GE-LANG! GIT UP!—New Orleans Delta.

The drops of rain were falling fast, When up through Camp-street quickly pass'd, An omnibus, whose driver sung, In accents of the Celtic tongue— Ge-lang! git up! His mules were lank, his whip was long; He touch'd them with a biting thong, And as they switch'd their threadbare tails, This sound the listening ear assails— Ge-lang! git up! Along the street, on every side, Were damp ones waiting for a ride; They call'd, they yell'd, they raised a fuss, But cried the driver of the 'bus. Ge-lang! git up! "Hold on! hold on!" an old man said, And waved his hand above his head; Crack went the whip, and all could hear A sharp sound echoing on the ear— Ge-lang! git up! "Stop, driver, stop!" a maiden call'd "Stop, stop!" a dozen voices bawl'd The driver look'd on neither side, But still in clarion voice replied— Ge-lang! git up! Far up the street a sound was heard, And through the distance came a word That fell on many a waiting soul Like Hope's lugubrious funeral toll— Ge-lang! git up! That night the driver went to bed; All through his troubled sleep he said The same strange words which he had flung All day from his Jehuic tongue— Ge-lang! git up!