BARBARA FRITCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.

On that pleasant morn of the early fall,
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Forty flags with their silver stars
Flapped in the morning wind, the sun
Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town;

She took up the flag the men hauled down ;

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead ;

Under his slouched hat, left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!" The dust brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire!" out blazed the rifle blast.

It shivered the window pane and sash,
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out of the window sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot if you must, this old grey head.
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life, at that woman's deed and word.

DROUGH der streets of Frederickdown,
Wid der red hot sun shining down,
Past der saloons filled mit beer,
Dem repel fellers valked on der ear.

All day drough Frederickdown so fasd,
Hosses foot and sodgers past,

Und der repel flag skimming ond so pright,
You vould dink py jiminy id had a ridght.

Off der mony flags dot flapped in der morning vind
Nary a vone could enybody find,

Ub shumbed old Miss Frietchie den,

Who vos pent down py nine score years und den.

She took der flag der men hauled down,

Und stuck id fasd on her nighd-gown,

Un pud id in der vindow vere all could see

Dot dere vas vone who did lofe dot goot old flag so free.

Yust den ub come Stonewall Jack,

Riden on his hosses' pack,

Under his prows he squinted his eyes,

By golly de olt flag make him much surprise.

"Halt! ""
vell efery man stood him sdill,
"Fire! ་་
vas echoed from hill to hill;
Id broke her strings of dot nighd-gown,
Put olt Babra she vas round.

She freezed on dot olt flag right quick,
Und oud of der vindow her head did stick:

66

Scoot, of you must, dis old cray head,
Put spare dot country's flag!" she said.

A look of shameness soon came o'er
Der face of Jack, und der tears did pour;
"Who pulls ond a hair of dot pald head,
Dies like a monkey !-skip along," he said.

All dot day und all dot night,

Undil efery repel vas knocked oud of sight,

(A Ballad of New England life.)
WHERE the Moosatockmaguntic
Pours its waters in the Skuntic,
Met, along the forest-side,
Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.
She, a maiden fair and dapper,
He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,

Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk,
In the woodlands of Squeedunk.
She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,
Walked beside the Skuntic water,

Gathering, in her apron wet,

Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet. "Why," he murmured, loth to leave her, "Gather yarbs for chills and fever,

66

When a lovyer, bold and true,
Only waits to gather you?"

'Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty; I prefer a man more tasty :

Leastways, one to please me well
Should not have a beasty smell."

'Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered; "Mind and heart alike are cancered :

Jest look here! these peltries give
Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

"I, you think, am but a vagrant,
Trapping beasts by no means fragrant:
Yet-I'm sure it's worth a thank-
I've a handsome sum in bank."
Turned and vanished Hiram Hover;
And, before the year was over,

Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,
Bought a cape, against the cold.
Black and thick the furry cape was ;
Of a stylish cut the shape was;

And the girls, in all the town, Envied Huldah up and down. Then, at last, one winter morning, Hiram came, without a warning:

66 Either," said he, " you are blind, Huldah, or you've changed your mind.

"Me you snub for trapping varmints, Yet you take the skins for garments:

Since you wear the skunk and mink, There's no harm in me, I think." "Well," said she, "we will not quarrel, "Hiram : I accept the moral.

Now the fashion's so, I guess
I can't hardly do no less."

Thus the trouble all was over
Of the love of Hiram Hover;

Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde
Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favour,
Things of good and evil savour ;

That, which first appeared to part,
Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.

Under one impartial banner,

Life, the hunter, Love, the tanner,

Draw, from every beast they snare,
Comfort for a wedded pair!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

This is an imitation of the style of some of Whittier's delightful ballads, only substituting a comical for an earnest motive. Change that motive, and a few expressions, and it would become a serious poem.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

ALL OR NOTHING.

WHOSO answers my questions
Knoweth more than me;
Hunger is but knowledge
In a less degree :
Prophet, priest and poet
Oft prevaricate,

And the surest sentence
Hath the greatest weight.
When upon my gaiters
Drops the morning dew,
Somewhat of Life's riddle
Soaks my spirit through.

I am buskined by the goddess
Of Monadnock's crest,
And my wings extended
Touch the East and West.

Or ever coal was hardened
In the cells of earth,
Or flowed the founts of Bourbon,
Lo! I had my birth.

I am crowned coeval

With the Saurian eggs, And my fancy firmly

Stands on its own legs.

Wouldst thou know the secret
Of the barberry-bush,
Catch the slippery whistle
Of the moulting thrush,
Dance upon the mushrooms,
Dive beneath the sea,
Or anything else remarkable,
Thou must follow me!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor. This is a fair imitation of some of Emerson's early poems. "Brahma" is, however, the most frequently parodied, although no parody approaches the mystery of the original.

BRAHMA.

If the red slayer thinks he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain. They know well the subtle ways

I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanquished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred seven ;
But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

An exclamation to the tortoise-shell cat which sings so diabolically under my window by night.

If the grey tom cat think he sing

Or if the song think it be sung,

They know not who would boot-jacks fling,-
How many bricks at him I've flung!

When comes the night, to me he's near,
Rainy or shiny, all the same,

He on the roof will still appear

And caterwaul his tom-cat flame.

They reckon ill who bolt him out,
For like a bird with mighty wings
He'll perch upon the water-spout,

And twice as loud the tom-cat sing.

And a sorter radiant halo
Gleamed brightly round his nob.
I can't swear to all this for certain,
And it do seem a queerish start;

But I won't set by and hear none o' you say

Bob hadn't a tender heart!

This admirable parody was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, Editor of Judy. In the first volume of this Collection it was erroneously styled a parody of Bret Harte.

:0:

THE MYSTERY OF GILGAL.

THE darkest, strangest mystery

I ever read, or heern, or see,

Is 'long of a drink at Taggart's Hall-
Tom Taggart's, of Gilgal.

I've heern the tale a thousand ways,
But never could git through the maze
That hangs around that queer day's doin's :
But I'll tell the yarn to you-uns.

Tom Taggart stood behind his bar;
The time was fall, the skies was far ;
The neighbours round the counter drawed,
And ca'mly drinked and jawed.

At last come Colonel Blood, of Pike,
And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus-like;
And each, as he meandered in,

Remarked "A whiskey-skin."

Tom mixed the beverage full and far,
And slammed it, smoking on the bar,
Some says three fingers, some says two,—
I'll leave the choice to you.

Phinn to the drink put forth his hand;
Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland,
"I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn-

Jest drap that whiskey skin."

No man high-toneder could be found
Than old Jedge Phinn the country round.
Says he, "Young man, the tribe of Phinns
Knows their own whisky-skins!"

He went for his 'leven-inch bowie knife :-
"I tries to foller a Christian life;
But I'll drap a slice of liver or two
My bloomin' shrub with you."
They carved in a way that all admired,—
Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired.
It took Seth Bludso 'twixt the eyes,

Which caused him great surprise.

Then coats went off, and all went in;
Shots and bad language swelled the din ;
The short, sharp bark of Derringers,

Like bull-pups, cheered the furse.
They piled the stiffs outside the door,
They made, I reckon, a cord or more.
Girls went that winter, as a rule,
Alone to spellin' school.

I've sarched in vain, from Dan to Beer-
Sheba, to make this mystery clear;
But I end with hit as I did begin,-
WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN?

JOHN HAY.

BIG BILL.

THERE'S them that eats till they're bustin',
And them that drinks till they're blind,
And them that snuffin' and spooney,
But the best of all to my mind,

(And I've been around in my time, boys,
And cavorted with any you like),
Was Big Bill, that lived in the slashes,
We called him Big Bill o' Pike.

If he put his hand to his bowie

Or scratched the scruff of his neck, You could only tell by waitin'

To see if you bled a peck: And the way he fired 'twas lovely! Nobody knowed which was dead, Till Big Bill grinned, and the stiff'un Tumbled over onto his head!

At school he killed his master;

Courtin', he killed seven more:
And the hearse was alway a-waitin'
A little ways from his door.

There wasn't much growth in the country,
As the census returns will show,
But we had Big Bill we was proud of,
And that was enough to grow.

And now Big Bill is an angel,

Damn me, it makes me cry!

Jist when he was rampin' the roughest, The poor fellow had to die.

A thievin' and sneakin' Yankee

Got the start on our blessed Bill, And there's no one to do our killin'

And nobody left to kill!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

James Russell Lowell.

In the great American Civil War Mr. J. S. Lowell was a warm partisan of the Northern cause, and his most popular poems, The Biglow Papers, were written in favour of the emancipation of the slaves, and the suppression of the Southern, or Confederate States. The Biglow Papers have been principally parodied, in this country, by the Liberal newspapers, and of these only a few examples are sufficiently good to bear quoting.

THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED.

I DU believe in Freedom's cause,

Ez fur away ez Paris is;

I love to see her stick her claws

In them infarnal Pharisees,

It's wal enough agin a king

To dror resolves an' triggers,

But libbaty's a kind o' thing

That don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want
A tax on teas an' coffees,
Thet nothin' aint extravygunt-
Purvidin' I'm in office;

Fer I hev loved my country sence

My eye-teeth filled their sockets An' Uncle Sam* I reverence, Partic❜larly his pockets.

I du believe in any plan
O' levyin' the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jest what I axes;

I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,
Because it kind o' rouses
The folks to vote-an' keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses,

I du believe it's wise an' good
To sen' out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An' orthydox conditions ;—

I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.
Nine thousan' more fer outfit,
An' me to recommend a man
The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways
O' prayin' an' convartin';

The bread comes back in many days
An' buttered, tu, fer sartin ;-
I mean in preyin' till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An' in convartin' public trusts
To very privit uses.

I du believe hard coin the stuff
For 'lectioneers to spout on;
The people's ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An gives a good-sized junk to all-
I don't care how hard money is,
Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press's Freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An' in the traces lead 'em ;
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin',
An' withered be the nose thet pokes
Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give
Wut's his'n unto Cæsar,
For its by him I move an' live,
Frum him my bread an' cheese air;

I du believe thet all o' me
Doth bear his souperscription-
Will, conscience, honor, honesty,
An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise
To him thet hez the grantin'
O' jobs-in every thin' thet pays.
But most of all in CANTIN';

*Uncle Sam. The people of the United States use this term of themselves, in the same way that Britons speak of " John Bull."