Part 2 — CHICKADEE

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee! That was the song that he sang to me— Sang from his perch in the willow tree— Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee. My little brown bird, The song that I heard Was a happier song than the minstrels sing— A paean of joy and a carol of spring; And my heart leaped throbbing and sang with thee Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee. My birdie looked wise With his little black eyes, As he peeked and peered from his perch at me With a throbbing throat and a flutter of glee, As if he would say— Sing trouble away, Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee. Only one note From his silver throat; Only one word From my wise little bird; But a sweeter note or a wiser word From the tongue of mortal I never have heard, Than my little philosopher sang to me From his bending perch in the willow tree— Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee. Come foul or fair, Come trouble and care— No—never a sigh Or a thought of despair! For my little bird sings in my heart to me, As he sang from his perch in the willow tree— Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee: Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee; Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

Spirit of Liberty, Wake in the Land! Sons of our Forefathers, Raise the strong hand! Burn in each heart anew Liberty's fires; Wave the old Flag again, Flag of our sires; Glow all thy stars again, Banner of Light! Wave o'er us forever, Emblem of might; God for our Banner! God for the Right! Minions of Tyranny, Tremble and kneel! The sons of the Pilgrims Are sharpening their steel. Pledge for our Land again Honor and life; Wave the old Flag again; On to the strife! Shades of our Forefathers, Witness our fright! Wave o'er us forever, Emblem of might; God for our Banner! God for our Right!

Come then, brave men, from the Land of Lakes With steady steps and cheers; Our country calls, as the battle breaks, On the Northwest Pioneers. Let the eagle scream, and the bayonet gleam! Hurrah for the Volunteers!

Our columns are broken, defeated, and fled; We are gathered, a few from the flying and dead, Where the green flag is up and our wounded remain Imploring for water and groaning in pain. Lo the blood-spattered bosom, the shot-shattered limb, The hand-clutch of fear as the vision grows dim, The half-uttered prayer and the blood-fettered breath, The cold marble brow and the calm face of death. O proud were these forms at the dawning of morn, When they sprang to the call of the shrill bugle-horn: There are mothers and wives that await them afar; God help them!—Is this then the glory of war? But hark!—hear the cries from the field of despair; "The Black-Horse" are charging the fugitives there; They gallop the field o'er the dying and dead, And their blades with the blood of their victims are red. The cries of the fallen and flying are vain; They saber the wounded and trample the slain; And the plumes of the riders wave red in the sun, As they stoop for the stroke and the murder goes on. They halt for a moment—they form and they stand; Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band Like the samiel that sweeps o'er Arabia's sand. "Halt!—down with your sabers!—the dying are here! Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear." Nay; the merciless butchers were thirsting for blood, And mad for the murder still onward they rode. "Stand firm and be ready!"—Our brave, gallant few Have faced to the foe, and our rifles are true; Fire!—a score of grim riders go down in a breath At the flash of our guns—in the tempest of death! They wheel, and they clutch in despair at the mane! They reel in their saddles and fall to the plain! The riderless steeds, wild with wounds and with fear, Dash away o'er the field in unbridled career; Their stirrups swing loose and their manes are all gore From the mad cavaliers that shall ride them no more. Of the hundred so bold that rode down on us there But few rode away with the tale of despair; Their proud, plumèd comrades so reckless, alas, Slept their long, dreamless sleep on the blood-spattered grass.

"We've had a brush," the Captain said, "And Rebel blood we've spilled; We came off victors with the loss Of only a private killed." "Ah," said the orderly—"it was hot,"— Then he breathed a heavy breath— "Poor fellow!—he was badly shot, Then bayoneted to death." And now was hushed the martial din; The saucy foe had fled; They brought the private's body in; I went to see the dead; For I could not think our Rebel foes— So valiant in the van— So boastful of their chivalry— Could kill a wounded man. A musket ball had pierced his thigh— A frightful, crushing wound— And then with savage bayonets They pinned him to the ground. One deadly thrust drove through the heart, Another through the head; Three times they stabbed his pulseless breast When he lay cold and dead. His hair was matted with his gore, His hands were clinched with might, As if he still his musket bore So firmly in the fight. He had grasped the foemen's bayonets Their murderous thrusts to fend: They raised the coat-cape from his face, And lo—it was my friend! Think what a shudder chilled my heart! 'Twas but the day before We laughed together merrily, As we talked of days of yore. "How happy we shall be," he said, "When the war is o'er, and when With victory's song and victory's tread We all march home again." Ah little he dreamed—that soldier brave So near his journey's goal— How soon a heavenly messenger Would claim his Christian soul. But he fell like a hero—fighting, And hearts with grief are filled; And honor is his,—tho' the Captain says "Only a private killed." I knew him well,—he was my friend; He loved our land and laws, And he fell a blessed martyr To our Country's holy cause; And I know a cottage in the West Where eyes with tears are filled As they read the careless telegram— "Only a private killed." Comrades, bury him under the oak, Wrapped in his army-blue; He is done with the battle's din and smoke, With drill and the proud review. And the time will come ere long, perchance, When our blood will thus be spilled, And what care we if the Captain say— "Only a private killed." For the glorious Old Flag beckons. We have pledged her heart and hand, And we'll brave even death to rescue Our dear old Fatherland. We ask not praise—nor honors, Then—as each grave is filled— What care we if the Captain say— "Only a private killed."

Do they think of us, say—in the far distant West— On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest? On the long dusty march when the suntide is hot, O say, are their sons and their brothers forgot? Are our names on their lips, is our comfort their care When they kneel to the God of our fathers in prayer? When at night on their warm, downy pillows they lie, Wrapped in comfort and ease, do they think of us, say? When the rain patters down on the roof overhead, Do they think of the camps without shelter or bed? Ah many a night on the cold ground we've lain— Chilled, chilled to the heart by the merciless rain, And yet there stole o'er us the peace of the blest, For our spirits went back to our homes in the West. O we think of them, and it sharpens our steel, When the battle-smoke rolls and the grim cannon peal, When forward we rush at the shrill bugle's call To the hail-storm of conflict where many must fall. When night settles down on the slaughter-piled plain, And the dead are at rest and the wounded in pain, Do they think of us, say, in the far distant West— On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest? Aye, comrades, we know that our darlings are there With their hearts full of hope and their souls full of prayer, And it steadies our rifles—it steels every breast— The thought of our loved ones at home in the West— On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest.

On they ride—on they ride— Only three hundred,— Ride the brave Body-Guard, From the "Prairie Scouts" sundered: Two thousand riflemen, Ambushed on either side, The signal of slaughter bide: Ho! has the farmer-guide Led them astray and lied? How can they pass the wood? On they ride—on they ride— Fearlessly, readily, Silently, steadily Ride the brave Body-Guard Led by Zagonyi. Up leap the Southrons there; Loud breaks the battle-blare; Now swings his hat in air; Flashes his saber bare: "Draw sabers;—follow me!" Shouts the brave Captain: "Union and Liberty!" Thunders the Captain. Three hundred sabers flash; Three hundred Guardsmen dash On to the fierce attack; Into the cul-de-sac Plunge the Three Hundred. Yell the mad ambushed pack— Two thousand rifles crack At the Three Hundred. Dire is the death they deal, Gleams the steel—volleys peal— Horses plunge—riders reel; Sabers and bayonets clash; Guns in their faces flash; Blue coats are spattered red— Fifty brave Guards are dead— Zagonyi is still ahead, Swinging his hat in air, Flashing his saber: "Steady men;—steady there; Forward—Battalion!" On they plunge—on they dash Thro' the dread gantlet; Death gurgles in the gash Of furious-dealt saber-slash; Over them the volleys crash Thro' the trees like a whirlwind. They pass through the fire of death; Pant riders and steeds for breath; "Halt!" cried the Captain Then he looked up the hill; There on the summit still The "Third Company" paltered. Right through the fire of hell, Where fifty brave Guardsmen fell, Zagonyi had ridden well; Foley had faltered. Flashed like a flame of fire— Flashed with a menace dire— Flashed with a yell of ire The sword of the Captain. Kennedy saw the flash, And ordered the "Third" to dash Gallantly forward: "Come on, Boys, for Liberty! Forward, and follow me! Remember Kentucky!" Into the hell they broke— Into the fire and smoke— Dealing swift saber-stroke— The gallant Kentuckians. Horses plunge, Riders lunge Heavily forward; Over the fallen they ride Down to Zagonyi's side, Mowing a swath of death Either side,—right and left Piling the slaughtered! Under the storm of lead, Still hissing overhead, They re-formed the battle-line; Then the brave Captain said: "Guardsmen: avenge our dead! Charge!"—Up the hill they go,— Right into the swarming foe! Woe to the foemen—woe! See mad Zagonyi there; Streams on the wind his hair, Flashes his saber bare; On they go—on they go; Volleys flash, Sabers clash, On they plunge, on they dash, Following Zagonyi Into the hell again. Hand to hand fight and die Infantry, cavalry; Grappled and mixed they lie— Infantry, cavalry: Hurra!—the Rebels fly! Bravo!—Three Hundred! "Forward and follow me!" Shouted the Captain; "Union and Liberty!" All the Guards thundered. With mad hearts and sabers stout Into the Rebel-rout Gallop the Guardsmen, Thundering their cry again, Cleaving their foes in twain, Piling the heaps of slain Sabered and sundered. Three hundred foes they slayed, Glorious the charge they made, Victorious the charge they made— The gallant Three Hundred! Let the Crown-Poet paid Sing of the "Light Brigade" And "The wild charge they made" When "Some one had blundered;" Following the British Bard, I sing of the Body-Guard— The Heroes that fought so hard— Where nobody blundered. Hail, brave Zagonyi—hail! All hail, the Body-Guard!— The glorious— The victorious— The invincible Three Hundred.

The nation calls aloud again, For Freedom wounded writhes in pain. Gird on your armor, Northern men; Drop scythe and sickle, square and pen; A million bayonets gleam and flash; A thousand cannon peal and crash; Brothers and sons have gone before; A million more!—a million more! Fire and sword!—aye, sword and fire! Let war be fierce and grim and dire; Your path be marked by flame and smoke, And tyrant's bones and fetters broke: Stay not for foe's uplifted hand; Sheathe not the sword; quench not the brand Till Freedom reign from shore to shore, Or might 'mid ashes smoke and gore. If leader stay the vengeance-rod, Let him beware the wrath of God; The maddened millions long his trust Will crush his puny bones to dust, And all the law to guide their ire Will be the law of blood and fire. Come, then—the shattered ranks implore— A million more—a million more! Form and file and file and form; This war is but God's thunder-storm To purify our cankered land And strike the fetter from the hand. Forced by grim fate our Chief at last Shall blow dear Freedom's bugle-blast; And then shall rise from shore to shore Four millions more—four millions more.^[CT]

Perish the power that, bowed to dust, Still wields a tyrant's rod— That dares not even then be just, And leave the rest with God.

All-day-long the crash of cannon Shook the battle-covered plain; All-day-long the frenzied foemen Dashed against our lines in vain; All the field was piled with slaughter; Now the lurid setting sun Saw our foes in wild disorder, And the bloody day was won. Foremost on our line of battle All-day-long a veteran stood— Stalwart, brawny, grim and steady, Black with powder, smeared with blood; Never flinched and never faltered In the deadliest storm of lead, And before his steady rifle Lay a score of foemen dead. Never flinched and never faltered Till our shout of victory rose, Till he saw defeat, disaster, Overwhelmed our flying foes; Then he trembled, then he tottered, Gasped for breath and dropped his gun, Staggered from the ranks and prostrate Fell to the earth. His work was done. Silent comrades gathered round him, And his Captain sadly came, Bathed his quivering lips with water, Took his hand and spoke his name; And his fellow soldiers softly On his knapsack laid his head; Then his eyes were lit with luster, And he raised his hand and said: "Good-bye, comrades; farewell, Captain! I am glad the day is won; I am mustered out, I reckon— Never mind-my part is done. We have marched and fought together Till you seem like brothers all, But I hope again to meet you At the final bugle-call. "Captain, write and tell my mother That she must not mourn and cry, For I never flinched in battle, And I do not fear to die. You may add a word for Mary; Tell her I was ever true. Mary took a miff one Sunday, And so I put on the "blue." "And I know she has repented, But I never let her see How it cut—her crusty answer— When she turned away from me. I was never good at coaxing, So I didn't even try; But you tell her I forgive her, And she must not mourn and cry," Then he closed his eyes in slumber, And his spirit passed away, And his comrades spread a blanket O'er his cold and silent clay. At dawn of morn they buried him, Wrapped in his army-blue. On the bloody field of Fair Oaks Sleeps the soldier tried and true.

Mount to horse—mount to horse; Forward, Battalion! Gallop the gallant force; Down with Rebellion! Over hill, creek and plain Clatter the fearless— Dash away—splash away— Led by the Peerless. Carbines crack—foemen fly Hither and thither; Under the death-fire They falter and wither. Burn the bridge—tear the track— Down with Rebellion! Cut the wires—cut the wires! Forward, Battalion! Day and night—night and day, Gallop the fearless— Swimming the rivers' floods— Led by the Peerless; Depots and powder-trains Blazing and thundering Masters and dusky slaves Gazing and wondering. Eight hundred miles they ride— Dauntless Battalion— Down through the Southern Land Mad with Rebellion. Into our lines they dash— Brave Cavaliers— Greeting our flag with A thunder of cheers.

Have ye heard of Fort Donelson's desperate fight, Where the giant Northwest bared his arm for the right, Where thousands so bravely went down in the slaughter, And the blood of the West ran as freely as water; Where the Rebel Flag fell and our banner arose O'er an army of captured and suppliant foes? Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder. Heard ye of Shiloh, where fierce Beauregard O'erwhelmed us with numbers and pressed us so hard, Till our veteran supporters came up to our aid And the tide of defeat and disaster was staid— Where like grain-sheaves the slaughtered were piled on the plain And the brave rebel Johnston went down with the slain? Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder. Heard ye the cannon-roar down by Stone River? Saw ye the bleeding braves stagger and quiver? Heard ye the shout and the roar and the rattle? And saw ye the desperate surging of battle? Volley on volley and steel upon steel— Breast unto breast—how they lunge and they reel! Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder. Heard ye of Vicksburg—the Southern Gibraltar, Where the hands of our foemen built tyranny's altar, Where their hosts are walled in by a cordon of braves, And the pits they have dug for defense are their graves, Where the red bombs are bursting and hissing the shot, Where the nine thunders death and the charge follows hot? Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder. Heard ye from Gettysburg?—Glory to God! Bare your heads, O ye Freemen, and kneel on the sod! Praise the Lord!—praise the Lord!—it is done!—it is done! The battle is fought and the victory won! They first took the sword, and they fall by the sword; They are scattered and crushed by the hand of the Lord! Lo—torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder, The Old Flag is waving there prouder and prouder.

Ready and ripe for the harvest lay the acres of golden grain Waving on hillock and hillside and bending along the plain. Ready and ripe for the harvest two veteran armies lay Waiting the signal of battle on the Gettysburg hills that day. Sharp rang the blast of the bugles calling the foe to the fray, And shrill from the enemy's cannon the demon shells shrieked as they flew; Crashed and rumbled and roared our batteries ranged on the hill, Rumbled and roared at the front the bellowing guns of the foe Swelling the chorus of hell ever louder and deadlier still, And shrill o'er the roar of the cannon rose the yell of the rebels below, As they charged on our Third Corps advanced and crushed in the lines at a blow. Leading his clamorous legions, flashing his saber in air, Forward rode furious Longstreet charging on Round Top there— Key to our left and center—key to the fate of the field— Leading his wild-mad Southrons on to the lions' lair. Red with the blood of our legions—red with the blood of our best, Waiting the fate of the battle the lurid sun stood in the west. Hid by the crest of the hills we lay at the right concealed, Prone on the earth that shuddered under us there as we lay. Thunder of cheers on the left!—dashing down on his stalwart bay, Spurring his gallant charger till his foaming flanks ran blood, Hancock, the star of our legions, rode down where our officers stood: "By the left flank, double-quick, march!"—We sprang to our feet and away, Like a fierce pack of hunger-mad wolves that pant for the blood of the prey. "Halt!"—on our battery's flank we stood like a hedge-row of steel— Bearing the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day. Down at the marge of the valley our broken ranks stagger and reel, Grimy with dust and with powder, wearied and panting for breath, Flinging their arms in panic, flying the hail-storm of death. Rumble of volley on volley of the enemy hard on the rear, Yelling their wild, mad triumph, thundering cheer upon cheer, Dotting the slope with slaughter and sweeping the field with fear. Drowned is the blare of the bugle, lost is the bray of the drum, Yelling, defiant, victorious, column on column they come. Only a handful are we, thrown into the gap of our lines, Holding the perilous breach where the fate of the battle inclines, Only a handful are we—column on column they come. Roared like the voice of a lion brave Hancock fierce for the fray: "Hurry the reserve battalions; bring every banner and gun: Charge on the enemy, Colvill, stay the advance of his lines: Here—by the God of our Fathers!—here shall the battle be won, Or we'll die for the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills today." Shrill rang the voice of our Colonel, the bravest and best of the brave: "Forward, the First Minnesota! Forward, and follow me, men!" Gallantly forward he strode, the bravest and best of the brave. Two hundred and fifty and two—all that were left of us then— Two hundred and fifty and two fearless, unfaltering men Dashed at a run for the enemy, sprang to the charge with a yell. On us their batteries thundered solid shot, grape shot and shell; Never a man of us faltered, but many a comrade fell. "Forward, the First Minnesota!"—like tigers we sprang at our foes; Grim gaps of death in our ranks, but ever the brave ranks close: Down went our sergeant and colors—defiant our colors arose! "Fire!" At the flash of our rifles—grim gaps in the ranks of our foes! "Forward, the First Minnesota!" our brave Colonel cried as he fell Gashed and shattered and mangled—"Forward!" he cried as he fell. Over him mangled and bleeding frenzied we sprang to the fight, Over him mangled and bleeding we sprang to the jaws of hell. Flashed in our faces their rifles, roared on the left and the right, Swarming around us by thousands we fought them with desperate might. Five times our banner went down—five times our banner arose, Tattered and torn but defiant, and flapped in the face of our foes. Hold them? We held them at bay, as a bear holds the hounds on his track, Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, we met them and staggered them back. Desperate, frenzied, bewildered, blindly they fired on their own; Like reeds in the whirl of the cyclone columns and colors went down. Banner of stars on the right! Hurrah! gallant Gibbon is come! Thunder of guns on the left! Hurrah! 'tis our cannon that boom! Solid-shot, grape-shot and canister crash like the cracking of doom. Baffled, bewildered and broken the ranks of the enemy yield; Panic-struck, routed and shattered they fly from the fate of the field. Hold them? We held them at bay, as a bear holds the hounds on his track; Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, we met them and staggered them back; Two hundred and fifty and two, we held their mad thousands at bay, Met them and baffled and broke them, turning the tide of the day; Two hundred and fifty and two when the sun hung low in heaven, But ah! when the stars rode over we numbered but forty-seven: Dead on the field or wounded the rest of our regiment lay; Never a man of us faltered or flinched in the fire of the fray, For we bore the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day. Tears for our fallen comrades—cover their graves with flowers, For they fought and fell like Spartans for this glorious land of ours. They fell, but they fell victorious, for the Rebel ranks were riven, And over our land united—one nation from sea to sea, Over the grave of Treason, over millions of men made free, Triumphant the flag of our fathers waves in the winds of heaven— Striped with the blood of her heroes she waves in the winds of heaven. Tears for our fallen comrades—cover their graves with flowers, For they fought and fell like Spartans for this glorious land of ours; And oft shall our children's children garland their graves and say: "They bore the banner of Freedom on the Gettysburg hills that day."

Float in the winds of heaven, O tattered Flag! Emblem of hope to all the misruled world: Thy field of golden stars is rent and red— Dyed in the blood of brothers madly spilled By brother-hands upon the mother-soil. O fatal Upas of the savage Nile,^[CU] Transplanted hither—rooted—multiplied— Watered with bitter tears and sending forth Thy venom-vapors till the land is mad, Thy day is done. A million blades are swung To lay thy jungles open to the sun; A million torches fire thy blasted boles; A million hands shall drag thy fibers out And feed the fires till every root and branch Lie in dead ashes. From the blackened soil, Enriched and moistened with fraternal blood, Beside the palm shall spring the olive-tree, And every breeze shall waft the happy song Of Freedom crowned with olive-twigs and flowers. Yea, Patriot-Flag of our old patriot-sires, Honored—victorious on an hundred fields Where side by side for Freedom's mother-land Her Southern sons and Northern fighting fell, And side by side in glorious graves repose,

I see the dawn of glory grander still, When hand in hand upon this battle-field The blue-eyed maidens of the Merrimac With dewy roses from the Granite Hills, And dark-eyed daughters from the land of palms With orange-blossoms from the broad St. Johns, In solemn concert singing as they go, Shall strew the graves of these fraternal dead. The day of triumph comes, O blood-stained Flag! Washed clean and lustrous in the morning light Of a new era, thou shalt float again In more than pristine glory o'er the land Peace-blest and re-united. On the seas Thou shalt be honored to the farthest isle. The oppressed of foreign lands shall flock the shores To look upon and bless thee. Mothers shall lift Their infants to behold thee as a star New-born in heaven to light the darksome world. The children weeping round the desolate, Sore-stricken mother in the saddened home Whereto the father shall no more return, In future years will proudly boast the blood Of him who bravely fell defending thee. And these misguided brothers who would tear Thy starry field asunder and would trail Their own proud flag and history in the dust, Ere many years will bless thee, dear old Flag, That thou didst triumph even over them. Aye, even they with proudly swelling hearts Will see the glory thou shalt shortly wear, And new-born stars swing in upon thy field In lustrous clusters. Come, O glorious day Of Freedom crowned with Peace. God's will be done! God's will is peace on earth—good-will to men. The chains all broken and the bond all free, O may this nation learn to war no more; Yea, into plow-shares may these brothers beat Their swords and into pruning-hooks their spears, Clasp hands again, and plant these battle-fields With golden corn and purple-clustered vines, And side by side re-build the broken walls— Joined and cemented as one solid stone With patriot-love and Christ's sweet charity.

Good morning—good morning—a happy new year! We greet you, kind friends of the old Pioneer; Hope your coffee is good and your steak is well done, And you're happy as clams in the sand and the sun. The old year's a shadow—a shade of the past; It is gone with its toils and its triumphs so vast— With its joys and its tears—with its pleasure and pain— With its shouts of the brave and its heaps of the slain— Gone—and it cometh—no, never again. And as we look forth on the future so fair Let us brush from the picture the visage of care; The error, the folly, the frown and the tear— Drop them all at the grave of the silent old year. Has the heart been oppressed with a burden of woe? Has the spirit been cowed by a merciless blow? Has the tongue of the brave or the voice of the fair Prayed to God and received no response to its prayer? Look up!—'twas a shadow—the morning is here: A Happy New Year!—O, a Happy New Year! Yet stay for a moment. We cannot forget The fields where the true and the traitor have met; When the old year came in we were trembling with fear Lest Freedom should fall in her glorious career; And the roar of the conflict was loud o'er the land Where the traitor-flag waved in a rebel's red hand; But the God of the Just led the hosts of the Free, And Victory marched from the north to the sea. Behold—where the conflict was doubtful and dire— There—on house-top and hill-top, on fortress and spire— The Old Banner waves again higher and prouder, Though torn by the shot and begrimed by the powder. God bless the brave soldiers that followed that flag Through river and swamp, over mountain and crag— On the wild charge triumphant—the sullen retreat— On fields spread with victory or piled with defeat; God bless their true hearts for they stood like a wall, And saved us our Country and saved us our all. But many a mother and many a daughter Weep, alas, o'er the brave that went down in the slaughter. Pile the monuments high—not on hill-top and plain— To the glorious sons 'neath the old banner slain— But over the land from the sea to the sea— Pile their monuments high in the hearts of the Free. Heaven bless the brave souls that are spared to return Where the "lamp in the window" ceased never to burn— Where the vacant chair stood at the desolate hearth Since the son shouldered arms or the father went forth. "Peace!—Peace!"—was the shout;—at the jubilant word Wives and mothers went down on their knees to the Lord! Methinks I can see, through the vista of years— From the memories of old such a vision appears— A gray-haired old veteran in arm-chair at ease, With his grandchildren clustered intent at his knees, Recounting his deeds with an eloquent tongue, And a fire that enkindles the hearts of the young; How he followed the Flag from the first to the last— On the long, weary march, in the battle's hot blast; How he marched under Sherman from center to sea, Or fought under Grant in his battles with Lee; And the old fire comes back to his eye as of yore, And his iron hand clutches his musket once more, As of old on the battle-field ghastly and red, When he sprang to the charge o'er the dying and dead; And the eyes of his listeners are gleaming with fire, As he points to that Flag floating high on the spire.

Heaven bless the new year that is just ushered in; May the Rebels repent of their folly and sin, Depart from their idols, extend the right hand, And pledge that the Union forever shall stand. May they see that the rending of fetter and chain Is their triumph as well—their unspeakable gain; That the Union dissevered and weltering in blood Could yield them no profit and bode them no good. 'Tis human to err and divine to forgive; Let us walk after Christ—bid the poor sinners live, And come back to the fold of the Union once more, And we'll do as the prodigal's father of yore— Kill the well-fatted calf—(but we'll not do it twice) And invite them to dinner—and give them a slice. There's old Johnny Bull—what a terrible groan Escapes when he thinks of his big "Rebel Loan"— How the money went out with a nod and a grin, But the cotton—the cotton—it didn't come in. Then he thinks of diplomacy—Mason-Slidell, And he wishes that both had been warming in hell, For he got such a rap from our little Bill Seward That the red nose he blows is right hard to be cured; And then the steam pirates he built and equipped, And boasted, you know, that they couldn't be whipped; But alas for his boast—Johnny Bull "caught a Tartar," And now like a calf he is bawling for quarter. Yes, bluff Johnny Bull will be tame as a yearling, Beg pardon and humbly "come down" with his sterling. There's Monsieur l'Escamoteur^[CV] over in France; He has had a clear field and a gay country dance Down there in Mexico—playing his tricks While we had a family "discussion wid sticks"; But the game is played out; don't you see it's so handy For Grant and his boys to march over the Grande. He twists his waxed moustache and looks very blue, And he says to himself, (what he wouldn't to you) "Py tam—dair's mon poor leetle chappie—Dutch Max! Cornes du Diable^[CW]—'e'll 'ave to make tracks Or ve'll 'ave all dem tam Yankee poys on our packs." Monsieur l'Empereur, if your Max can get out With the hair of his head on—he'd better, no doubt. If you'll not take it hard, here's a bit of advice— It is dangerous for big pigs to dance on the ice; They sometimes slip up and they sometimes fall in, And the ice you are on is exceedingly thin. You're au fait, I'll admit, at a sharp game of chance, But the Devil himself couldn't always beat France. Remember the fate of your uncle of yore, Tread lightly, and keep very close to the shore. The Giant Republic—its future how vast! Now, freed from the follies and sins of the past,

It will tower to the zenith; the ice-covered sea And Darien shall bound-mark the Land of the Free. Behold how the landless, the poor and oppressed, Flock in on our shores from the East and the West! Let them come—bid them come—we have plenty of room; Our forests shall echo, our prairies shall bloom; The iron horse, puffing his cloud-breath of steam, Shall course every valley and leap every stream; New cities shall rise with a magic untold, While our mines yield their treasures of silver and gold, And prosperous, united and happy, we'll climb Up the mountain of Fame till the end of Old Time— Which, as I figure up, is a century hence: Then we'll all go abroad without any expense; We'll capture a comet—the smart Yankee race Will ride on his tail through the kingdom of Space, Tack their telegraph wires to Uranus and Mars; Yea, carry their arts to the ultimate stars, And flaunt the Old Flag at the suns as they pass, And astonish the Devil himself with—their brass. And now, "Gentle Readers," I'll bid you farewell; I hope this fine poem will please you—and sell. You'll ne'er lack a friend if you ne'er lack a dime; May you never grow old till the end of Old Time; May you never be cursed with an itching for rhyme; For in spite of your physic, in spite of your plaster, The rash will break out till you go to disaster— Which you plainly can see is the case with my Muse, For she scratches away though she's said her adieus. Dear Ladies, though last to receive my oblation, And last in the list of Mosaic creation, The last is the best, and the last shall be first. Through Eve, sayeth Moses, old Adam was cursed; But I cannot agree with you, Moses, that Adam Sinned and fell through the gentle persuasion of madam. The victim, no doubt, of Egyptian flirtation, You mistook your chagrin for divine inspiration, And condemned all the sex without proof or probation, As we rhymsters mistake the moonbeams that elate us For flashes of wit or the holy afflatus, And imagine we hear the applause of a nation,— But all honest men who are married and blest Will agree that the last work of God is the best. And now to you all—whether married or single— Whether sheltered by slate, or by "shake," or by shingle— God bless you with peace and with bountiful cheer, Happy houses, happy hearts—and a happy New Year! P.S.—If you wish all these blessings, 'tis clear You should send in your "stamps" for the old Pioneer.

Where is the minstrel's Father-land? Where the sparks of noble spirits flew, Where flowery wreaths for beauty grew, Where strong hearts glowed so glad and true For all things sacred, good and grand: There was my Father-land. How named the minstrel's Father-land? O'er slaughtered son—'neath tyrants' yokes, She weepeth now—and foreign strokes; They called her once the Land of Oaks— Land of the Free—the German Land: Thus was called my Father-land. Why weeps the minstrel's Father-land? Because while tyrant's tempest hailed The people's chosen princes quailed, And all their sacred pledges failed; Because she could no ear command, Alas must weep my Father-land. Whom calls the minstrel's Father-land? She calls on heaven with wild alarm— With desperation's thunder-storm— On Liberty to bare her arm, On Retribution's vengeful hand: On these she calls—my Father-land. What would the minstrel's Father-land? She would strike the base slaves to the ground Chase from her soil the tyrant hound, And free her sons in shackles bound, Or lay them free beneath her sand: That would my Father-land. And hopes the minstrel's Father-land? She hopes for holy Freedom's sake, Hopes that her true sons will awake, Hopes that just God will vengeance take, And ne'er mistakes the Avenger's hand: Thereon relies my Father-land.

My heart's on the Rhine—in the old Father-land; Where my cradle was rocked by a dear mother's hand, My youth and my friends—they are there yet, I know, And my love dreams of me with her cheeks all aglow; O there where I reveled in song and in wine! Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine. I hail thee, thou broad-breasted, golden-green stream; Ye cities and churches and castles that gleam; Ye grain-fields of gold in the valley so blue; Ye vineyards that glow in the sun-shimmered dew; Ye forests and caverns and cliffs that were mine! Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine. I hail thee, O life of the soul-stirring song, Of waltz and of wine, with a yearning so strong, Hail, ye stout race of heroes, so brave and so true. Ye blue-eyed, gay maidens, a greeting to you! Your life and your aims and your efforts be mine; Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine. My heart's on the Rhine—in the old Father-land, Where my cradle was rocked by a dear mother's hand; My youth and my friends—they are there yet, I know, And my love dreams of me with her cheeks all aglow: Be thou ever the same to me, Land of the Vine! Wherever I wander my heart's on the Rhine.