
 On drizzly floor from slimy Wall, 
 
 While ranged around the room, in gloom 
 
 More deep than any earthly tomb, 
 
 A score of coffins stood on end 
 
 " Political corpses," said my friend. 
 
 Corpses they were of the forty-one thousand, 
 Wretchedest wreck of the forty-one thousand, 
 All that were left of the forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand votes. 
 
 Each bore a brazen plate, to state 
 The name, style, station, natal date 
 Of the " clean beat" who groaned within 
 This mortal sentry-box of sin. 
 
278 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Advancing to the first accused, 
 
 My guide tapped lightly ; the lid burst 
 
 Wide open, and, as back it flew, 
 
 The ghastly tenant stood in view. 
 
 Done to death were the forty-one thousand, 
 Boxed in wood were the forty-one thousand, 
 All that was left of the forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand votes. 
 
 Protruding from the clothes there flows 
 A shroud round each, from head to toes 
 I saw and recognized a nose 
 Such as the people's chairman blows. 
 
 And, tapping round from shell to shell, 
 
 Each lid wide open slowly fell, 
 
 Revealing in this chamel hive 
 
 The following "beats" entombed alive. 
 
 Buried alive of the forty-one thousand, 
 Princes and sheiks of the forty-one thousand, 
 Diddled remains of the forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand votes. 
 
 Here galorious Dick had a hue of blue, 
 Mottled and streaked in the parts in view ; 
 And brother Ben made a grand display 
 Of " proud flesh" turning to decay. 
 
 Dick Schell looked bad in his white pine shell, 
 And the weary Drake had an ancient smell ; 
 Cold sweat from wretched Ben Fairchild flows, 
 And Bill M'Intyre made us hold our nose ; 
 
 For "gamy" were they of the forty-one thousand 
 Forty-pne thousand votes. 
 
 The features of monkey Gid were hid 
 
 By the shroud which he drew when his coffin-lid 
 
 Flew back, and General Hiram he 
 
 Was as "hi" as a corpse on the gallows-tree. 
 
 Myriads of malt-worms, fed and bred 
 
 In Seventh Ward bully Riley's head ; 
 
 And charming Brownell looked almost as grisly 
 
 As the skin-peeled corpse of poor Billy Brisly. 
 
 These were the whole of the forty-one thousand, 
 All that is left of the forty-one thousand, 
 Nary a more of the forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand voters. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 ''Where is the chief?" I said ; " for dead 
 I know he must be." Every head 
 In all that ghastly crew was raised, 
 And fury from their eyeballs blazed. 
 
 Each from beneath his shroud, with proud 
 And angry gesture, drew to view 
 Some limb or portion of the chief, 
 Now made " political hung beef." 
 
 Ben Fairchild had the hand which planned 
 So many " city diddlings" grand ; . * 
 
 Gid Tucker had his rights the lights, 
 Bile-duct, and spleen, to chew o' nights. 
 
 Legs, head, and breast went round ; each found 
 
 His only solace under ground ; 
 
 While Brandy Sour was glad to risk it 
 
 Upon the baser parts and brisket 
 
 Of him who owned the forty-one thousand, 
 Boasted and swore he had forty-one thousand, 
 Swaggered and lied about forty-one thousand 
 Forty-one thousand votes. 
 
 I sickened, and my brain, with pain 
 And nausea, felt a nervous strain. 
 " Avaunt !" I cried ; and, with a clang, 
 Back every coffin-cover rang. 
 
 A SONG FOR WHITE MEN. 
 
 Old Abe is good to crack a joke, 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 
 His fun in stories he can poke, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I ; 
 
 But there's never a joke that he can crack 
 Will help him to beat our Little Mac, 
 For we all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 The " nigs" for Abe the best may do, 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 
 He is patron saint of all their crew, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I ; 
 
 But we, unfortunates, who are white, 
 Yet for the nigger have to fight 
 Oh, we all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
280 The Poetical Works of 
 
 "We've broken the Bebellion's back," 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 
 Bill Seward swears he heard it crack, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I ; 
 
 He swore 'twas broken three years ago, 
 But we see the tide of slaughter flow, 
 And we all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 No end of the war can ever come, 
 
 . Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 
 We shall hear the roll of the murd'rous drum, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I, 
 
 Until at the head of affairs we place 
 The chosen chief of the martial race, 
 And we all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 Four millions of dollars every day, 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! 
 For this nigger war we are forced to pay, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I ; 
 
 And there's never a hope, in Lincoln's track, 
 Of winning our good old Union back, 
 So we all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 For liberty of speech and press, 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 
 For outraged rights we seek redress, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I; 
 The lettre de cachet and Bastile 
 Are things to make every freeman feel 
 We should all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 To Sherman, Farragut, and Grant, 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 
 Who our flag o'er conquered cities plant, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I, 
 
 We fill the bumper and pledge the toast, 
 And to give them the aid they need the most, 
 We all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 With Mac at the head of our weaponed clans. 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! 
 No "political dodges'' would mar their plans. 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I ; 
 
Charles Graham Ilalpine. 281 
 
 And therefore Farragut, Sherman, Grant, 
 Declare "that Mac is the chief they want," 
 And we all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 To all our heroes in the field, 
 
 Heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! 
 Knowing how to die, but not to yield, 
 
 Heigh-ho, says I, 
 
 We fill the bumper and pledge the toast, 
 And to give them the aid they need the most, 
 We all go Mac blind 
 Johnny, fill up the bowl. 
 
 WAR DEMOCRATIC VIEW OF M'CLELLAN'S NOMINA 
 TION. 
 
 "He will immediately take steps to bring about a cessation of hostilities. 1 
 
 Chicago Platform. 
 Private OReilly, solus : 
 
 Air: " Ould Ireland, you're my darling" 
 May I niver taste bite nor sup to-night, 
 
 But I joy to hear the story, 
 For the rebels'll catch in M'Clellan their match, 
 
 An' we'll soon have "payee" wid glory. 
 Such " steps" he will take as'll make 'em awake 
 
 To a sinse of their situation, 
 An' wid thrayson dead on a bloody bed, 
 Of the war we shall have " a cessation." 
 
 Chorus of soldiers : 
 
 Air: " Yankee Doodle." 
 
 That's the kind of talk for us, 
 
 That's the peace we covet 
 
 Treason dead on a bloody bed, 
 
 And our starry flag above it. 
 
 Private O'Reilly, as before : 
 
 Little Mac's the man wid a wholesome plan 
 
 For an airly " payee" attainin' ; 
 Wid threble might to purshue the fight, 
 
 Decisive thriumphs gainin'. 
 We do hate an' abhor every form o' war 
 
 We but fight for conciliation, 
 An' with thrayson dead on a bloody bed, 
 
 Of the war we shall have "a cessation." 
 
282 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Chorus vj' soldiers, as before: 
 
 That's the kind of talk for us, 
 
 That's the peace we covet 
 Treason dead on a bloody bed, 
 
 And the stars and stripes above it. 
 
 Private O'Reilly, as before: 
 
 Och ! the hour is nigh to see them fly 
 
 In wild confusion scatthered, 
 From their broken lines an' their murdherin' mines, 
 
 An' their earthworks torn an' tatthered. 
 Wid a fiery brand in wan stout hand, 
 
 An' an olive-branch in the other, 
 They will all come back undher " Little Mac," 
 
 An' we'll have an end o' the bother. 
 
 Chorus of soldiers, as before : 
 
 That comes home to the Southern heart, 
 
 That's the way to strike it 
 The brand in hand if you still withstand, 
 
 The olive-branch if you like it. 
 
 HURRA FOR ANDY JOHNSON. 
 
 Air; " Ould Ireland, you're my jewel, sure." 
 
 Och, Andy, you're my jewel, shure, 
 
 For you our hearts are sighin' ; 
 'Tis your thrue aim that bags the game, 
 
 An' sets the feathers fly in'. 
 Full many a duck your shot has sthruck, 
 
 As you make your sportin' journey, 
 But ourselves between shure there never was seen 
 
 Such a clip as you gave John Forney. 
 Och, Andy dear, some people here, 
 
 They say that your thrade was a tailor's, 
 An' 'twas this, no less, makes you give, I guess, 
 
 Such fits to them Jacobin railers. 
 
 Go on, my boy ! our counthry's joy 
 
 Is at stake upon your succeedin' ; 
 Let the Jacobins rave till aich whey-faced knave 
 
 Is choked up wid the venom he's breedin'. 
 You are on the right thrack to win for us back 
 
 For shure love is a powerful magnet 
 The union of hand and of heart in the land, 
 
 Which these rogues would thransfix wid a bagnet. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 283 
 
 Och, Andy, dear, your friends are here, 
 
 Down far in the sowls o' the people ; 
 An' if we had our say, all who'd bar your way 
 
 Faix ! they'd swing from ould Thrinity's stheeple. 
 
 To bring back the states within our gates 
 
 As sisthers, we thought was our sole end.; 
 The Union, 'twas for that we bled in the war 
 
 Not to make o' the South a new Poland. 
 But now these rogues who do the collogues 
 
 In the Sinate from which the Lord save us ! . 
 Shure they cry, it is said, that the Union is dead, 
 
 Just as loud as did ever Jeff Davis. 
 But, Andy, dear, while you are here, 
 
 Our Union no power can sever ; 
 An', despite all their clack, we shall soon have it back, 
 
 An' the ould flag shall float forever. 
 
 THE ALDERMAN'S GHOST-. 
 
 BEING A SPIEITtJAL MANIFESTATION FROM A MEMBER OF THE DEFUNCT 
 CORPORATION OF NEW YORK KNOWN IN LOCAL HISTORY AS "THE FORTY 
 THIEVES." 
 
 Hurra for Judge Edmonds ! I have had 
 
 A mystical manifestation ; 
 I saw last night don't think me mad 
 
 A ghost from the Corporation. 
 It came to my room 'tis truth I tell 
 
 And rapped upon the table ; 
 Alive, it loved the table well, 
 
 And dead, as well as it's able. 
 
 Said I, while I felt each sinew heave, 
 
 And the dew on my forehead gather, 
 Is that the spirit of Mother Eve, 
 
 Or the ghost of a city father ? 
 The table stood up like a fighting-cock, 
 
 And danced with a glee satanic ; 
 It rapped with force of a thunder-shock, 
 
 "The spirit is aldermanic. " 
 
 How did you die ? Come tell me smack 
 
 Was it eating turtle-soup, or 
 ATI overdose of the canvas-back ? 
 
 ' ' I died of Peter Cooper ; 
 
284 The Poetical Works of 
 
 An overdose of the canvass too" 
 
 (The spirit a pun was sharp at) ; 
 The table here delirious grew, 
 
 And rolled over and over the carpet. 
 How fare you now in the spirit-land ? 
 
 Are you melancholic or merry ? 
 Have you got any good fat jobs on hand 
 
 A railroad or a ferry ? 
 *' I find the spirits are regular bricks, 
 ^ Nor the place of fat jobs barren ; 
 I'll sell the monopoly of the Styx, 
 
 And oust the ferryman, Charon." 
 
 Have you got a lobby ring up in the skies, 
 
 Or are your briberies mental ? 
 Is there any mayor in his strength to rise 
 
 With a veto transcendental ? 
 " I taste, as ever I did, the sweets 
 
 Of jobs the most nefarious ; 
 And I mean to appoint to cleanse tke streets 
 
 A mystical Arcularius. " 
 
 God help the spirits, then, I cried 
 
 Is there no one to guard or care 'em ? 
 If one were to think of suicide, 
 
 Such a thought as this would scare him ; 
 For, bad as it is on earth below 
 
 And it makes our heart-strings quiver 
 Just think of an aldermanic woe 
 
 Inflicted up there forever. 
 
 NEBRASKA AND KANSAS. 
 Air: " Eliza, tny darling, you know you know." 
 The Arabs are happy no doubt, no doubt 
 
 The Arabs are happy and why ? 
 It ain't that they scamper about, about, 
 
 Just as free as the clouds in the sky. 
 'Tis because they ain't worried, and scurried, and hurried 
 
 With cries of " Nebraska" and " Kansas ;" 
 They lie under palm-trees, enjoying the balm breeze, 
 
 And sing the " sweet moon" in sweet stanzas. 
 
 Icelanders are happy no doubt, no doubt 
 
 Icelanders are happy and why ? 
 It ain't that for train-oil they sho*ut, they shout, 
 
 And snug in their snow hovels lie. 
 
diaries Graham Halpine. 285 
 
 'Tis because that " Nebraska'' (to rhyme that's a task, all ! 
 
 But else I must tear up my stanzas) 
 Has never perplexed them, and wofully vexed them, 
 
 Nor care they a seal-skin for " Kansas." 
 
 The Fejees are happy no doubt, no doubt 
 
 The Fejees are happy and why ? 
 'Taint because our friend Kimball, with tabret and cymbal, 
 
 Exalted their mermaid on high ; 
 'Tis because (every man says) "Nebraska" and " Kansas" 
 
 Don't frighten them out of their lives ; 
 They have dwellings of coral, and (wise men and moral) 
 
 They sport with their salmon-tailed wives. 
 
 But we are unhappy no doubt, no doubt 
 
 But we are most wretched and why ? 
 'Tis because we are deafened, and crippled, and spavined 
 
 With buncombe, and bosh, and "my eye.'* 
 We offer a passage, a horse, and an ass each, 
 
 To these Quixotes and sleek Sancho Panzas 
 Who share our communion, yet tilt at the Union, 
 
 If they'll put for " Nebraska" and *' Kansas." 
 
 BOB SMITH, OF FULTON STREET. 
 
 A BALLAD OF RECONSTRUCTION AND REHABILITATION. 
 
 Hail, Bobbie Smith, mine ancient friend, 
 
 My harp hath sung your matchless garments 
 Long years before I southward went 
 
 To fight them cussed secession varmints. 
 You're on the square, my bully Bob, 
 
 Your honest faith no traffic smothers, 
 And, when I want a clothing job, 
 
 I'll deal with you before all others. 
 
 I like you, Bob. Your clothes I find 
 
 Just like your friendship warm and lasting ; 
 No mean thought ever crossed your mind, 
 
 Its shadow on your actions casting. 
 One price you ask small profit sought 
 
 And men must give the price or leave it ; 
 I write of you my honest thought, 
 
 And those who read had best believe it. 
 
 Go in, my Bob, and make and sell 
 Your clothes till covering all creation ; 
 
 The friends who know you love you well, 
 And you have friends throughout the nation. 
 
286 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Deal with our erring brethren South 
 
 Kindly and well for still they're cranky 
 And put this saying in their mouth 
 "At least there is one honest Yankee." 
 
 THE CRY IS MAC, MY DARLIN'. 
 
 Air: "Oh, my Nora Creina, dear." 
 
 Mac, my darlin', proud I am 
 
 To hear that you've been nominated ; 
 Last we met at Antietam, 
 
 Where you the rebel might abated ; 
 In the 'Seven Days' fight I stood 
 
 Beside you on the hills an' meadows, 
 And while our brave boys poured their blood, 
 We know your heart was throbbin' wid us. 
 Oh, my captain, dear an' thrue, 
 
 The coward tongues that would ignore you 
 Are base as false thank Heaven they're few ! 
 Your soldiers thrust you an' adore you. 
 
 Abe may crack his jolly jokes 
 
 O'er bloody fields of sthricken battle, 
 While yet the ebbin' life-tide shmokes 
 
 From men that die like butchered cattle ; 
 He, ere yet the guns grow cold, 
 
 To pimps an' pets may crack his stories 
 Your name is of the grander mould, 
 
 And linked wid all our brightest glories. 
 Oh, my general, loved an' thrue, 
 
 The lyin' tongues that would defame you 
 Are base as false thank Heaven they're few ! 
 For as our chosen chief we claim you. 
 
 They say these dogs of currish heart, 
 Who never heard a Minie whistle 
 You'd let the Union drift apart 
 
 Like down-flakes from a shaken thistle ; ' 
 They say, oh captain but the words 
 
 Stick in our throats we can't adjust 'em 
 But lift to heaven our dinted swords, 
 An' answer only this, ' ' We thrust him. " 
 Yes, oh friend of rights an' laws, 
 
 Despite the sneers of fool or craven, 
 Where hearts beat highest for the cause, 
 
 You have your home, your shrine, and haven. 
 
Charles Graham Haljpine. 287 
 
 Wid patient toil an' pityin' breast 
 
 You sought your soldiers' blood to threasure, 
 Nor ever tried the cruel test 
 
 How much we could endure to measure. 
 They feared you, for they saw our love ; 
 
 To win success they would not let you ; 
 But while the white stars shine above, 
 The boys you led will ne'er forget you. 
 Yes, our captain, prized an' thrue, 
 
 Desert you we would perish rather ; 
 Thank Heaven the hearts are not a few 
 That call you brother, friend, and father. 
 
 "THERE'S NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL, BOYS. 
 
 BY ONE OP THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 Air: "The low-backed car." 
 M'Dowell's day is over 
 
 A true and gallant man, 
 With a heart as big as a bullock's heart, 
 
 But wanting a head to plan. 
 Now brighter hours are dawning, 
 
 And brighter hopes we hail, 
 For with young M'Clellan to lead our lines, 
 There's no such word as fail 
 
 There's no such word as fail, boys 
 There's no such word as fail ; 
 For with young M'Clellan to lead our lines, 
 There's no such word as fail. 
 
 No fault against M 'Dow ell, 
 
 No blame have we to urge, 
 He wasn't a red-tape martinet, 
 
 That soldiers' pest and scourge. 
 Warm-hearted was M'Dowell, 
 
 His courage proof of mail, 
 But he did belong to that luckless class 
 Who do know how to fail 
 
 Who do know how to fail, boys, 
 As witness all our men, 
 But with young M'Clellan to lead our lines, 
 We'll try the game again. 
 
 Virginia's western counties 
 
 Resound M'Clellan's name, 
 Philippi, Grafton, Romney. are 
 
 The first-fruits of his fame. 
 
288 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And soon the lurid halo 
 
 Of the rebel flag shall pale, 
 For M'Clellan belongs to the chosen class 
 Who don't know how to fail 
 
 Who don't know how to fail, boys, 
 Who won't know how to fail 
 Who couldn't be taught, at whatever price, 
 The will or the way to fail. 
 
 So burnish up your weapons, boys, 
 
 And keep your powder dry, 
 Bull Run will have done us a deal of good 
 
 When next the game we try. 
 One fair, square chance but give us, boys, 
 
 And you'll see the rebels quail, 
 For our leader is now of the chosen class 
 Who don't know how to fail 
 
 Who don't know how to fail, boys, 
 Who won't know how to fail, 
 And who can not be taught, at whatever price, 
 The will or the way to fail. 
 
 LIVE-OAK GEORGE. 
 
 Here's to the man who of birth never boasts, 
 Who has girdled with commerce our seas and our coasts, 
 On whose flag the old sun never ceases to shine, 
 From the east to the west, from the pole to the line. 
 Live-oak George, 
 Live-oak George, 
 He'll make the politicians 
 All their spoils disgorge. 
 
 He ne'er to the mean arts of toadying flew, 
 He kept himself clear of the caucusing crew 
 Relied on his worth and the will he had shown, 
 That Americans still should America own. 
 Live-oak George, 
 Live-oak George, 
 
 He soon .vill make the Galphin crew 
 Their spoils disgorge. 
 
 When poor, and a boy, he came into our town, 
 The Albany Regency trampled us down ; 
 But the old fogy tyrants have now to give way 
 To the king of the steam-boats the man of the day. 
 
diaries Graham Halpine. 280 
 
 Live-oak George, 
 
 Live-oak George, 
 Tis he will make the harpy crew 
 Their gains disgorge. 
 
 He sought for no place and he courted no clique 
 If him they desired, it was their place to seek 
 It was stanch Pennsylvania the first that did draw 
 Her sword from the scabbard for honest George Law. 
 Live-oak George, 
 Live-oak George, 
 'Tis he will make old parties 
 All their gains disgorge. 
 
 But others have followed, and others will come, 
 Like soldiers to roll-call of fife and of drum ; 
 For the man that among us most voters can draw, 
 Oh ! who should he be but our Live-oak George Law ? 
 Live-oak George, 
 Live-oak George, 
 
 He'll make some foreign monarchs 
 All their pride disgorge. 
 
 Then bumpers around to the man of the day 
 The " grip" and the " word," and let fate have its way ; 
 All true men around the proud standard will draw, ' 
 Which, in famed fifty-six, bears the name of George Law. 
 Live-oak George, 
 Live-oak George, 
 Like one of his own clippers, 
 Into port he'll surge. 
 
 Then here's to the man who has made himself all 
 That wealthy, respected, and honored we call ; 
 Too long, under soldiers and lawyers, we saw 
 Our country degraded we'll now try George Law. 
 Live-oak George, 
 Live-oak George, 
 
 'Tis he will make the Galphin crew 
 Their gains disgorge. 
 
 SONG OF THE NATIONAL DEMOCRACY. 4 ' 
 
 To the Albany chiefs the War Democrats spoke. 
 Ere you play the old game, there are slates to be broke ; 
 Your words are all right if they only were true, * 
 But beneath the war flag you've a Copperhead crew. 
 
290 The Poetical Works of 
 
 So fill up the cup, be it brandy or bier, 
 Resurrect the war-hatchet and sharpen the spear ; 
 In November we'll have an almighty big row, 
 And to Copperhead doctrines be well, if we bow. 
 
 Dean Richmond his stomach may pat, and may pinch 
 
 His jolly red nose till it lengthens an inch ; 
 
 But he can't make us think his professions are true 
 
 While he sails his war ship with a Copperhead crew. 
 So fill up the cup, whisky, claret, or bier, 
 Resurrect the war-hatchet and sharpen the spear : 
 There are braves on the war-path prepared for a row, 
 And to Breckinridge doctrines.be well, if we bow. 
 
 The bold Pete de Cagger, with mystery big, 
 May adjust each stray hair in his amber-hued wig, 
 But his arts, though potential, are well understood 
 If his platform be honest, why runs he with Wood ? 
 So fill up the cup things look certainly queer- 
 Resurrect the war-hatchet and sharpen the spear ; 
 With the lords of the " Central" we're in for a row. 
 And to Richmond and Cagger be well, if we bow. 
 
 To the tenets of Douglas we tenderly cling, 
 Warm hearts to the cause of our country we bring ; 
 To the flag we are pledged all its foes we abhor 
 And we ain't for the "nigger," but are for the war. 
 So fill up the cup pleasant tipple is bier 
 Resurrect the war-hatchet and sharpen the spear ; 
 With the Albany chiefs we are in for a row, 
 And their sceptre we'll break, or their heads they shall bow 
 
 It may suit the subservient old War Horse to say 
 
 He is "willing to follow where Pete leads the way ;" 
 
 That, with gayety, he as blank paper will yield 
 
 Himself to the power which the Regency wield. 
 Oh, so great doth your gayety, Purdy, appear, 
 That we drink your good health in a bumper of bier ; 
 And after November's slate-smashing grand row, 
 We'll, with gayety, make you our very best bow. 
 
 Such things do for some folks, but don't do for us, 
 Who for Pruyn, Cagger, Cassidy, don't care a cuss ; 
 To the flag we are pledged all its foes we abhor 
 And first, last, all the time, we are in for the war. 
 So fill up the cup healthy drinking is bier 
 Resurrect the war-axe and sharpen the spear ; 
 In the Wigwam, next April, all factions we'll hush, 
 And for new men to lead Ave'll go in with a rush. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 291 
 
 The platform of Logan, Grant, Gillmore, and Dix 
 
 Is better than any that managers fix : 
 
 "Our flag in its glory! our Union restored, 
 
 And, till treason cries quarter, no sheath to the sword !" 
 So fill up the cup with much better than bier, 
 The big spring is bubbling, its waters are clear 
 Democracy's fountain and thus at its brink, 
 "To the memory of Douglas" with bowed heads we drink. 
 
 A DEMOCRATIC EALLY. 
 
 Bring forth the ancient standards, the old time faith renew, 
 March all and march together, brothers tried and ever true ; 
 Fall in and take your places, call the roll, and let us hear 
 Who are for us, who against us, in the strife that draws anear. 
 Now Treason stands with bloody hands, 
 
 Her long-worn mask discarded, 
 
 And we are they by whom to-day 
 The Union must be guarded. 
 
 Forget all past dissensions in the greatness of the hour ; 
 For Union let the Empire State send forth a voice of power ; 
 When villains league to do a wrong, let the true combine for 'right, 
 And we'll soon choke out the mutiny which traitors would incite. 
 Revealed, opposed, their plot disclosed, 
 
 Treason shall sink confounded ; 
 No servile strife, with torch and knife, 
 Shall through our land be hounded. 
 
 Oh, brothers, rally to the flag, for ours the glorious mission, 
 True to the bond that Jackson sealed to banish all division ; 
 A common fame, a common name, a common good to cherish, 
 These are the rights which freemen claim content for these to perish. 
 No frantic hordes with reeking swords 
 
 Our sister states shall plunder ; 
 And they whose thought first hatched the plot, 
 Its wreck let them lie under. 
 
 Come all who love our fatherland, and reverence each name 
 Shouted from Freedom's hill-tops in the morning of our fame ; 
 On Treason let the Empire State be first to place a brand, 
 And foremost of all cities let the Empire City stand. 
 Let all combine who will not join 
 
 In treason's foul communion, 
 
 And let our shout ring boldly out 
 
 For nationhood and Union. 
 
292 The Poetical Works of 
 
 The good and great of every state will hail our restoration, 
 New York once more shall take her place as vanguard of the nation ; 
 East, West, and South a thrill, a cheer, our victor war-cry pealing, 
 Shall rouse again in all true men the old time's holy feeling. 
 Our ship of state will ride elate, 
 
 In Union's harbor anchored, 
 And future days shall live to praise 
 The peace New York hath conquered. 
 
 SENATOR TOM ON CLAMS. 49 
 
 From the cool bosom of the sand, 
 
 Washed by the flood and ebbing tide, 
 These savory bivalves come to hand, 
 
 And form the theme of Develin's pride. 
 More sweet than venison's roasted haunch, 
 
 Or birds of paradise stewed with yams, 
 Are these rare bivalves of Long Branch 
 
 This precious breed of Develin's clams. 
 
 These female clams, from sand and foam, 
 
 Rise up exemplars to our life ; 
 For they are always found at home, 
 
 As should be each domestic wife. 
 No bills for dry goods do they launch, 
 
 Nor diamonds whether true or shams 
 These prudent bivalves of Long Branch 
 
 These rarely prudent Develin clams. 
 
 Seldom, if ever, do they talk ; 
 
 Their mouths with maiden pride they close 
 Nor ever in the moonlight walk 
 
 Too long and late with clammy beaus. 
 Their love is pure, their hearts are stanch, 
 
 They are just as innocent as lambs 
 These coy, young bivalves of Long Branch 
 
 This precious breed of Develin's clams. 
 
 No crinoline enshrouds their limbs, 
 
 Nor penciled Jash, nor paint's endeavor, 
 But each in the pure water swims, 
 
 ; ' A thing of beauty and joy forever." 
 They never quit their native ranche, 
 
 Hotels of cost in summer Avooing 
 These patient bivalves of Long Branch, 
 
 They live in bliss, and die in stewing. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 293 
 
 No "rats" or "mice" are in their beard, 
 
 They never like promiscuous gadding, 
 And in their plumpness, who has heard 
 
 Of any "artificial padding?" 
 Their simple souls no fear can blanch, 
 
 They envy not their prettier neighbors 
 These simple bivalves of Long Branch, 
 
 Whose bake now claims our Develin's labors. 
 
 To Weed, whose pen with bolder lines 
 Our lady-clams can paint more truly, 
 My feebler pen the task resigns 
 
 Of picturing all their virtues fully. 
 To him yet vigorous, fresh, and stanch, 
 
 8ound in the chest, and head, and hams, 
 I leave these bivalves of Long Branch 
 
 This dear sweet brood of Develin's clams. 
 
 SENATOR GWIN TO BUCHANAN. 
 
 Air: "Wlien first I knew thee, warm and young." 
 
 When first I knew thee, gray and old, 
 
 Such treachery gleamed about thee 
 So heartless wert thou, and so cold, 
 That instinct bade me doubt thee. 
 I knew thee false in every trait, 
 
 A vain and cruel master, 
 But hoped that bonds of common hate 
 To me would tie thee faster. 
 But go, deceiver, go, 
 
 No tears my grave may water 
 Like those which ever flow 
 
 O'er Broderick's bed of slaughter. 
 
 When every tongue to freedom born 
 
 Denounced thy party treason, 
 . I found in this prevailing scorn 
 
 For faith in thee fresh reason 
 " He must be true, for all are foes 
 
 Except the slaves of custom ; 
 The leper with the leprous goes, 
 And therefore we may trust him. " 
 But go, deceiver, go, 
 
 Bright and Fitch will leave thee later, 
 And Bigler, with despairing throe. 
 Confess he served a traitor. 
 
294 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And yet, J. B., the time is near 
 
 When even Slidell shall leave thee ; 
 And Davis, seized with ghastly fear, 
 
 To death and ruin heave thee ; 
 Missouri Greene shall kick thee down, 
 
 Bayard thy bones will batter, 
 And puffs from Constitution Browne 
 Will lose their power to flatter. 
 But go, 'tis vain to curse, 
 
 And weakness to upbraid thee, 
 Hate can not wish thee worse 
 
 Than Black Lecompton made thee. 
 
 Even now, though still some months are left 
 
 For public pay and booty, 
 Thy minions, of all pride bereft, 
 
 Yet scorn their abject duty. 
 Augustus Schell, that veriest slave 
 
 Of all the slaves beneath you, 
 Will throw no flower upon your grave 
 With naught but curses wreathe you. 
 But go ; the task was thine 
 Our land to rend asunder ; 
 And many a vote of mine 
 
 You bought for so much plunder. 
 
 Even Breckinridge, who on bent knee 
 
 Thy favor now importunes, 
 Shall curse the day he linked with thee 
 
 His erstwhile lucky fortunes. 
 And on our country's record-page 
 
 Thy name, in scarlet letters, 
 Shall glisten to the latest age, 
 With Arnold's linked in fetters. 
 But go, thou poor old man ; 
 N 'Tis Heaven from ruin kept her ; 
 And now, beneath thy country's ban, 
 Kesign her sullied sceptre. 
 
 THE SEVENTH TO JOHN COCHRANE. 
 
 Accept, oh prince of phrases round, 
 This token of esteem profound 
 
 From those you made your care 
 From those to whom, with generous hand, 
 In words that made each heart expand, 
 
 You tendered " princely fare." 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 High was the summons, great the need, 
 And splendid the reward decreed 
 
 To all so said your pen 
 Who'd share the task of rendering praise 
 To Washington, and those " stern days 
 
 Which tried the souls of men." 
 
 Those dreary days of gloom and want, 
 Discomfort plenty, rations scant, 
 * Lortg marches, and hard fighting 
 Your splendid art recalled the whole, 
 And verily you tried each soul 
 
 With hunger sharp and biting. 
 
 Knee-deep in mud, no welcome given, 
 Drenched with the frozen sleet of heaven, 
 
 No roof no tent provided ; 
 No drop to drink no food to eat 
 Shivering and starving in the street, 
 
 Cold, hungry, and derided. 
 
 As thus we slept upon our arms, 
 Thinking of home's deserted charms 
 
 The comforts vanished from us 
 There rose before each grateful mind, 
 With sweetest memories entwined, 
 
 Your highly "princely promise." 
 
 And then we vowed, in whispers low, 
 Some fitting presents to bestow 
 
 (You're cute, but we'll be cuter) 
 These slop-bowls, tea and coffee kettles 
 This set of plate our debt half settles, 
 Cast in the most appropriate metals 
 
 Of nickel, brass, and pewter. 
 
 So take them, Cochrane, and you'll, find 
 In this tall coffee-pot enshrined 
 
 Promotion coming faster : 
 A testimonial which repeats 
 That the great Lodge of Healthy Beats 
 The Clean, the Dead, Past Grands, and Sweets 
 Admiring your astounding feats, 
 Without once rising from their seats 
 On the first ballot the first choice 
 Without even one dissenting voice 
 
 Have voted you Grand Master. 
 
296 The Poetical Works of 
 
 GRAND ROUT OF THE NABOBS. 
 
 CONTINUATION OP THE ILIAD BY ANOTHER HAND. 8EKMON8 AND SODA-WATER 
 NEEDED.' 
 
 Time Early morning. Scene Parlor in the Fifth Avenue Hotel Cigar- 
 stumps, empty Champagne bottles, and Vigilant- Salamander- Safe-Commit 
 tee-men lying loose around. Enter the chaplain of the movement with a 
 tray of cocktails. He surveys the room and sings : 
 
 Oh, the nabobs came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And their noses were purple, their shirt-studs were gold 
 In political life every man strove to shine, 
 And the liquor they quaffed it was Verzenay wine. 
 
 Like young sprouts of asparagus, sappy and green, 
 At the Everett, a month since, these nabobs Avere seen ; 
 But, like- frostbitten pumpkins, all wilted and blue, 
 They now turn up their toes in the Fifth Ave-noo. 
 
 For St. Tammany's trumpet aroused a great host, 
 And the spirit of manhood rebelled at their boast ; 
 Mere toadstools of lucre, the growth of a night, 
 These nabobs have wilted beneath the dawn's light. 
 
 Here lie Sam and Cisco with nostrils all wide 
 No more with the nabobs allowed to abide ; 
 And, wearied from laughing at all that has been, 
 Lo ! here sleeps the red-bearded Indian serene. 
 
 And Baldwin, the polywog pale-face, lies there ; 
 And Forrest, all withered in wintry despair ; 
 And Coleman these three, stiff as icicles lie, 
 With a very big Verzenay drop in each eye. 
 
 And the spirits of Wolfe weak and sluggishly flow, 
 While that resolute gentleman, Sammy Barlow 
 (A jolly good fellow the harder his lot), 
 Keeps eternally asking of Sherman "Watts what?" 
 
 Now gone all the golden delights of their dream, 
 And vainly may bubble the Verzenay stream ; 
 For with headache and nausea, awakening in haste, 
 Each but finds in his mouth a green coppery taste. 
 
 And in vain to rekindle their hopes and their lives 
 Are political cocktails commingled by Ives ; 
 Though the Herald has bitters and Wolfe offers gin, 
 Yet the feast was too deep for their cure to begin. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 297 
 
 Oh, bitter the wails in all boudoirs select 
 For the mighty fine hopes in their enterprise wrecked ; 
 And at Washington many the shrugs and ahems 
 At the brittle success of our "national gems." 
 
 For "national men" in the true sense were they, 
 
 No local affinities hampered their sway ; 
 
 And "gems" were they also sharp, brilliant, and nice, 
 
 Though, as Phelps will declare, "not at all beyond price." 
 
 Now the prospects of Dix they have all gone to grass, 
 And Ike Townsend insists he be written an ass ; 
 Scoffers leer when they talk of the mammon ite squad, 
 And the Verzenay movement is stiff as a clod. 
 
 For control of the movement its starters may whistle, 
 The Verzenay nabobs have fizzed their last fizzle ; 
 Extinguish the lights, fold their hands, close their eyes 
 Unregarded it lived, and uncared for it dies. 
 
 WHO KILLED THE NABOBS? 
 
 Oh, who killed the nabobs ? 
 
 " 'Twas I," said the Leader ; 
 
 "You may count me the pleader * 
 Whose words killed the nabobs " 
 
 And this, gentle reader, 
 
 This sheet is the Leader. 
 
 Who first raised the nabobs ? 
 'Twas Sam, Wolfe, and Cisco, 
 All jolly and brisk, oh ! 
 
 'Twas they raised the nabobs, 
 Who now lie as solemn 
 And flat. as this column. 
 
 To whom gave they trouble ? 
 
 " Oh, to me," says the Herald ; 
 
 ' ' My lungs I imperiled 
 Inflating their bubble ; 
 
 'Twas a stiff operation 
 
 Each morning's inflation." 
 
 For whom did they do this ? 
 
 "Oh, for Sam, Wolfe, and Cisco, 
 
 All jolly and brisk, oh ! 
 Who yet have to rue this, 
 
 And a fourth man, quiescent, 
 
 Who by proxies was present." 
 
 N 2 
 
298 The Poetical Works of 
 
 What shroud will best suit them ? 
 
 " Oh pshaw !" cry the masses, 
 
 " They are but dead asses ; 
 Just bundle and boot them ; 
 
 Collapsed, and in flat case, 
 
 They'll fit in a hat case. " 
 
 And their grave ? "None is needed ; 
 
 Lock them up with a sermon 
 
 In the safe of Watts Sherman, 
 And leave them unheeded ; 
 
 W T e are sick of the trouble 
 
 And fuss of this bubble." 
 
 Now who'll toll the bell? 
 
 "I'll do it," said Baldwin, 
 
 " If properly called on, 
 I'll toll it out well 
 
 My last act of devotion 
 
 To dead hopes of promotion." 
 
 And who for the nabobs 
 
 A headstone can carve us ? 
 
 " I'll do it," said Jarvis, 
 " Hie jacet the nabobs ; 
 
 The stereotyped model 
 
 Requiescat in 'twaddle. " 
 
 Who'll bury the fellows ? 
 " Oh I," answered Ives 
 " I, the friend of their lives 
 
 Their inflater their bellows ; 
 Let me, late their teacher, 
 In death be their preacher. " 
 
 Who'll give the responses ? 
 
 " I'll do it," cries Leary, 
 
 Brisk, jovial, and cheery, 
 " I'll give the responses ; 
 
 I am knee-deep in clover 
 
 Since their fizzle is over." 
 
 Who'll turn undertaker ? 
 
 " I'll do it," said Coleman, 
 
 A dismal but droll man, 
 ' ' I'll play mute and waker ; 
 
 But, to keep the wake frisky, 
 
 Give me snuff, pipes, and whisky." 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 "They lived a world's wonder 
 
 Of folly and weakness ; 
 
 But, whipped into meekness, 
 They caved and went under. 
 
 Their Verzenay bubbled, 
 
 Their poor brains grew muddled ; 
 
 Their pamphlet a fizzle, 
 
 Their rallies a mizzle ; 
 
 Their funds a delusion, 
 
 Their plans all confusion ; 
 
 No friends to abet them, 
 
 No friends to regret them ; 
 
 Neglected and scouted, 
 Pasquinaded and flouted ; 
 
 With golden pretensions 
 4 Of shrunken dimensions, 
 
 And headache and sickness 
 
 Oh, blame not the quickness 
 
 With which just as fast as Jack Robinson whistled 
 The Verzenay-Vigilant Fizzlers have fizzled." 
 
 THE RING-STAMP FATAL. 
 
 Just stay where you are you had betther far, 
 
 Than attimpt to breast the tornado 
 Which the Ring chiefs know is to lay them low, 
 
 Despite all their false bravado. 
 The storm's on the wing, an' aich craft o' the Ring 
 
 Will find it a roarer an' wrecker ; 
 While to victhory sails, undher favorin' gales, 
 
 The popilar ship John Hecker. 
 Just so sure as you're born, "a receipt for the corn" 
 
 Next election the Ring will be findin', 
 And wid Hecker's strong will in conthrol of our mill- 
 
 Faix ! we'll do some almighty grindin'. 
 
 THE NIGHT RIDE OF ANCIENT ABE. 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a party cry 
 We were all most terribly flurried, 
 
 As, with kindling horror in heart and eye, 
 Old Abe to the rail-cars we hurried. 
 
300 The Poetical Works of 
 
 We hurried him quickly, at dead of night, 
 A disguise o'er his long limbs throwing, 
 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And a bull's-eye dimly glowing. 
 
 No useless pageant or pomp we had, 
 
 But with Sumner's cloak around him, 
 And canny Sim Cameron's cap of plaid, 
 
 To put through in the dark AVC bound him. 
 
 Few and short were the words he said, 
 
 As we looked in his face of sorrow, 
 But sadly we thought of the row to be made 
 
 In the Herald and Times of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we jostled him into the car 
 
 ^Vithout either cheer or ovation, 
 
 . What a laugh there would be when the news spread afer 
 Of the Rail-splitter's ass-ass-ination. 
 
 We started the train, and the hero was off. 
 
 Evading each Plug-Ugly sentry ; 
 But, Lord ! how the heathen will guffaw and scoff 
 
 At this new kind of " national entry." 
 
 Gayly the Post of the plot may make light, 
 And talk of the " Tooley Street tailors," 
 
 But, snugly installed in the mansion of white, 
 The Rail-splitter laughs at all railers. 
 
 THE ANCIENT ABE. 
 
 Air: "The Shan Van Vocht." 
 
 "Let us up and do or die," 
 Says the ancient Abe ; 
 " Let us up and do or die," 
 
 Says old Abe ; 
 
 ' ' We will rear our banner high 
 As the stars are in the sky, 
 And our enemies shall fly,"" 
 Says the ancient Abe. 
 
 Then to Washington he flew, 
 Did the ancient Abe 
 
 Then to Washington he flew, 
 Did old Abe ; 
 
Charles Graham If alpine. 301 
 
 And he swore by black and blue 
 All seceders to "put through," 
 And the forts to man anew, 
 Did the ancient Abe. 
 
 Has he kept his solemn vow, 
 
 Has the ancient Abe ? 
 Has he kept his solemn vow, 
 
 Has old Abe? 
 
 By the Lord ! we see him bow 
 At the shadow of a row 
 "Tis an ugly case of "cow" 
 
 With the ancient Abe. 
 
 For without a cannon fired 
 
 By the ancient Abe 
 Not a gun or cracker fired 
 
 By old Abe- 
 He has peacefully retired, 
 Granting all the South desired, 
 Sinking down as it aspired, 
 
 Has the ancient Abe. 
 
 "Major Anderson's to blame," 
 
 Cries the ancient Abe ; 
 " It is he that is to blame," 
 
 Says old Abe ; 
 And thus to hide the shame 
 Of a heart that is not " game," 
 He befouls that honored name, 
 Does the ancient Abe. 
 
 Oh, friends, we've had enough 
 
 Of this ancient Abe 
 Much more than was enough 
 
 Of old Abe; 
 
 He is made of such weak stuff, 
 The South beats his game of bluff, 
 And I fear they'll ride him rough 
 
 Ride the ancient Abe. 
 
 Let us watch, and wait, and pray 
 
 For the ancient Abe 
 For our country let us pray, 
 
 And for Abe ; 
 Let us help him if we may, 
 When he falters on the way, 
 Guide him back when gone astray 
 Poor bewildered Abe. 
 
302 The Poetical Works of 
 
 For though all the saddest fates 
 
 Link with ancient Abe 
 All the most despairing fates 
 
 Link with Abe 
 He is captain in the gates 
 Of these grand United States, 
 And must be till time abates 
 
 Hapless ancient Abe. 
 
 Let us therefore, though we squirm 
 
 Under ancient Abe 
 Though we writhe, and groan, and squirm 
 
 Under Abe 
 
 Let us all stand true and firm, 
 Of his courage nurse the germ, 
 And in patience bear the term 
 
 Of the ancient Abe. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 Air: ''The Hunters of Kentucky: 
 
 In politics a fear intense 
 
 Has seized on friend and foe, sir ; 
 The favorite seat is on the fence, 
 
 The favorite word, " Lie low, sir ; 
 Our pea beneath the thimbles keep, 
 
 Not telling where it lurks," 
 And the cry is, ' ' See before you leap 
 
 How Philadelphia works !" 
 
 For it's all a problem, 
 
 lem 
 
 Prob-prob-probl( 
 'Tis all a problem 
 How Philadelphia works. 
 
 The Johnson men pretend to feel 
 
 The game is theirs alone, sir, 
 While the " Rads" proclaim the winning deal 
 
 Is safely made their own, sir. 
 Lord Greeley's face is full of glee, 
 
 While Raymond squirms and shirks, 
 And the prudent ones cry, " Wait and see 
 How Philadelphia works. " 
 
 For here is the problem, 
 Prob-prob-problem 
 A mixed and curious problem 
 How Philadelphia works. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 303 
 
 The Blairs, who pull the wires and threads, 
 
 Have plunged into the business 
 With a zeal which gives to cooler heads 
 
 A sort of swimming dizziness. 
 They have seized the boat from stem to stern, 
 
 And are fighting it like Turks, 
 While the older hands stand back to learn 
 How Philadelphia works. 
 
 For a ticklish problem, 
 Prob-prob-problem , 
 'Twould be for any one to guess 
 How Philadelphia works. 
 
 Has Johnson nerve to make the fight 
 
 A fight to the bitter end, sir ? 
 Has he the pluck his foes to smite, 
 
 And foster every friend, sir ? 
 If he have, his star may yet arise 
 
 O'er the Radical glooms and murks, 
 And a child may tell with a glance of the eyes 
 How Philadelphia wprks. 
 
 For this is the true problem, 
 Prob-prob-problem 
 The kernel of the problem 
 How Philadelphia works. 
 
 But if he let the Copperheads guide, 
 
 And keep Feward as chief in office, 
 And hold in their seats of power and pride 
 
 The fanatic knaves who scoff us, 
 Then riddled will be his official cloak 
 
 With Radical knives and dirks, 
 And none need ask save by way of a joke 
 How Philadelphia works. 
 
 For this is the problem, 
 Prob-prob-problem 
 The body and boots of the problem 
 How Philadelphia works. 
 
 THE NEW "SPIKE" FOR POLITICAL GUNS. 50 
 
 Air: "Vittikins and his Dinah." 
 
 When a gun opens sharp on the Tammany crew, 
 And they don't know, to save them, what next they shall do. 
 Straight for Taylor (Fort Gansevoort, James B.) they will strike, 
 And they use his big body in place of a " spike," 
 
 Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. 
 
304: The Poetical Works of 
 
 Oh Taylor, dear Taylor, thou henchman of Weed, 
 Assist us, thy partners, in this hour of need ; 
 To Raymond repair, and to Greeley make moan, 
 And command them to let your co-workers alone, 
 
 * Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. 
 
 Make Greeley forget how you poisoned his cup 
 When Evarts and he for the Senate were up 
 When Owen, Sim Draper, and all of your breed, 
 Cut his throat on the sly at the bidding of Weed, 
 
 Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. . 
 
 There's a "Cork-in" the Herald a cork that won't budge 
 For Anse of the Atlas or Nelson the judge ; 
 With silver 'tis fastened as tight as you please, 
 And when drawn, out flows pure "Aqua Peter de Griese," 
 Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. 
 
 To say we're against you you "know is all fudge, 
 For Owen is brother to Matthew the judge ; 
 A Democrat this a Republican that 
 And 'tis hard if, between them, they can't catch the fat, 
 Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. 
 
 There are more city bonds, and the time is not far, 
 When such friends as are useful can have them at par ; 
 You will be our "dear Doty," and may make a strike, 
 If the guns that now vex us you only can spike, 
 
 Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. 
 
 1 ' West Washington Market" to our aid you owe, 
 And Fort Gansevoort a job not yet finished, you know ; 
 Still, Matthew must pass on that very big claim, 
 And to let Matthew now be annoyed were a shame, 
 
 Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. 
 
 So Taylor, dear Taylor, to Greeley repair, 
 And caution him sharp of his course to take care ; 
 As for Raymond we know you have stock in the Times, 
 You must therefore spike that, or forfeit the dimes. 
 Singing tooral-li-ooral, etc. 
 
 MYSTERIOUS VERSES FROM A PINK-EYED BARD. 
 
 The Dead-Beat Club in silence had spent the afternoon, 
 For election day was coming for some, alas ! too soon. 
 All things appeared unsettled, such numbers in the field, 
 And they feared, without harmony, they would be forced to yield. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 305 
 
 Then up spake Richard Connolly "I'll take him by the hand ; 
 We'll make some nice arrangement, and save this fated land. 
 'Tis the most distressed district that ever yet was seen, 
 And the only way to save it is by wearing of the green." 
 
 Then Charley Baker said "Agreed ; this thing we have to do ; 
 And to fix the matter, Sweeny, we'll leave it all to you. 
 Let's have a joint committee get Moloney to back down ' 
 " The very thing," said Richard ; "we Beats can do him brown ; 
 For I'll step up to Moloney, and I'll take him by the hand, 
 And treat him with such favors as no mortal can withstand ; 
 I'll show him, if we both must run, defeat is plainly seen, 
 And I'll do Moloney easy by a wearing of the green. "-" 
 
 They met that hopeful party at the hotel kept by Hank, 
 
 And while Dick and P. G. treated, their mutual rounders drank ; 
 
 The committee were in session Charley Baker, from a hat, 
 
 Drew forth a little paper near where Fernando sat. 
 
 Then a smile came o'er Wood's features 'he took Sweeny by the 
 
 hand, 
 
 Saying, "Dick's the Union candidate now, Peter, will you stand? 
 But, although it's the worst district that ever yet was seen, 
 I believe that Dick can win it by a wearing of the green." 
 
 The Dead-Beat Club are jolly now each week-day afternoon, 
 
 For election day is over, and Dick is high-per-coon ; 
 
 At Mataran's they gather Charley Baker in the chair 
 
 And they drink to Patrick Henry, who acted on the square. 
 
 There Dick Connolly meets Moloney, and takes Hughy by the hand, 
 
 Saying ' ' How does Bricks John Murphy, and how does Bradley 
 
 stand? 
 
 Mine is the gayest district that ever yet was seen, 
 And the only way I won it was a wearing of the green." 
 
 FANDANGO'S APOTHEOSIS. 
 
 A DAM FEOM THE DUTCH (i. 6. HEOKEE) DIKES. 
 
 When we use the word " dam" in the following song, 
 
 We mean such a ' ' danv' as the Croton Dam, 
 Or such dams as the beaver builds along 
 
 The quiet shores of the Aquietam ; 
 And it is in this sense this pious sense 
 
 We desire to be clearly understood 
 When we cry, with a fervor most intense, 
 
 "Everlastingly dam Fandango Wood." 
 
 20 
 
306 The Poetical Works of 
 
 His mustache is white, and his wig is brown, 
 
 His heart is the hue of a buried nigger, 
 And, walking abroad, he delights the town 
 
 With the grace of his lank pretentious figure ; 
 And so this time, boys, in the Croton sense 
 
 Not the beaver, be it understood 
 We cry with a zeal that is most intense, 
 
 "Everlastingly dam Fandango Wood." 
 
 His mechanical manners have all the grace 
 
 Of a patent gallows or steam garroter ; 
 His dollars and crimes run a high old race, 
 
 Though each crime is by odds the swiftest trotter 
 And so this time, boys, in the beaver sense 
 
 Not the Croton, be it understood 
 We cry, with a fervor most intense, 
 
 "Everlastingly dam Fandango Wood." 
 
 "There lived a man" so a story said 
 
 " Who was, in his own bad olden time, 
 From head to heel, and. from heel to head, 
 
 And in marrow and vitals, one living crime." 
 But away with the sickening picture hence ! 
 
 He is nothing like this, be it understood, 
 Whom we mean when we cry, with a zeal intense, 
 
 "Everlastingly dam Fandango Wood." 
 
 SONG TO THE SONS OF ST. TAMMANY. 
 
 Ho! treaders of the war-path, 
 
 Who round these council-fires 
 Now gather on the battle eve 
 
 As gathered oft your sires 
 Ho ! all whose hands have lifted 
 
 The banner-spears of states, 
 And heard the war-dance circling, while 
 
 The foe was at the gates 
 
 All ye who stand with covered heads 
 
 Before the highest chief, 
 And ne'er have stooped except to help 
 
 A hapless brother's grief 
 All ye on whose high foreheads 
 
 (More than diadem's renown) 
 The crimson cap of Liberty 
 
 Hath rested as a crown 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 307 
 
 All ye who unto Freedom 
 
 Bear consecrated lives, 
 Up ! and against this golden lie 
 
 Unsheathe your vengeful knives. 
 Up ! and against this wretched fraud 
 
 Of proud and boastful wealth, 
 Show that the good old Jackson blood 
 
 Still flows in ruddy health. 
 
 Down with the spawn of venal trade 
 
 These squatters, make them start 
 Who hold in breast a money-bag 
 
 Where true men hold a heart. 
 Send on your shouts to Washington, 
 
 Where the Great Father dwells, 
 And let him hear from fearless lips 
 
 This tale which manhood tells. 
 
 We tell these men who brag of gold 
 
 That, though their gains were piled 
 Higher than highest pyramid 
 
 On which the sun hath smiled, 
 There is not one of us would shake 
 
 Their leprous hands to win 
 The aggregate stock-plunder 
 
 Of their boast and of their sin. 
 
 HORACE GBEELEY AS HEROD. 
 
 Seward has bit the bloody dust, 
 
 To cold oblivion fated ; 
 Ben Wade now sleeps as sleep the just, 
 
 And Bates has been abated. 
 Above the early grave of Banks 
 
 The old Bay State is sighing, 
 And Hate through philanthropic ranks 
 
 In fiery car is flying. 
 
 The Keystone over Cameron's grave 
 
 Sends up a wailing clangor ; 
 Kentucky Clay, the wild and brave, 
 
 Is dumb and white with anger ; 
 Ohio Chase is cold and stiff 
 
 As pig on hook of grocer ; 
 And dead as any hippogriflf, 
 
 John C., of Mariposa. 
 
308 The Poetical Works of 
 
 They lie all round the killed and cold 
 
 In friendly weeping watered ; 
 The badly hurt, the dead, the sold, 
 
 The massacred and slaughtered ; 
 But still they all, with latest breath 
 
 The last light of life's taper 
 Charge Horace Greeley with their death, 
 
 And curse his fatal paper. 
 
 Meantime in coat of ancient white, 
 
 And boots of dubious pattern, 
 And breeches very short and slight, 
 
 And necktie of the slattern, 
 That mild but philosophic man 
 
 Bears all his honors meekly, 
 While thunders in the party-van 
 
 His myriad-utteranced weekly. 
 
 He talks of Abe of honest Abe 
 
 That chief of Western Vandals 
 And, just as mother might her babe, 
 
 His candidate he dandles. 
 That sucking statesman must be fed 
 
 On pap that he has tasted, 
 And not a thought in Abe's old head 
 
 On other men be wasted. 
 
 But still New York for Seward weeps, 
 
 And never seems to weary, 
 And one loud cry of anger sweeps 
 
 From Montauk Point to Erie. 
 "A bolt ! a bolt ! no Western craft 
 
 Shall steal our Seward's thunder ; 
 Better to build another craft, 
 
 And let the ship go under. " 
 
 In fact, our philanthropic friends 
 
 Are in a peck of trouble, 
 And, ere recrimination ends, 
 
 Clean burst will be their bubble. 
 Split into factions, soon will blaze 
 
 The flames that now are lambent 
 Young Sam again his head will raise, 
 
 And Gerrit Smith grow rampant. 
 
 But Horace smiles a placid smile 
 
 Serene, sublime, victorious ; 
 No shouts of wrath can stir his bile 
 
 Revenge revenge is glorious. 
 
Charles Graham, Halpine. 
 
 309 
 
 The man whose friendship Seward banned, 
 
 Long service ill requiting, 
 Has got at length the upper hand 
 
 By steady, ceaseless fighting. 
 
 Long life to all our gallant sons 
 
 Who fight to hold their own, 
 And fame to him who, slighted once, 
 
 His power at length hath shown 
 Who stays at watch through weary years, 
 
 Giving no cry or frown, 
 Then sudden on the stage appears, 
 
 And strikes his wronger down. 
 
 May Horace Greeley's fame expand 
 
 The way his wrongs were righted 
 And may the moral sweep our land, 
 
 In every home recited, 
 Until the old white hat and coat 
 
 Become in song and story 
 Themes ringing in the minstrel's throat 
 
 Parts of a hero's glory. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF LORD LOVELL. 
 
 A NEW EDITION, AS SUNG BY THE CLERKS IN THE STREET DEPARTMENT. 
 
 Manse Lovell jumped into an avenue car, 
 With his seven-shooting pistol jumped he 
 
 " Now I'm off," he exclaimed, " to take part in the war, 
 And I'll fight on. the side of Dix-ee, 
 
 Ee-ee, 
 And I'll fight on the side of Dix-ee. " 
 
 . " Oh, where are you gwine," John A. Kennedy said, 
 
 " Oh, where are you gwine," said he ; 
 "For you know you late swore by your honor and head 
 To have nothing to do with Dix-ee, 
 
 Ee-ee, 
 But to live in New York peaceablee." 
 
 ** My parole I don't vally," Manse Lovell replied, 
 
 " Not a cuss not a rush," said he ; 
 "But as soon as I'm down on the Southering side, 
 
 You shall see, sir, what then you shall see, 
 
 You shall hear, sir, and often, from me. 
 
310 The Poetical Works of 
 
 " My salary's drawn to the very last day 
 
 I've spoiled the Egyptians," sez he; 
 "And now I make off with my plunder and pay 
 
 To enlist on the side of Jeff D., 
 
 Dee-dee, 
 
 And before me ' Abe's minions' shall flee. " 
 
 From the bold Street Department there rises a wail 
 
 All the clerks there are sad as can be ; 
 And they ask, " Do you think Captain Smith too will fail 
 
 To return from his home in Dix-ee, 
 
 Ee-ee, 
 
 To return from his home in Dix-ee." 
 
 Gus Purdy, and Ryer, and O'Brien have " the blues," 
 
 Johnny Richardson's sad as can be ; 
 But old Jonathan Trotter says, " Bully good news ; 
 
 God prosper the cause of Dix-ee, 
 
 Ee-ee, 
 
 And send to the South victoree." 
 
 Fernando looks on with a muscular grin, 
 
 And the aldermen smile full of glee ; 
 For they see a good chance to get Shepherd Knapp in, 
 
 If Gus Smith stays away in Dix-ee, 
 
 Ee-ee, 
 
 If Gus Smith don't return from Dix-ee. 
 
 MY SAMBO OF THE KOM-HERAUS. 51 
 
 Give me your hand, my Sambo, 
 Come to my heart, my Sambo, 
 Friend of my soul, my Sambo, 
 
 Great chief of the Nix-kom-heraus. 
 Long are your heels, my Sambo, 
 Crisp is your wool, my Sambo, 
 Fragrant and rich is your odor, 
 
 Oh chief of the Nix-kom-heraus. 
 
 Trust not Fred Douglass, my Sambo, 
 Trust not to Greeley, my Sambo, 
 Trust not Ward Beecher or Tilton, 
 
 Great chief of the Nix-kom-heraus ; 
 But trust your own Raymond, my Sambo, 
 Who'll never desert you, my Sambo, 
 While you're good for a vote or a dollar, 
 
 Oh chief of the Nix-kom-heraus. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 311 
 
 You shall marry us white folk, my Sambo, 
 
 We'll marry you black folk, my Sambo, 
 
 You shall eat with us, vote with us, sleep with us, 
 
 Great chief of the Nix-kom-heraus ; 
 And the whites of the South, my Sambo, 
 Shall have nary a right, my Sambo, 
 Which a Nig shall be bound to respect, if 
 
 Not pleasing the Nix-kom-heraus. 
 
 SAMBO A BAD EGG. 
 
 You're a bad investment, my Sambo, 
 You're nice, but don't pay, my Sambo, 
 And so you may go to the hot place 
 
 Befitting each Nix-kom-heraus. 
 Your skin is nigrific, my Sambo, 
 And your heels they are long, my Sambo, 
 And your wool has a horrible odor, 
 
 And your shin-bones are Nix-kom-heraus. 
 
 Get back to your kennel, my Sambo, 
 
 There grovel and rot, my Sambo, 
 
 Take otF your blue coat and equipments, 
 
 For the war was all Nix-kom-heraus. 
 You had nothing to fight for, my Sambo, 
 And you gallantly won it, my Sambo, 
 With your blood and your labors you won it 
 
 Enjoy now your Nix-kom-heraus. 
 
 You may work f for us white folk, my Sambo, 
 Black boots and shake carpets, my Sambo, 
 Steal chickens and do some whitewashing 
 
 When our kitchens are Nix-kom-heraus ; 
 But you can not vote with us, my Sambo, 
 You had nothing to fight for, my Sambo, 
 In the war, and you gallantly won it 
 
 Hip ! hip ! for the Nix-kom-heraus. 
 
 THE BOARD OF CONTROL PROGRAMME. 52 
 
 Abolish the mayor; and abolish the Boards 
 Of Aldermen, Councilmen, Supervisors ; . 
 
 For our city and county have tempting hoards, 
 And Albany's teeth 'are sharp incisors. 
 
312 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Abolish all powers that are not of our Church ; 
 
 There are no honest men that are not in our party ; 
 And both Weed and the Wigwam we'll leave in the lurch, 
 
 "Played" out" just as clean as a hand at ecarte. 
 
 This, now, is the programme devised by the saints 
 Who fight under Waldo's immaculate banner ; 
 
 And if true be the picture that great artist paints, 
 The millennium will come in this very brief manner. 
 
 For the Board of Control will have plenary power 
 
 To make good honest men of all rogues in our borders, 
 
 And all vices and crimes will expire the same hour 
 That our city is placed under Albany orders. 
 
 For of all pious towns not excepting Sing Sing 
 We all know that Albany's far the most pious, 
 
 And that "lobby corruption" or " schemes of the Ring" 
 Must vamose right away when Saint Fenton is by us. 
 
 So hip, hip, and hurra for the Board of Control ! 
 
 The earth is the Lord's and its fruits for his people ; 
 We shall purify Gotham with Albany's soul, 
 
 And whoever objects let him swing from the steeple. 
 
 To Saint Waldo we bend to King Greeley we bow, 
 Who to absolute rule in this bill will have risen ; 
 
 For their Board of Control is I solemnly swow 
 The biggest darned thing ever seen out of prison. 
 
 That we need great reforms in our corporate life, 
 These columns of ours have been faithful recorders ; 
 
 But this wholesale hack-slashing with Albany's knife 
 Is just killing the patient to cure his disorders. 
 
 LYRICS OF ALBANY. 53 
 
 LEPROSY 8OMEWHEEE WHERE IS IT? 
 
 Unhappiest of all mortal men, 
 
 We pity Glenn, we pity Glenn, 
 For fast he lies in the lion's den, 
 With a hundred and thirty injured men 
 
 All crying aloud for the blood of Glenn. 
 
 The courage of a thousand men 
 
 Shone bright in Glenn, shone bright in Glenn, 
 When, bearding the animals in their den, 
 He first with tongue, and then with pen, 
 
 Gave out his indictment, and signed it Glenn. 
 
Charles Graham If alpine. 313 
 
 But, alas ! a derision to gods and men 
 
 Hath grown poor Glenn our piteous Glenn ! 
 
 He is shunned as are Eastern lepers when 
 
 Their leprosy is thick ; and then 
 
 How they worry and madden the soul of Glenn ! 
 
 But this point is strange, and a thing for men 
 
 To ponder about in regard to Glenn ; 
 For he swears " 'tis seven score of leprous men 
 Who are driving out one untainted, when 
 Our Albany fathers shall banish Glenn." 
 
 Now who are the lepers ? the beasts in their den, 
 Or only poor Glenn or only Glenn ? 
 
 Have we found seven score of leprous men ? 
 
 Or is there but one, to whose tainted ken 
 
 All others appear as diseased as Glenn ? 
 Dclavan House, Albany, April 9, 1868. 
 
 CORPORATION COUNSEL CHARGERS (THEY CHARGE 
 HIGH) ON THEIR METTLE. 
 
 " Next heat !" the circus-master cried ; 
 
 The Mayoralty-men rode out ; 
 While trooping from the other side 
 
 Dashed in a second rout. 
 "The Coloration Counselship, 
 
 What knight the prize can win ?" 
 And eagerly, with trip and slip, 
 
 The candidates rode in. 
 
 Came " Glorious Dick" most glorious, 
 
 Exalted, true, and wise ; 
 And Tom C. Fields uproarious 
 
 To win and wear the prize. 
 Elijah Ward on tiptoe stood, 
 
 And seemed his way to grope, 
 While George G. Barnard's marriage mood 
 
 Was full of joy and hope. 
 
 Came Bainbridge Smith, who means to hatch 
 
 This egg beneath his wing ; 
 Came Sam J. Tilden, sure to catch 
 
 Whate'er the fates may fling. 
 
314 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Came Malcolm Campbell, hot in view 
 
 Of all the chances round ; 
 And ex-Recorder Frank Tillou, 
 
 On ' ' high" achievements bound. 
 
 Came Tomlinson of lofty claims, 
 
 A bright and shining ember ; 
 And So-and-so Morange whose names 
 
 We really can't remember. 
 Came Greene C. Bronson, he whose son 
 
 Augustus Schell hath spared ; 
 And John E. Develin, on a roan, 
 
 Which kicked, and pranced, and reared. 
 
 Their riding was not of the best, 
 
 Their horses were not Arabs, 
 And all, with lances couched in rest, 
 
 Looked fierce and wild as Caribs. 
 They seemed a grim and ghastly crew, 
 
 Each pledged to be victorious, 
 While all kept steadily in view 
 
 The dripping scalp of " Glorious." 
 
 So with clatter, dust, and jingle, 
 
 O'er the sawdust and the tan, 
 Mounted double, riding single, 
 
 Went this legal caravan, 
 In cotton tights and spangles, 
 
 Much like scarecrows on the wing, 
 And with bells around their ankles 
 
 Which Tom Carroll strove to ring. 
 
 MAYORALTY NAGS AND RIDERS. 
 
 With a jingle, jingle, jingle, 
 
 O'er the sawdust and the tan, 
 Mounted double, riding single, 
 
 Comes the Wigwam caravan 
 In cotton tights and spangles, 
 
 Their buskins duly chalked, 
 And with bells around their ankles, 
 
 In they cantered, rode, and walked. 
 
 "Prize one," which Pantaloon brought forth, 
 
 Was labeled " City Mayor" 
 A gaudy thing of little worth 
 
 A gilded pewter chair ; 
 
Charles Graham Hal/pine. 315 
 
 The cushion stuffed with nettles, 
 The back all rough with spikes 
 
 " Now, horsemen, to your mettles !" 
 Out cantered the three Ikes. 
 
 Ike Fowler, brown and burly, 
 
 On a stallion trotted out ; 
 Isaac Townsend, grim and surly, 
 
 In a sudden fit of gout ; 
 Ike Bell, who best of all succeeds 
 
 In coloring meerschaum clay 
 All these dashed out on bitted steeds, 
 
 Impatient for the fray. 
 
 Came Father Kennedy along, 
 
 His scalping-knife was keen ; 
 Came John li. Briggs, serene and strong, 
 
 With brave and courtly mien. 
 Came John Kerr, Avith a bottle 
 
 Of good ale beneath his arm ; 
 And Whitlock (Ben), whose throttle 
 
 From good ale ne'er suffered harm. 
 
 Came Wilson Hunt, reformer fine ; 
 
 Came Tiemann room for Dan ; 
 And Father David Valentine 
 
 Kept pricking to the van. 
 Came true and tried Judge Ingraham, 
 
 Our bench's pride and boast ; 
 Came Gunther, happy as a clam 
 
 By Teutons talked of most. 
 
 Came Royal Phelps, with royal "cheek;*' 
 
 James Lee, true, frank, and plain ; 
 Came Charley Secor, who may seek 
 
 Dan Tiemann's place in vain ; 
 Came Havemeyer, who has mire enough 
 
 For any city pickle ; 
 And, last of all, broad, red, and bluff, 
 
 Our old friend, Andie Mickle. 
 
 with jingle, jingle, jingle, 
 
 O'er the sawdust and the tan, 
 Mounted double, riding single, 
 
 Passed the Mayoralty caravan, 
 In cotton tights and spangles, 
 
 Their buskins duly chalked, 
 And with bells around their ankles, 
 
 Which kept tinkling as they walked. 
 
316 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And after James Mahoney 
 
 Gallops William A. Turnure 
 On a stout New-England pony 
 
 Not so fast, but very sure. 
 Patrick Henry follows after, 
 
 With a name to win applause ; 
 While Tom B. Tappan's laughter 
 
 Argues gayly for his cause. 
 
 Ed Donnelly, since he failed to moor 
 
 His fortune at Sing Sing, 
 Thinks governing our city poor 
 
 Would be the next best thing. 
 Dan Norris grows defiant 
 
 In the safeness of his schemes ; 
 While Martin Luther Bryant 
 
 Is called " Governor" in his dreams. 
 
 But of all the straw and real men, 
 
 Including Simeon Meyer, 
 Who fiercely to be one of Ten 
 
 Doth labor and aspire 
 Overlooking all preceding names, 
 
 Commend us at a pinch 
 To our own beloved, immortal James 
 
 The namesake of Judge Lynch. 
 
 So with Democratic jingle, 
 
 O'er the plowed and beaten tan, 
 Mounted double, riding single, 
 
 Sweeps the Almshouse caravan ; 
 Through hoops of colored paper 
 
 Each one jumps on riding out, . 
 .And at each more lofty caper 
 
 The applauding audience shout. 
 
 A SQUADRON OF MOUNTED SAILORS THE MARINE 
 COURT. 
 
 " Now clear the ring for other bouts" 
 
 The ostlers change the scenes ; 
 And, heralded with laughing shouts, 
 
 Ride in the horse marines. 
 " Marine Court Judgeship" come and see 
 
 The Inguns who pursue 
 Poor Albert Thompson ("with a/>"), 
 
 And seek to put him through. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 317 
 
 Here's Wally Cone, with Frenchy phiz 
 
 And long Zouave mustache ; 
 The Sunday Times his charger is 
 
 He makes it feel the lash. 
 Comes Winthrop Chanler dashing through, 
 
 A good and gallant claimant, 
 And Mr. li. C. Downing, who 
 
 Believes in "prompt cash payment." 
 
 Comes Bob E. Livingston, half dead 
 
 With keeping up a canter ; 
 Comes Charley Shea, whose pleasant head 
 
 Is full of joke and banter. 
 John Anderson no cousin he 
 
 To " Solace John, my joe ;" 
 And old Dan Clarke, whose policy 
 
 Is still to rail and blow. 
 
 Comes Richard Winne, who would win 
 
 If worth were most regarded, 
 And poor Tom Pearson, who appears 
 
 Among the long discarded. 
 On comes M'Gregor Johnny D. 
 
 Astride a brace of ponies, 
 And Art Delaney mounted on 
 
 Two asses his dear cronies. 
 
 Cardoza dozes on his mule, 
 
 Dick Clark grows thiii and paler, 
 While nine parts of a decent hope 
 
 Are left for Dan B.Taylor. 
 'Tis a sight to make outsiders 
 
 Split their sides with fun and spleen, 
 For ne'er were seen such riders 
 
 As this troop of horse marines. 
 
 So round the column passes 
 
 O'er the sawdust and the tan, 
 On their piebalds and their asses, 
 
 Each one striving for the van ; 
 On their mules, giraffes, and geldings, 
 
 Trot and prance these riders bold, 
 And their spangles, tights, and beltings 
 
 Are most "gorgeous to behold." 
 
318 The Poetical Works of 
 
 MAGNIFICENT SUPREME COURT EVOLUTIONS. 
 
 A louder bell hath tinkled, 
 
 These horsemen stand aloof, 
 While the ring is raked and sprinkled 
 
 To record anew each hoof. 
 "Supreme Court Judgeship" is the cry, 
 
 And, cantering from the stable, 
 On four black chargers, stepping high, 1 
 
 Come athletes proud and able. 
 
 Judge Roosevelt leads the squadron 
 
 From the fight he does not flinch ; 
 He never made a bad run, 
 
 And is "game" in every inch. 
 John E. Burrill rides behind him, 
 
 With his tomahawk on edge, 
 But Leonard's lance will find him 
 
 William H. hath made the pledge. 
 
 Ambrose Pinney is the fourth man 
 
 Of this more than common group ; 
 But Roosevelt, riding in the van, 
 
 May distance yet the troop. 
 He has bottom and good breeding, 
 
 But if fall and fade he must, 
 The blow that lays him bleeding 
 
 Will be Leonard's knightly thrust. 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle, jingle, jingle, 
 
 O'er the sawdust and the tan, 
 With no common herd to mingle 
 
 Deign this su-preme caravan. 
 They somersault and straddle, 
 
 Pirouette, and leap, and fling, 
 Then, with one foot on the saddle, 
 
 Each man bows and quits the ring. 
 
 BILL OF ANOTHER WEEK'S EXHIBITION. 
 
 Thus the entertainment closes 
 
 For at least the present week ; 
 Let the candidates count noses, 
 
 And survey extents of cheek. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 319 
 
 Immediately or sooner, 
 
 When .convenience prompts the same, 
 Our lyrical harpooner 
 
 lyrical narp< 
 fill go round 
 
 Will go round for other game. 
 
 For senators, assembly-men, 
 
 And other such small deer, 
 For all the tribe who now and then 
 . Turn up to tempt his spear 
 For the big fish and the little fish, 
 The minnows and the whales 
 The fish with very scaly sides, 
 And the fish with golden tails ; 
 
 For horny beasts, which much abound, 
 
 For birds of changing wing, 
 Each tenant of our hunting-ground, 
 
 Each quaffer of the spring ; 
 For squatter game (to make it pack 
 
 Immediately or sooner) 
 We mean to send upon the track 
 
 Our lyrical harpooner. 
 
 CATTLE OF THE BOAKD OF SUPERVISORS GRAND 
 FANCY DANCE AND MASQUE. 
 
 Clear the ring for Supervisors ! 
 
 The candidates are few, 
 And hoard their hopes as misers 
 
 Hoard their gains from common view. 
 They are masked and thickly painted, 
 
 Quaintly dressed in odd attire, 
 But with some we are acquainted, 
 
 And the rest we may inquire. 
 
 Him with cloak of purple border, 
 
 James B. Nicholson, we guess ; 
 Douglas Taylor, next in order, 
 
 Wears the sachem's Indian dress ; 
 Bob H. Ellis is no slattern 
 
 In the tights which fit him well ; 
 And that dress of Chinese pattern 
 
 Must hide Charley G. Cornell. 
 
 By the Lord ! there goes Tom Adams 
 On his milk-white steed ; he's some ; 
 
 Pay attention, girls and madams, 
 Boys and men, pay heed to Tom. 
 
320 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Not a bolder rider prances 
 In the Democratic ring ; 
 
 Not a truer man advances 
 
 For the bouquets which ye fling. 
 
 MUSTERING OF THE CLANS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Call out the city regiments, every chieftain and his clan ; 
 Place the sinewy First Warders, with Pat Curry in the van ; 
 Let Miner lead the Sappers of the Second's bold brigade, 
 While M'Carthy's ensign o'er the Third Artillery is displayed; 
 The Fourth will come with fife and drum, the veteran Purser leading, 
 All feuds forgot, and but one thought the duty of succeeding. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Fifth Zouaves, with Savage, come with eager spring and bound, 
 
 Swart veterans of many fights, and ever faithful found ; 
 
 The Sixth has archers grim and stanch, and numerous as the sea 
 
 Democracy's knight-errants, never known to halt or flee ; 
 
 The Seventh is bold, and well may hold its place among the best, 
 
 When the gallant Rynders couches his deadly lance in rest. 
 
 III. 
 
 Comes on the Eighth, an Indian tribe, with Delavan commanding ; 
 
 Biggest of all big Indians, his martial breast expanding ; 
 
 And marches steadily the Ninth, a battery masked and mortal, 
 
 With Kennedy to open fire on every hostile portal. 
 
 With stirring tunes the Tenth Dragoons, led by the W T ar Horse, enter; 
 
 The Eleventh appears its grenadiers, with Kelly, form the centre. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And next to these, with bugle-blow and cymbals pealing glorious, 
 Led on by Vance, the Twelfth advance, resistless and victorious ; 
 The Thirteenth Voltigeurs file in with Mitchell, prompt for action, 
 Resolved to conquer open foes, and quell each private faction. 
 A roar of drums the Fourteenth comes, a sea of plumes and sabres : 
 Fill high and toast this noble host ; with them John Kelly labors. 
 
 V. 
 
 With flashing helmets, golden belts, and swords of glittering lustre, 
 The Chasseurs of the gay Fifteenth around Ike Fowler cluster. 
 Hart leads the Sixteenth Riflemen, most dangerous under cover ; 
 In all bush-fighting skirmishes these braves are bound to suffer. 
 With ringing spurs, and shout which stirs our blood, the Seventeenth 
 
 rallies ; 
 Now Chanler leads, now Smith succeeds as champion of its sallies. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 321 
 
 VI. 
 
 Room for the Eighteenth chivalry ! Ed Cooper rides along, 
 While fierce and fast as winter waves his men behind him throng. 
 Koom for the Nineteenth Legion, with Herrick at its head, 
 Four lieutenant colonels fighting to be colonels in his stead. 
 The Twentieth Ward in sweet accord lifts up its oriflamme, 
 With Nelson J. , the lion-lord, and Peter B. , the lamb. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Twenty-first is never cursed with envy's base appeal ; 
 There Froment leads his infantry a wall of fire and steel. 
 The Twenty-second, a border Ward, to border feuds a prey, 
 Hath draped its flags in mourning for the young man passed away ; 
 iiound William Henry's early tomb each weeping chieftain stands 
 The judge, Ward, Nick, and Pete, and Helk across his grave strike 
 hands. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then, brothers, rally round the flag, the old-time faith renew ; 
 March all, and march together, soldiers tried and ever true ; 
 Fall in and take your places, call the roll and let us hear 
 Who are for us, who against us, in the strife that draws anear. 
 Our ship of state will ride elate, in Union's harbor anchored, 
 And future days will live to praise the peace New York hath con 
 quered. 
 
 HOFFMAN, DEAR, 
 
 Musha, Hoffman, dear, the thing looks queer 
 
 The machine doesn't run to ordher ; 
 An', despite the Ring's views, we're not willin' to lose 
 
 Your sarvices as Recordher. 
 'Tis a bully ould place, which we think you grace, 
 
 Arrayed in the judge's armine ; 
 An' 'twould make us despair if we saw you med mayor 
 
 As the tool of the Lobby-Ring varmin. 
 An' so. John T., we'll let you be, 
 
 Till your terrum expires, the Recordher ; 
 An' when played is that game, we'll examine your claim 
 
 To another "posish"in its ordher. 
 
 BIG THING HOFF. HAS HAD. 
 
 Thirty thousand a year you've been makin' clear 
 For more years than we care to reckon ; 
 
 An' to warn you back from the mayoralty thrack, 
 All the fingers o' friendship beckon, 
 
 21 ' O 2 
 
322 The Poetical Works of 
 
 " Don't go into it, Hoff, or your head goes off 
 
 Don't be fooled by the Ring to do it," 
 Is the cry o' your friends, wid no selfish ends, 
 
 " Or but once, an' for life you'll rue it. 
 An' should you, Hoff, at this'warnin' scoff. 
 
 Never blame the thrue men who have killed you, 
 For you'll soon be found to a powdher ground, 
 
 Just as fine as if Hecker had milled you." 
 
 CAN ANY ONE FIND US A SPEAKER? 
 
 BY OUB CITY POICK. 
 
 Say, have we a Bourbon among us ? 
 
 Who struck Billy Patterson say ? 
 These queries, which formerly stung us, 
 
 Are passing like moonshine away. 
 'Tis now and our hope becomes weaker 
 
 From hearing it evening and morn 
 Can any one find us a Speaker ? 
 
 And where was " the tailor's son" born? 
 
 God knows that of talk they have plenty, 
 
 But never a Speaker is there; 
 At Washington, candidates twenty 
 
 Tuck up their coat-tails for " the chair." 
 There is Banks, full of beans and benignity, 
 
 But another is Fuller, we feel ; 
 While Richardson stands on his dignity, 
 
 And Wheeler keeps watching the wheel. 
 
 At Albany things are no better 
 
 "Young Sam" holds his own at the game, 
 Though Prince John h#s indited a letter 
 
 To prove Hard and Soft are the same. 
 A dozen, like Barkis, " are willin' " 
 
 To take the responsible toil, 
 While Seward and his "little villain" 
 
 With sharp sticks are after the spoil. 
 
 By just such another queer caper 
 
 The Almshouse directors are floored 
 There is Oliver, Smith, and Sim Draper, 
 
 Who wish to "preside" at the Board. 
 Let us deputize Branch as a seeker, 
 
 Let him mount on his crocodile steed, 
 And search through the world for a Speaker 
 
 To help us along in our need. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 323 
 
 Yes, Branch is the hope that we stand on, 
 
 Tis he that has proved of ' ' our chief" 
 That the brand on his cradle was Brandon, 
 
 Despite his good "mother's belief." 
 If Branch will not act as our seeker 
 
 If he will not answer our prayer 
 We may give up all hope of a Speaker, 
 
 And write a complaint to the mayor. 
 
 The mayor who, of course, feels his bosses 
 
 (They kill about thirty a day, 
 Which accounts for the cheapness of sausage) - 
 
 Complains of the stones of Broadway. 
 Bjjt all questions grow fainter and weakei, 
 
 And the public ignore them with scorn, 
 While they ask, Can you find us a Speaker ? 
 
 And where was the tailor's son born ? 
 
 Is there no spirit-rapper can tell us 
 
 Where " speakers" are now to be found? 
 A curse on the chance that misfell us, 
 
 For " speakers" used once to abound. 
 Let us pick out a sensible " talker," 
 
 For business is pressing us hard, 
 And the Central American Walker 
 
 Has played Parker French his trump card. 
 
 Of England whose envoys have tramped on 
 
 Our rights as a neutral we ask 
 That her crimp-sergeants Mathew and Crampton 
 
 Be quickly recalled from their task. 
 And Denmark we'll soon make her meeker 
 
 Her claim for " Sound Dues" is unsound : 
 If you only will find us a Speaker, 
 
 By the Lord ! we can whip them all round. 
 
 Branch swears on his family Bible 
 
 That "the chief" is a Cockney and bore ; 
 Poor Briggs is arrested for libel, 
 
 And horses are killed by the score ; 
 Nicaragua Walker (related 
 
 To " Hookey") calls on us in vain, 
 And, though England is loudly berated, 
 
 Her criminal envoys remain. 
 
 Oh give us, we beg you, a Speaker, 
 
 Our bliss then would reach the sublime ; 
 
 We will bumper him round in a beaker, 
 And wish him a jolly good time. 
 
324 The Poetical Works of 
 
 "A Speaker at Washington needed" 
 Advertise, for that is the mode ; 
 
 Oh say, shall our prayer be unheeded 
 Old hoss, "will saltpetre explode?" 
 
 PSALMS OF IMPEACHMENT. 
 
 CANTICLE II. ACCOEDING TO THE PROPHET MILES, 
 
 Air: "Jeannette and Jeannot." 
 "Put it through at railroad speed," ( 
 
 Bottled Butler fiercely cries ; 
 " For unless we haste, I fear indeed 
 
 Our farce of trial dies. 
 Bring the ropes and tie him tight, 
 Bind his feet and gag his mouth, 
 Or we else may lose our sovereign right 
 To rob and rule the South 
 May lose our job 
 To rule and rob, 
 Chain, whip, and starve the South. 
 
 "Seize the country by the throat, 
 
 Force the black dose through its lips, 
 For, unless we cast the negro vote, 
 
 Away our sceptre slips. 
 Every bridge behind is gone, 
 
 No retreat for us remains ; 
 We must either perish one by one, 
 
 Or bind the land in chains ; 
 A desperate band, 
 Forlorn we stand, 
 
 And no retreat remains. 
 
 "As to Johnson, who hath been 
 
 An " obstruction" in our path. 
 Let him taste the rapid guillotine 
 
 Of Radicals in wrath. 
 Fling aside restraints of law, 
 
 At each oath and duty scoff, 
 And if Chase to aid we can not draw, 
 
 Then drag his ermine off 
 Ay, quick indeed, 
 'At railroad speed,' 
 
 We'll drag his ermine off. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 325 
 
 " Since the South is fairly floored, 
 
 Men like us may show their teeth ; 
 Let the negro wield a flaming sword, 
 
 And cast away the. sheath. 
 Revolution is our end ; 
 
 Throw disguise off give it mouth ; 
 And our bayonet-rule shall soon extend 
 
 O'er North as well as South 
 Black swords and votes 
 At white men's throats 
 
 In North as well as South. 
 
 "Is it true that through the war, 
 
 Of all rebels meanest, worst 
 Were the black men we were fighting for, 
 
 To break their chains accursed ? 
 In no rebel state they rose 
 
 To assist us in the fray, 
 While they labored hard to feed our foes, 
 
 And give them arms and pay ; 
 But now, alack ! 
 We need the black 
 
 To prop our tottering sway. 
 
 " So let black ex-rebels reign 
 
 O'er their Avhite ex-rebel lords, 
 For without them all our plots are vain 
 
 Without their votes and swords ; 
 But with Johnson stricken down, 
 
 The Supreme Court bound in chains, 
 Oh, we Jacobins shall wear the crown 
 
 While breath of life remains 
 Ay, rule the land 
 With Marat's hand 
 
 While breath of life remains. 
 
 "So on with railroad speed," 
 
 The savage Butler cries ; 
 " For, unless we haste, I fear indeed 
 
 Our farce of trial dies. 
 Bring the ropes and quench the light, 
 
 Bind his hands and gag his mouth, 
 For if Johnson wins, we lose the right 
 
 To rob and rule the South 
 
 Yea, lose our job 
 . To rule and rob 
 
 Both North as well as South." 
 
326 The Poetical Works, etc. 
 
 CANTICLE III. 
 
 BOTTLED BUTLER'S SCREECHING IMPEACHING SPEECH. 
 
 With a voice in which mingles a hiss as of asps, 
 With the squeal of a pig, and the grating of rasps, 
 And the drone of a bagpipe, the bottled one gasps, 
 
 And splutters, and raves of impeachment. 
 He charges all crimes, from the highest e'er known, 
 To the lowest and meanest as mean as his own 
 (And on crimes Bottled Ben as an expert is known) 
 
 Against Johnson when urging impeachment. 
 
 But of all "bogus babies," unboned and ungristled, 
 And of all merry tunes by " the dying cow whistled," 
 And of all the vile fizzles that ever were fizzled, 
 
 Commend us to Butler's impeachment. 
 Such a weed-crop of Radical nightshade and wrath, 
 Of political stinkweed and partisan froth, 
 No mower hath mowed in a single wide swath 
 
 As Ben Butler when urging impeachment. 
 
 MILES RUNS FOR REGISTER. 
 
 Say, here ! How is it, misther 
 
 Are you for the Boy or no ? 
 For he's bound to be Re-gisther, 
 
 Let the wind blow high or low. 
 All the Germans an' the Irish heje 
 
 For him have dhrawn the skean, 
 For Von Halpine trinks zwei lager bier, 
 
 And Miles he "wears the green." 
 
 All the Germans, etc. 
 
 He's " too young?" Your granny's sisther ! 
 
 I tell you 'tisn't so ; 
 An' he's bound to be Re-gisther, 
 
 Let the wind blow high or low. 
 All the Celtic and the Teuton vote 
 
 Are friends of his, I ween, 
 For Von Halpine schpeist mit pretzel brodt, 
 
 And Miles on mild poteen. 
 
 All the Celtic, etc. 
 
 Oh, the Wigwam wants a glysther 
 
 For to purge away her ills, 
 So we'll make him our Re-gisther, 
 
 An' he'll bate even Radway's pills. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 327 
 
 All the girls are for him ; this is how 
 
 That worldlier came to pass 
 Von Halpine liebt ein blond-e frau, 
 
 And Miles an Irish lass. 
 
 All the girls, etc. 
 
 May my tongue be all a blisther 
 
 If I tell a lie to you, 
 For he's bound to be Re-gisther, 
 
 And we all must put him through. 
 Oh, he suits the men of every race, 
 
 This gossoon un denied 
 Von Halpine schpeist mit Schweitzer kaase, 
 
 An' die Boy on p'raties biled. 
 
 Oh, he suits, etc. 
 
 So here's to Hans von Halpine, 
 
 And to Miles who wears the green ; 
 Fill your can and dhrink it all, man, 
 
 Or in Rhine wein or poteen ; 
 For Miles he fit mit Sigel, 
 
 And 'mit Asboth trinks poteen ; 
 And you can't find Halpine's equal 
 
 For ' ' a-wearing of the green. " 
 For Miles, etc. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 54 
 
 Oh, more than tongue hath power to speak, 
 
 Or my hand the skill to pen it, 
 I long, I burn, I strive, I seek 
 
 Promotion to the Senate. 
 For this Lord Thurlow hath my praise, 
 
 For this I let him run my paper, 
 For this I work through weary days, 
 
 And waste the midnight taper. 
 
 MORTON MUST GO. 
 
 The mayor at last has found a way 
 
 To get out Morton ; this his plan : 
 With a new Directory, they say, 
 He will commence at the letter A, 
 Proceed in regular course to Z, 
 Skipping one M. by the rule of three ; 
 
328 The Poetical Works of 
 
 And, should the new Directory fail, 
 An army-list he will next assail ; 
 Then get a navy-book, and try 
 Each " salt" that is laid up high and dry, 
 Until at last the opposing board, 
 From weariness no longer able 
 To lay the new names on the table, 
 Owns itself bored and fairly floored, 
 And "lets him spin his man." 
 
 TO JUDGE M'CUNN. 65 
 
 [Ye poet complimenteth his hero on belligerent parentage.] 
 M'Cunn, M'Cunn, you son of a gun, 
 You'll be the death of us ere you've done ; 
 At honest old Abe you first poked fun, 
 And now with M'Clellan you've just begun, 
 While high up promotion's high ladder you run, 
 My sweet-scented beauty, 
 
 M'Cunn, M'Cunn. 
 
 [He entreateth him, for reasons assigned, to be less facetious.] 
 M'Cunn, M'Cunn, will you ever have done, 
 Or is it but now that you've just begun ? 
 Here we laugh till the tears down our noses run, 
 While at soldier and sage you keep poking your fun, 
 You charming young creature you wonderful one, 
 My bright, gushing hero, 
 
 M'Cunn, M'Cunn. 
 
 [Ye poet payeth due homage to ye splendor of his hero's appearance.] 
 . M'Cunn, M'Cunn, you're enough to stun 
 You're a sight for all nervous old ladies to shun, 
 While, flashing and dancing beneath the sun, 
 Clear down to your elbows your epaulettes run, 
 Each spire of the bullion alive with the fun 
 Of its wonderful wearer, 
 
 M'Cunn, M'Cunn. 
 
 M'Cunn, M'Cunn, you'd better have done, 
 Or an end will be put to your rollicking fun ; 
 The romances you tell are enough to stun, 
 As round from hotel to hotel you run ; 
 Nor does every one see that you're only in fun, 
 My young caucus hero, 
 
 M'Cunn, M'Cunn. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 329 
 
 GENERAL HALLECK. 
 
 "Who raised the price of pork and mutton-pies? 
 Who filled our butcher-shops with large blue flies ?" 
 Quick our Committee on the War replies, 
 
 "'Twas Halleck." 
 
 " Who should be blamed for Gotham's filthy streets ? 
 And for our markets filled with poisonous meats ?" 
 Quick answers these Congressional Dead Beats, 
 
 "Blame Halleck." 
 
 GASTRONOMIC. 
 
 Dear Philadelphia ! when I view 
 
 Thy streets, and think of what thou art 
 Thy terrapin, in soup or stew 
 
 And learn that from thee I must part, 
 I do protest against the deed 
 
 With streaming eye and watering mouth, 
 And swear it is no "knightly meed" 
 
 That sends Meade wandering to the South. 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 Thou bounding river, 
 
 I fly thy tranquil shore ; 
 FareweU ! Oh, never 
 
 Shall I behold thee more. 
 Ye rocks, ye woods that quiver 
 
 To echo's plaintive cry, 
 Farewell forever 
 
 We part, and part for aye. 
 
 Thou shady grotto, 
 
 In raptures deep and true, 
 When near to Mary, 
 
 How quick the moments flew. 
 Thy dark retreat, all lonely, 
 
 Where mysteiy ever dwells, 
 Was to me only 
 
 Full of delicious spells. 
 
330 The Poetical Works of 
 
 Days when we were glad, 
 
 Ye fleet away like dreams 
 Days when we were sad, 
 
 Oh, how long each seems ; 
 Far from my own loved Mary, 
 
 Forever severed wide 
 Dark, dark and dreary, 
 
 Time rolls its sudden tide. 
 
 Oh valley, fairest, 
 
 Dear valley of my youth 
 Oh Mary, dearest, 
 
 Thee have I loved in truth. 
 Ye rocks, ye woods that quiver 
 
 To echo's plaintive cry, 
 Farewell forever 
 
 We part, and part for aye. 
 
 HOLLAND GIN. 
 
 The brandy hath a beaming hue, 
 
 But no one knows what it is made of; 
 Though red itself, it makes us " blue" 
 
 A thing the doctors are afraid of. 
 Sweeter far the Holland gin, 
 
 Which looks as clear as bubbling water, 
 But yet turns out, when taken in, 
 Intoxication's subtlest daughter. 
 Oh, my darling Holland gin 
 
 My deadly-drunken, resinous Holland 
 Brandy's hue 
 Is bright to view, 
 But strength is thine, my beaded Holland. 
 
 The pure French brandy would not hurt, 
 
 But here with such foul trash they mix it 
 One half is vitriol, t'other dirt, 
 
 And that's the toper's "ipse dixit." 
 Oh, the Holland gin for me, 
 
 So purely bright and so transparent, 
 That even a drunken eye could see 
 A dead fly or the slightest hair in't. 
 Yes, my sparkling Holland gin 
 My innocently-colored Holland 
 Clear to view 
 As mountain dew 
 Art thou, my most destructive Holland. 
 
Charles Graham Halpine. 331 
 
 Yet still in one point both combine 
 
 To poison, sicken, and distract us, 
 So that it proves the same, in fine, 
 If either or if both attacked us. 
 Beggary, horror, falsehood, woe, 
 
 To still more grievous crimes expanded, 
 A're now retailed with every "go" 
 Across the groggery counter handed. 
 Oh, my brandy, devil's blood ; 
 And sin, pale sister unto brandy ; 
 Brain and heart 
 Alike depart 
 From him who worships gin or brandy. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Note 1, page 25. 
 
 A VESPER HYMN. 
 
 This composition was found among the posthumous papers of the 
 deceased. The circumstances under which it was prepared were not 
 known to his friends, and it had no title ; but its sentiments seemed 
 peculiarly appropriate to the occasion of its first publication, which 
 took place immediately after the author's sudden demise, and the title 
 of Vesper Hymn was then attached to it. Indorsed on it, however, 
 was the following sentence, in the handwriting of General Halpirie, 
 "Dedicated to the lady at who*se request these hasty lines were 
 written, with the warmest and most grateful wishes of the author for 
 her health and happiness. C. G. H." 
 
 Note 2, page 26. 
 
 ON RAISING A MONUMENT TO THE IRISH LEGION. 
 
 This was the last poetical production of the pen of the author. 
 Its title explains the occasion of its composition the preparation of 
 a suitable monument to Irish valor displayed during the war for the 
 Union. 
 
 Note 3, page 29. 
 
 AFTER THE BATH. 
 
 The composition of this poem exemplified in a remarkable man 
 ner the wonderful poetical fluency of the writer. He had written 
 the first two verf js when in the country, and with the exhilaration 
 of beholding the beautiful vision which he was depicting fresh upon 
 him ; he wrote the last verse at the Citizen office, late one afternoon 
 subsequently, and read it to the editor of this volume, saying it was 
 either very good or very bad. The gentleman addressed ridiculed 
 the closing sentences as absurdly and abruptly extravagant, and 
 
334 Notes. 
 
 made fun of the closing paragraph, until he feared his associate's 
 feelings were a little hurt, although the latter usually took such af 
 fairs very good-humoredly. General Halpine handed the poem, 
 which consisted of the first, second, and last verses only, to the com 
 positors, and left the office to walk home. By the time he had 
 reached Canal Street, however, he had become inspired, and, return 
 ing to the office, sat down, and in a few minutes wrote the four ad 
 ditional verses, making it one. of the most beautiful of his love son 
 nets. 
 
 Note 4, page 30. 
 
 THE MAN OF THREESCORE. 
 
 A translation from the French. 
 
 Note 5, page 36. 
 
 MY TOAST. 
 
 This was written as a tribute to the grace and beauty of a charm 
 ing and fascinating niece of the editor of this work, at whose home 
 General Halpine had met her on two occasions, when he was much 
 struck with her peculiar and unusual style of beauty. The name, 
 Lucie Ellice, was sufficiently altered to conceal the individuality of 
 the person addressed, without greatly changing the sound. The 
 publication of the piece in the Citizen led to the contribution of sev 
 eral others, some by the writer of this, and others by different per 
 sons, winding up unexpectedly with one from a new and unknown 
 Lucie Ellice of the South. The series caused a good deal of amuse 
 ment and excitement in literary circles at the time of its publication. 
 
 Note 6, page 40. 
 
 TO RAYMOND ON HIS TRAVELS. 
 
 A dinner was given at Delmonico's to Hemy J. Raymond, the 
 well-known editor of the New York Times, on the eve of his depart 
 ure for Europe. Many of the prominent editors and authors of the 
 day were present, and countless good things were said. Charles A. 
 Dana presided in the happiest manner, and so many capital speeches 
 were made that it was felt desirable to have some report made of the 
 meeting. This labor was placed upon Halpine's shoulders of course, 
 and he passed the residue of the night in writing out the account. 
 Next morning he came into the room of the editor of this work and 
 commenced reading the song, which he had put in the shape of a 
 serenade into the mouth of his hearer. He had covered fifty pages 
 
Notes. 335 
 
 of foolscap, besides composing half a dozen verses of poetry, between 
 two o'clock at night and six in the morning. The report of the din 
 ner can be found in the number of the Citizen of July 13, 1867. 
 
 Note 7, page 46. 
 
 DELMONICO'S DREAM. 
 
 At a dinner given to General Sheridan by General Halpine, at 
 Delmonico's, the caterer had served trout at a time when, by the 
 laws of nature and man, they were utterly out of season. The fish 
 were sent away from the table untouched, the breach of law and 
 good taste was strongly condemned by the public press, the mat 
 ter was taken up by the Sportsmen's Club, and Mr. Delmonico was 
 compelled to explain that they had been served without his knowl 
 edge, and during his absence from the city, and that such an occur 
 rence should not happen again. It was in the course of the contro 
 versy that this poem was written. 
 
 Note 8, page 50. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC BIRTHDAY OFFERING. 
 
 Addressed to Mrs. James Gordon Bennett, a lady for whose beauty, 
 talents, and uncommon intellectual cultivation General Halpine had 
 the deepest respect and admiration. 
 
 Note 9, page 51. 
 
 JAMES GORDON BENNETT, JR. 
 
 In commemoration of the ocean yacht race, that plucky contest in 
 which Mr. Bennett carried off the prize. 
 
 Note 10, page 51. 
 * THE KNIGHT'S ADDRESS. 
 
 Written on the occasion of crowning a lady Queen of Beauty and 
 Love at a tournament at which he was not present, the words of the 
 ode to the contrary notwithstanding. 
 
 Note 11, page 57. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 Written at the time of the attempt in Philadelphia by the conser 
 vative leaders of the Kepublican party to form a new party by a co 
 alition of loyal Southern War Democrats and moderate Republicans. 
 A lamentablv unsuccessful effort. 
 
336 Notes. 
 
 Note 1 2, page 69. 
 
 STAMPING OUT. 
 
 There appeared in the London Times) at the commencement of 
 the Fenian insurrection, a vindictive and bloody suggestion to put 
 down the Fenian rising as the cattle plague had been arrested, that 
 is, by stamping it out, or destroying every animal attacked with the 
 disease a bloody and brutal proposition, unparalleled on the page 
 of history. The article read as follows, and the poem was a reply to 
 it: "We must stamp out the fires of this Fenian insurrection, and 
 quench its embers in the blood of the wretches who are its promot 
 ers." 
 
 Note 13, page 77. 
 WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 These lines were written by General Halpine as the poet of the 
 day on the first annual celebration of the inauguration of the Mili 
 tary Order of the Legion, held in the Academy of Music, Philadel 
 phia, on the 22d day of February, 1 866. The meeting was, presided 
 over by Major General Cadwallader, and many of the most promi 
 nent officers of the army were present. 
 
 Note 14, page 83. 
 
 MILES ON THE WHITE FAWN. 
 
 A spectacular drama, exhibiting much of female charms unadorn 
 ed, produced at Niblo's Garden, in New York City. 
 
 Note 15, page 91. 
 
 LOAFING AS A FINE ART. 
 
 Addressed to the editor hereof, and eliciting a reply which was 
 published in a subsequent number of the Citizen. 
 
 Note 16, page 109. 
 
 SPECIAL ORDERS, A., NO. I. 
 
 This was written when the author was adjutant general to Major 
 General Hunter, and was published for distribution among the staff 
 officers. The young lady referred to was a great favorite with them, 
 and expressed no displeasure over the harmless pleasantry at the 
 time ; but when it was afterward inserted in the columns of the Citi 
 zen, her family took offense, and General Halpine expressed to the 
 editor of this volume his intention of changing the name, and thus 
 
Notes. 337 
 
 depriving the damsel of her only chance for immortality. As he for 
 got to carry out this fell design, however, the piece is left as it was 
 originally written. 
 
 Note 17, page 111. 
 
 PERSONAL. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to say that this poem refers to the editor 
 of this volume. The persons spoken of are Matthew T. Brennan, wht> 
 was city comptroller ; Orison Blunt, who voted himself a testimonial 
 out of the people's money in consideration for his public services ; 
 Nathaniel Sands, agent of the Citizen's Association, ~of which the 
 writer was one of the founders ; A. J. Hackley, who had a question 
 able contract with the municipal government for street cleaning ; and 
 F. I. A. Boole, who was city inspector, and spent a million in not 
 cleaning the streets. Most of these gentlemen were supposed to 
 have cause to bear the "Boy Bob" in lasting, but not friendly re 
 membrance for his attempts, by the aid of the Citizen's Association, 
 to reform the municipal government. 
 
 Note 18, page 116. 
 
 TO THE CHIEF JUSTICE. 
 
 Addressed to Chief Justice Salmon P. Chase, when presiding in 
 the Senate over the impeachment trial of President Andrew Johnson, 
 at a time when every effort was being made by the Republican press 
 to force a conviction as a party measure, and when it was feared that 
 the accused would not have an impartial hearing. 
 
 Note 19, page 117. 
 
 TO FENTON. 
 
 The New York City tax levy had been passed by the Legislature, 
 and was awaiting the signature of Governor Fenton, when this jocose 
 effusion was written. There was a rumor that the governor would 
 veto the measure, and leave the city without any government for the 
 ensuing year, and with all the outstanding claims against it unpaid. 
 The members of the Union League Club had recommended the gov 
 ernor to pursue this unusual and dangerous course, but he was finally 
 convinced by the humorous arguments of Miles O'Reilly, and signed 
 the bill. 
 
 22 P 
 
338 Notes. 
 
 Note 20, page 129. 
 
 INDIFFERENCE. 
 
 On the manuscript of this piece was found, in the handwriting of 
 General Halpine, the expressive and appropriate word "Twaddle." 
 
 Note 21, page 130. 
 
 ONE DEAD SURE THING. 
 
 John B. Haskin is a New York politician, and the song refers to a 
 resolution complimentary to President Johnson, which he introduced 
 into a Democratic Convention. 
 
 Note 22, page 130. 
 
 MOTTO OF THE MASS. 
 
 There was indorsed on the revised manuscript of this poem, in the 
 handwriting of the deceased author, the words "Social and reflect 
 ive." 
 
 Note 23, page 131. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Indorsed by the author "Reflective." 
 
 Note 24, page 132. 
 
 FIERY ELOQUENCE. 
 
 Indorsed by the author " Reflective: boyish a revised copy." 
 Note 25, page 133. 
 
 FAUGH AU BEALLACH. 
 
 The author characterizes this as " Extremely boyish. " 
 Note 26, page 134. 
 
 MATRIMONIAL COMPLACENCY. 
 
 Indorsed "Feminine: boyish." 
 
 Note 27, page 1315. 
 
 IRISH ASTRONOMY. 
 
 Manuscript indorsed "Boyish." 
 
 Note 28, page 137. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Indorsed "Pathetic and philosophical." 
 
Notes. 339 
 
 Note 29, page 159. 
 BARON RENFREW'S BALL. 
 
 Descriptive of a public ball given to the Prince of Wales, on his 
 visit to this country, at the Academy of Music, in the city of New 
 York. The ladies referred to are Mrs. Senator Morgan and other 
 leading belles of New York society. The reference to the breaking 
 away of the floor applies to an actual occurrence an accident that 
 fortunately resulted in no injury to any one, and not even in any con 
 siderable interruption to the festivities. On the occasion referred to 
 the benevolent Mr. Peter Cooper took special charge of the prince. 
 
 Note 30, page 184. 
 O'MAHONY OF THE COMERAGHS. 
 
 O'Mahony, an intimate friend of the author, was the first Head 
 Centre of the Fenian organization ; but factions subsequently broke 
 out, accusations of neglect and malfeasance were brought against 
 Mr. O'Mahony by his enemies, and a new wing of the party was 
 formed under Mr. Roberts. General Halpine had full confidence in 
 O'Mahony, in his good intentions and his entire sincerity, and wrote 
 this effusion at the time when the difficulties referred to were rife, 
 and as an expression of his opinion. 
 
 Note 31, page 207. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY. 
 
 Mr. Thurlow Weed, while returning from Washington to New 
 York, had his pocket picked in the cars. The various allusions are 
 to the events of the day in which he and others were, or were sup 
 posed to be, mixed up. Mr. Andrews was then surveyor of the port 
 under Mr. Weed's recommendation ; Mr. Greeley, it was supposed, 
 would like a place in the Cabinet ; Henry J. Raymond preferred a 
 foreign mission, as did also Mr. James Gordon Bennett, or, at least, 
 such were the suspicions of the public. The Cummings referred to 
 was Mr/ Alexander Cummings, then proprietor of the World, which 
 at that time was a pious Republican newspaper. 
 
 Note 32, page 216. 
 
 BREVET RANK. 
 
 This refers to Lafayette C. Baker, Stanton's wretched tool and 
 spy, at the time it was proposed to brevet him brigadier general for 
 his infamous, albeit, where honestly performed, necessary services 
 
340 Notes. 
 
 services which civilized nations scarcely class with bravery in the 
 field of battle, and usually pay for. in so much hard money. Fortu 
 nately the effort to convert a spy, who was not popularly regarded 
 as peculiarly scrupulous, into a hero, failed. 
 
 Note 33, page 232. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 There was an unfounded report circulated through the press, at 
 about the time these lines were written, to the effect that General 
 James Lane, of Kansas, had committed suicide. The beauty of this 
 piece consists in its truth. 
 
 Note 34, page 232. 
 LECOMPTON'S BLACK BRIGADE. 
 
 This was written while the author was closely allied to Stephen A. 
 Douglas politically, and refers to the Democratic Convention which 
 met at Charleston, and which was adjourned to Baltimore in conse 
 quence of the violence of the Southern leaders, who were then initi 
 ating their movements toward secession movements which resulted 
 later in rebellion. The references are to men prominent at the time 
 in politics, many of whom were distinguished subsequently in the 
 struggle to destroy the Union. 
 
 Note 35, page 234. 
 
 THE LYRIC OF TWEDDLE HALL. 
 
 The Democratic organization in the city of New York, founded by 
 General Halpine, John Y. Savage, and Nelson J. Waterbury, in oppo 
 sition to Tammany Hall, had applied for and been refused recogni 
 tion by the State Convention, and, in consequence of this indignity, 
 had resolved on political vengeance. Cagger and Cassidy were heads 
 of the Albany Regency, Samuel J. Tilden was chairman of the State 
 Committee, and the "Central" referred to was the Central Railroad, 
 which up to that time had been used to help the Democracy. 
 
 Note 36, page 236. 
 
 GIVE ME GUANO OR GIVE ME DEATH. 
 
 Jeremiah Black, attorney general of the United States, declined 
 to defend the President of the United States when on trial of im 
 peachment unless he could obtain the aid of the government in en 
 forcing claims held by certain of his clients to an island of guano 
 a curious phase of the impeachment trial of Andrew Johnson, which 
 
Notes. 341 
 
 will live in history with an odor worthy of the subject, and not of 
 sanctity. 
 
 Note 37, page 236. 
 
 TO UNCLE SAM. 
 
 England having abused this country for suspending the Habeas 
 Corpus Act during the terrible struggle for the Union, herself sus 
 pended that "great palladium of freedom" in consequence of a few 
 Fenian riots, and imprisoned Irishmen, naturalized American citi 
 zens, whom she suspected of complicity in Fenian plots, on their re 
 visiting the land of their birth. 
 
 Note 38, page 237. 
 
 THE PRESIDENT TO CONGRESS. 
 
 This was written at the time when fche impeachment of Andrew 
 Johnson was threatened. The quotations are mainly from speeches 
 made by him in his famous tour through the country. Uncle Thad 
 is Thaddeus Stevens ; Ashley is the representative in Congress who 
 first proposed impeachment ; Phillips is Wendell Phillips ; Mrs. 
 Cobb, a lady popularly accused of being a successful place and par 
 don broker. The " Cleveland scrape" was the movement for a new 
 party, to which the assent of Henry Ward Beecher was obtained 
 an assent that he hastily recalled. 
 
 Note 39, page 240. 
 
 MANHOOD AGAINST THE MACHINES. 
 
 A political screed referring to local New York combinations. The 
 "Lunch Club" consists of the Tammany leaders who dine daily at 
 the City Hall, but, it is simple justice to add, at their own expense. 
 The references are to Michael Connolly, the "big judge;" John 
 Hardy and Billy Walsh, ex-aldermen ; Nelson J. Waterbury, the 
 "long judge," formerly district attorney; Smith Ely, supervisor 
 leaders of the Democratic Union, the organization opposed to the 
 dictation of Tammany Hall in city politics ; and to Peter B. Sweeny, 
 chamberlain; John T. Hoffman, mayor ; William M. Tweed, super 
 visor, deputy street commissioner, and state senator ; A. Oakey Hall, 
 district attorney the head men of Tammany, and constituting its 
 sacred "Ring." 
 
342 Notes. 
 
 Note 40, page 243. 
 
 JOHN MORRISSEY MY JO, JOHN. 
 
 Mr. Morrissey was elected as fitting representative of New York 
 City in Congress, and these lines were written in his honor. He was 
 a pugilist and gambler, but it was reported that he would not cheat, 
 and always " fought fair." 
 
 Note 41, page 245. 
 
 FERNANDO'S CARD. 
 
 The virtuous Fernando Wood announced in a card his desire for 
 re-election to Congress solely as a public refutation of the calumnies 
 heaped upon him by his enemies. 
 
 Note 42, page 245. 
 
 FOURTH CONGRESSIONAL DISTRICT. 
 
 S. S. Cox and John Fox, New York politicians, were both aspi 
 rants for a seat in Congress from this district. 
 
 Note 43, page 249. 
 
 CHURCH, CAGGER, AND PIPER. 
 
 The references are to Sanford E. Church, Peter Cagger, S. B. 
 Piper, Dean Richmond, president of the New York Central Railroad, 
 and Erastus Corning, who were members of the New York State 
 Democratic General Committee, and some of whom belonged to what 
 was known in politics as the Albany Regency. 
 
 Note 44, page 251. 
 
 LINES TO A CONGRESSMAN. 
 
 Refers to Hemy J. Raymond, editor in chief of the New York Times. 
 Note 45, page 255. 
 
 TWEEDLEDUM AND TWEEDLEDEE. 
 
 Refers to the newspaper controversies between Horace Greeley and 
 Thurlow Weed. " Sid. Gay" is Sidney Howard Gay, then mana 
 ging editor of the Tribune. 
 
 Note 46, page 256. 
 
 THE HEALTH BILL. 
 
 This was a measure of reform carried by the Citizen's Association, 
 with the help of the Republicans, to take the control of sanitary 
 
Notes. 343 
 
 matters in the city of New York from a body of political inspectors, 
 several of whom testified before a legislative committee that they 
 considered "hygiene" to be a "bad smell" or a " collection of dirty 
 water, " and give it to a medical board. Reference is made to Thomas 
 C. Acton, president of the Metropolitan Board of Police, and Lyman 
 Tremaine, attorney general. 
 
 Note 47, page 258. 
 
 RING RHYMES. 
 
 This collection of fugitive poetical screeds refers to political mat 
 ters in the city of New York, and to the great contest which the au 
 thor waged as Head Centre of the Democratic Union Organization 
 against the Tammany Hall clique, popularly described as the "Ring." 
 These references can only be understood by persons well versed in 
 that greatest of mysteries, New York politics, and to such it would 
 be a work of supererogation to explain them. The following short 
 and condensed statement may be worth the type it requires. On the 
 side of the Democratic Union were Michael Connolly, nicknamed the 
 " Big Judge ;" William Walsh, a Fourth Ward ex-alderman ; Daniel 
 M. O'Brien, candidate for the state Fenate, and Smith Ely, super 
 visor. And opposed to them were Matthew T. Brennan, then city 
 comptroller, subsequently deprived of power, and shelved on the 
 Board of Police Commissioners ; Charles G. Cornell, street commis 
 sioner ; Terence Farley, alderman, and city contractor on very profit 
 able jobs ; Peter B. Sweeny, brains of Tammany Hall, subsequently 
 made city chamberlain; William M.Tweed, supervisor, and later a 
 very fat pluralist, great executive officer of the combination ; Francis 
 I. A. Boole, a low scamp from Canada, city inspector, and later a 
 lunatic ; Fernando Wood, absolute owner of an organization called 
 Mozart, which he ran as a tender or an opponent to Tammany, ac 
 cording as either paid him best ; Thomas C. Fields, state Senator, 
 mouthpiece of the " Ring." To explain all the allusions in this and 
 other political effusions, the space of a volume would be required. 
 
 Note 48, page 289. 
 
 SONG OF THE NATIONAL DEMOCRACY. 
 
 Written when it was proposed to nominate General Dix for gov 
 ernor of the State of New York. Richmond, Pruyn, Cagger, and 
 Cassidy were members of the controlling political Democratic clique 
 called the Albany Regency. Elijah F. Purdy, city supervisor, was 
 nicknamed the "War Horse." 
 
344: Notes. 
 
 Note 49, page 292. 
 
 SENATOR TOM ON CLAMS. 
 
 John E. Develin, corporation counsel, was celebrated for giving de 
 lightful clam-bakes. On a certain occasion Senator Thomas Murphy 
 was invited to one of these famous entertainments, and this song is 
 supposed to have been written to express his appreciation of the par 
 ticular dainties that were put before him. 
 
 Note 50, page 303. 
 
 THE NEW " SPIKE" FOR POLITICAL GDNS. 
 
 James B. Taylor was connected with the two greatest swindles 
 ever perpetrated against the city of New York that of West Wash 
 ington Market and of Fort Gansevoort and it was said he had 
 bought an interest in the New York Times, to prevent that paper 
 exposing him. The references are to Owen W. Brennan, Republican 
 Commissioner of Charities and Corrections, brother of Matthew T. 
 Brennan, Democratic comptroller, who had to pass on the Fort Gan 
 sevoort matter ; Anse was Anson Herrick, editor of the Atlas ; Peter 
 Griese was the name of a " dummy" on a railroad bill before the Leg 
 islature, and supposed to stand for Peter B. Sweeny ; Nelson was 
 Nelson J. Waterbury, head of the opposition to Tammany Hall, and 
 Doty was the fictitious name of a subscriber to city bonds, which 
 were given to him at par when they were selling in market above 
 par, and was supposed to stand for an eminent Democratic judge. 
 
 51, page 310. 
 
 MY SAMBO OF THE KOM-HERAUS. 
 
 This and the next song were first published in the Citizen under 
 the pretense that they were written by Henry J. Raymond, and as a 
 specimen of his style, in retaliation for the publication in the Times 
 of a fictitious letter purporting to come from Miles O'Reilly. 
 
 Note 52, page 311. 
 
 THE BOARD OF CONTROL PROGRAMME. 
 
 A bill was introduced into the Republican Legislature at Albany 
 to cure the evils of New York City politics by putting the municipal 
 government into the hands of a Board of Control. This scheme was 
 mainly promoted by Waldo Hutchings, a Republican wire-puller. 
 
Notes. 345 
 
 Note 53, page 312. 
 
 LYRICS OP ALBANY. 
 
 Mr. Glenn, a member of Assembly, denounced his associates for 
 receiving bribes, but failed to prove his case, and was forced to re 
 sign. 
 
 Note 54, page 327. 
 
 A FRAGMENT, 
 
 attributed by Miles to Henry J. Raymond a performance of which 
 the latter has never yet been able to see the joke. 
 
 Note 55, page 328. 
 
 TO JUDGE M'CUNN, 
 
 refers to the famous adventures of the eminent Judge M'Cunn, of the 
 New York Superior Court, when he donned his spurs and sallied out 
 to the war, where he won high renown in an extremely limited period. 
 
 P2 
 
INDEX 
 
 Page 
 
 A California!! Ditty 45 
 
 Adieu 129 
 
 Adieu to the Princess Piccolomini 121 
 
 Advertisement Extraordinary 20T 
 
 After the Bath , 29 
 
 Aldermanic Ghost 283 
 
 An Acrostic Birthday Offering 50 
 
 Ancient Abe 300 
 
 An old Maxim reversed. 100 
 
 Anti-Maine Law Lyric 221 
 
 Apotheosis of Jay Cooke 273 
 
 At the Sea-side 76 
 
 Author's Ritual 1C6 
 
 A Visit 215 
 
 Bacchantes ' ; 128 
 
 Ballad of Lord Lovell 309 
 
 Baron Renfrew's Ball 159 
 
 Belle of the Ball 37 
 
 Better Choice 62 
 
 Big Thing Hoff. has had 321 
 
 BUI of another Week's Exhibition 318 
 
 Birth of the Battle Year. 178 
 
 Black Loyalty 87 
 
 Blessing the Shamrock 89 
 
 Bloomer Lyric 172 
 
 Board of Control Programme 311 
 
 Bob Smith, of Fulton Street . ... 285 
 
 Brace of Sonnets 210 
 
 Breezy Dissertation 43 
 
 Brevet Rank 216 
 
 Broadway Belle 142 
 
 Broken Heart (from the French) , 123 
 
 Broken Meerschaum 49 
 
 ' Bumper to Grant 245 
 
 Can any One find us a Speaker ? 322 
 
 Cattle of the Board of Supervisors 319 
 
 Chant of the No-Kami 127 
 
 Chief Justice 116 
 
348 Index. 
 
 Page 
 
 Church, Cagger, and Piper 249 
 
 Cochrane 294 
 
 College Song 224 
 
 Composition Duett 156 
 
 Cool of the Evening 194 
 
 Corporation Counsel Chargers on their Mettte 313 
 
 Crusader's Song (from the Russian) 161 
 
 Czar and the Sultan 105 
 
 Delmonico's Dream 46 
 
 Democratic Rally 291 
 
 Difference 232 
 
 Dollar in his Pouch 49 
 
 Drinking Song 196 
 
 Duet for the Breakfast-Table , 64 
 
 Epigram by the Collector 243 
 
 Epigram to a young Lady 141 
 
 Everglades withdraw 176 
 
 Exile's Grave 225 
 
 Fandango's Apotheosis 305 
 
 Farewell to Club Companions 32 
 
 Faugh an Beallach 133 
 
 Feminine Arithmetic .' 120 
 
 Fenian Scare ; 221 
 
 Fernando's Card 245 
 
 Ferry-boat 155 
 
 Ferry-boats of Gotham 199 
 
 Fiery Eloquence 132 
 
 Fifth Senatorial District 268 
 
 First of May , 200 
 
 Fond and Foolish 101 
 
 Forensic Eloquence 214 
 
 Forsythe 54 
 
 Fountain 203 
 
 Fountain on Boston Common 202 
 
 Fourth Book of Horace Thirteenth Ode 22T 
 
 Fourth Ode First Book of Horace 225 
 
 Fourth Senatorial District 267 
 
 Fragment 327 
 
 Gastronomic. 329 
 
 .General Orders of the Citizen 217 
 
 Give me Guano or give me Death 236 
 
 Gordon Granger 81 
 
 Grand Democratic Chowder 267 
 
 Grand Rout of the Nabobs 296 
 
 Halleck 329 
 
 Health Bill -. 256 
 
 Hill of Killenarden 230 
 
 Hoffman, dear 321 
 
 Holland Gin 330 
 
 Honor the Brave 52 
 
 Horace First Book, Fourth Ode 225 
 
Index. 349 
 
 Page 
 
 Horace Fourth Book, Thirteenth Ode 227 
 
 Horace Greeley as Herod 307 
 
 Household Toinb 58 
 
 Hurra for Andy Johnson 282 
 
 Hymn to the Types 102 
 
 Igdrasil 220 
 
 Indifference 129 
 
 In Memoriam 169 
 
 In Pleasant Hours 122 
 
 Ireland and the South 59 
 
 Irish Astronomy 136 
 
 Irish Legion 26 
 
 Islands that await us ." : 100 
 
 James Gordon Beuuett, Jr. 51 
 
 Janette's Hair 92 
 
 John Morrissey my jo, John 243 
 
 Judge M'Cuun 328 
 
 Knight's Address 51 
 
 Labor's War Song 186 
 
 Last Appeal 85 
 
 Last Resort 90 
 
 La Suissesse au Bord du Lac 120 
 
 Laura 75 
 
 Laura Singing 205 
 
 Le Compton's Black Brigade 232 
 
 Le Printemps (from the French) \ 157 
 
 Les Hirondelles 93 
 
 Letter from John Bull, Esq., to Jeremiah Sly, Esq., Cotton Broker, New 
 
 York 165 
 
 Life Chase 231 
 
 Lines on Louis Napoleon 33 
 
 Lines on the Russo-Turkish War 73 
 
 Lines to a Congressman 251 
 
 Lisper and Booth 70 
 
 Little Rhymes of Little Things Cl 
 
 Live-oak George 288 
 
 Loafing as a Fine Art 91 
 
 Lost Love 201 
 
 Lucie Ellice 36 
 
 Lyric of Tweddle Hall 234 
 
 Lyrics of Albany 312 
 
 Mac, my Darlin' 286 
 
 Magnificent Supreme Court Evolutions 318 
 
 Maine-Law Lyric 91 
 
 Manhood against the Machines 240 
 
 Man of Threescore \ 30 
 
 Ma Normandie (from the French) 81 
 
 Mary 329 
 
 Matrimonial Complacency 134 
 
 Mayoralty Nags and Riders 314 
 
 Midnight Watch 83 
 
350 Index. 
 
 Miles on the White Fawn 83 
 
 Miles runs for Register 326 
 
 Miner's Dream 85 
 
 Minnie, my doll-Wife 114 
 
 More Light 213 
 
 Morning Serenade (from the French) ' 84 
 
 Morton must go 327 
 
 Motto of the Mass 130 
 
 Mr. Johnson's Policy of Reconstruction. 257 
 
 Mustering of the Clans 320 
 
 My Dove in her Nest 209 
 
 My Soul is sad 212 
 
 My Southward Winging Oriole 158 
 
 Mysterious Verses from a pink-eyed Bard 304 
 
 Mystic Voice 195 
 
 My Toast 36 
 
 Nea 198 
 
 Nebraska and Kansas 284 
 
 New " Spike" for political Gnns 303 
 
 New Version of John Brown 182 
 
 New Yor-k Crystal Palace 173 
 
 New York in a Nutshell 274 
 
 New York in a Snow-coat , 124 
 
 Night Ride of Ancient Abe 299 
 
 Ninth Ode of Horace, Third Book 223 
 
 Not a Star from the Flag shall Fade 119 
 
 Nymph of Lurleibergh 66 
 
 " Oh, young Geordie Sanders" 135 
 
 Oh, wanton Wind 206 
 
 Old Bachelor's New Year 168 
 
 Olden Memories 192 
 
 Old Green Flag 71 
 
 Old Year and the New .141 
 
 Olfactory Ode in Praise of New York Cleanliness 151 
 
 O'Mahony of the Comeraghs 184 
 
 One dead sure Thing 130 
 
 Only some Relics 55 
 
 Opium Dream 203 
 
 Original Sin 68 
 
 " Our Big Thing on Ice" 259 
 
 Palpable Parody 125 
 
 Parepa Rosa 122 
 
 Partant pour la Syrie (from the French) 222 
 
 Parting 83 
 
 Parting Kiss 67 
 
 Philadelphia 57, 302 
 
 Philip and 1 213 
 
 Picture in Water-colors 140 
 
 Political Opium Dream 276 
 
 Presidential Warning 248 
 
 President to Congress 237 
 
Index. 351 
 
 Page 
 
 Psalms of Impeachment 324 
 
 Pungent Consideration of the various Trades and Callings 153 
 
 Quaker Coquette 88 
 
 Quakerdom 35 
 
 Raymond on his Travels 40 
 
 Rejected 201 
 
 Rhymer's Ritual 113 
 
 Rime of ye Seedie Printeere Man 112 
 
 Ring Rhymes by O'Reilly 258 
 
 Ring-stamp Fatal 299- 
 
 Romance and Echo 10T 
 
 Rooseveltiana Our Boy Bob Ill 
 
 Ruby Ring.... 197 
 
 Sambo a bad Egg 311 
 
 Sambo of the Kom-heraus 310 
 
 Second Book of Horace, Sixteenth Ode To Wideswarth 171 
 
 Senator Gwin to Buchanan 293 
 
 Senator Tom on Clams 292 
 
 Seventh Senatorial District : 270 
 
 Sheridan 38 
 
 Similes 182 
 
 Sixth Senatorial District . 269 
 
 Solemn political Death-bed 253 
 
 Song for White Men 279 
 
 Song of the National Democracy 289 
 
 Song : Philanthropic and Piratical 162 
 
 Song to the Sons of St. Tammany 306 
 
 Soon we'll have the Union back 242 
 
 Souvenir 189 
 
 Special Orders, A., No. 1 109 
 
 Spirit Rapping 98 
 
 Squadron of mounted Sailors 316 
 
 Stamping Out 69 
 
 Stars of Memory 96 
 
 Storm brewing 247 
 
 St. Tammany and the Nabobs 270 
 
 St. Tammany's Terror 239 
 
 Sylvia 191 
 
 Ten Years too Late 178. 
 
 Theatrical Gingernuts 193 
 
 The Marchioness 193 
 
 There is no such Word as Fail, Boys 287 
 
 The Seventh to John Cochrane 294 
 
 The Turquois Brooch 125 
 
 Thine Eyes of Blue (from the French) '. 126 
 
 Things that I Seen and Heerd in Buckin'ham Palice. 144 
 
 Third Ode, Fourth Book of Horace 219 
 
 Thirty Years Old 180 
 
 Three of us at the Fountain 202 
 
 ' Time 131 
 
 To a Friend. 137 
 
352 Index. 
 
 Page 
 
 Toast and a Cheer 186 
 
 To a Wealthy Amateur Critic 190 
 
 To Azra 94 
 
 To Fenton The Tax Levy 117 
 
 Translations from Horace No. XI 188 
 
 Tribune's Presidential Philosophy 257 
 
 Trooper to his Mare 216 
 
 Tropic Bird 210 
 
 Truth in Parenthesis ,. 218 
 
 Tweedledum and Tweedledee 255 
 
 Two Voices 41 
 
 Uncle Sam 236 
 
 Uncle Thad Stevens 221) 
 
 Valentine 211 
 
 Venice's new Chance 204 
 
 Vesper Hymn 25 
 
 Visit 215 
 
 Voice of the Army 252 
 
 Wall Street Usurer on Eustic Bliss 163 
 
 War Democratic View of M'Clellan's Nomination 281 
 
 Washington's Birthday, 1865 77 
 
 Wearie Pen 138 
 
 Webster 118 
 
 Well-dressed Man 108 
 
 We might have been 226 
 
 Who killed the Nabobs ? 297 
 
 Widower's Christmas 86 
 
 Widowology Philosophized 228 
 
 Wisdom in Doggerel 127 
 
 Woman's Rights 150 
 
 THE END. 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE 
 RECALL 
 
 LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS 
 
 Book Slip-70wi-9,'65(F7151s4)458 
 
N 413790 
 
 Halpine, C.G. 
 Poetical works. 
 
 PS178U 
 H2 
 Al? 
 1869 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS