AN AMERICAN LYRIC.-TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN, WE'RE Coming, Father Abraäm, we're coming all along, But don't you think you're coming it yourself a little strong? Three hundred thousand might be called a pretty tidy figure, We've nearly sent you white enough, why don't you take the nigger? Consider, Father Abraäm, and give the thing a thought, This war has just attained four times the longitude it ought; And all the bills at Ninety Days as you have draw'd so free, Have been dishonoured, Abraäm, as punctual as could be. Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching! Till old Ireland, like Great Britain, shall be free! Chorus. Tramp! tramp! tramp! we boys are marching Cheer up the foes begin to run! See where Gladstone waves the flag, Till the Battle of the Ballot-box is won! Since we last time joined in fight But we need to waste no tears O'er these jealous mutineers, For we have our grand old leader, Gladstone, still! Tramp tramp! tramp! with him we're marching! Forward! we shall win the day! For we will not flinch nor turn 'Till with purpose grim and stern We have swept the Faper-Unionists away! (Several verses omitted.) If we Parliament divide, By our foes it is implied That a fatal risk too surely we shall run; To one Parliament make twain, If thereby we can but make two nations one. Tramp tramp! tramp! for this we're marching! Tramp tramp! Gladstone's at our head, And poor Ireland soon to be From a Paper-Union free, Shall be linked to us by heart and hand instead! Truth. July 1, 1886. 0: MY MARYLAND. This song was written in April, 1861, by Mr. James R. Randall, a native of Baltimore, and first published in The Delta, whence it was soon copied into every journal in the Southern States. It is sung to the tune of a favourite college song, entitled "Lauriger Horatius, " which itself is borrowed from a German air known as "Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum." Two young ladies, Miss H. Cary and Miss Jennie Cary, first set it to music, and sung it to the Confederate troops in their camp at Manassas. THE despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland ! His torch is at thy temple door, This iron forms no tyrant's chain, Britannia now sends not in vain, She greets her kindred o'er the main- We shout in greeting back again, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland! The Wheeling Annual for 1885, quoted this parody without any acknowledgment of the source from whence it was derived. It was written by Mr. J. G. Dalton, and published in his volume of poems entitled Lyra Bicyclica. Hodges and Co., Boston, U.S. 1885. There was another cycling parody in The Umpire for May 5, 1888, on the same original, but not so good as the above. :0: HAIL COLUMBIA! The new verses to "Hail, Columbia !" written by Oliver Wendell Holmes for the American Centenary are as follows: 1798. HAIL, Columbia ! Happy land! Home of heroes-Heaven-born band, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone Let independence be our boast, Firm-united-let us be, 1887. LOOK our ransomed shores around, Peace and safety we have found! Welcome, friends, who once were foes. While the stars of heaven shall burn, Find the Many still are One! Graven deep with edge of steel, All the world their names shall read! All the world their names shall read! Enrolled with his hosts that led, Whose blood for us-for all-was shed. Only Union's golden key Guards the Ark of Liberty! While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Hail, Columbia ! strong and free, Thy march triumphant still pursue! While the stars in heaven shall burn, EDGAR ALLAN POE. Before leaving the American Poets a few supplemental parodies of E. A. Poe may be inserted here. His works were dealt with in Volume II. of this collection (Parts 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18), but since then, May 1885, several excellent parodies of his poems have appeared, besides which a few others have come to light which had then escaped attention. Annabel Lee was printed on p. 61, Vol. II., the following are some additional parodies of it : DEBORAH LEE. 'Tis a dozen or so of years ago, Somewhere in the west countree, That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know By the name of Deborah Lee: Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, But Deborah by me. Now I was green, and she was green, And we loved as warmly as other folks,- With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdǝm But somehow it happened a long time ago, And the grim steam doctor (drat him!) came The doctor and death, old partners they The angels wanted her in Heaven (But they never asked for me), And that is the reason, I rather guess, In the aguish West countree, That the cold March wind and the doctor and death, Took off my Deborah Lee My beautiful Deborah Lee From the warm sunshine and the opening flower, And bore her away from me. Our love was as strong as a six horse team, Or possibly wiser than we; But death, with the aid of doctor and steam, He closed the peepers and silenced the breath, And her form lies cold in the prairie mould, The foot of the hunter shall press her grave, In their odorous beauty around it wave, The still bright summer hours; And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass, And the nectar-laden bee, With his dreamy hum on his gauze wings pass, She wakes no more to me; Ah! never more to me; Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, She wakes no more to me. Yet oft in the hush of the dim still night, A vision of beauty I see, Gliding soft to my bedside,-a phantom of light, Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee, My bride that was to be; And I wake to mourn that the doctor and death, And the cold March wind should stop the breath Of my darling Deborah Lee Adorable Deborah Lee That angels should want her up in Heaven, American Paper. CAMOMILE TEA. It was many and many a year ago, In a cot by the Irish sea, ANONYMOUS. |