Ballads | Page 9

last campaign;
God's ways are not as
our ways,
And I will not complain.
"There's one at home, dear Charlie,
Will mourn for me when dead,

Whose heart--it is a mother's--
Can scarce be comforted.
You'll
write and tell her, Charlie,
With my dear love, that I
Fought bravely
as a soldier should,
And died as he should die.
"And you will tell her, Charlie,
She must not grieve too much,
Our
country claims our young lives,
For she has need of such.
And
where is he would falter,
Or turn ignobly back,
When Duty's voice
cries 'Forward,'
And Honor lights the track ?
"And there's another, Charlie
(His voice became more low),
When
thoughts of HER come o'er me,
It makes it hard to go.
This locket
in my bosom,
She gave me just before
I left my native village
For
the fearful scenes of war.
"Give her this message, Charlie,
Sent with my dying breath,
To her
and to my banner
I'm 'faithful unto death.'
And if, in that far country

Which I am going to,
Our earthly ties may enter,
I'll there my
love renew.

"Come nearer, closer, Charlie,
My head I fain would rest,
It must be
for the last time,
Upon your faithful breast.
Dear friend, I cannot tell
you
How in my heart I feel
The depth of your devotion,
Your
friendship strong as steel.
"We've watched and camped together
In sunshine and in rain;

We've shared the toils and perils
Of more than one campaign;
And
when my tired feet faltered,
Beneath the noontide heat,
Your words
sustained my courage,
Gave new strength to my feet.
"And once,-- 'twas at Antietam,--
Pressed hard by thronging foes,
I
almost sank exhausted
Beneath their cruel blows,--
When you, dear
friend, undaunted,
With headlong courage threw
Your heart into the
contest,
And safely brought me through.
"My words are weak, dear Charlie,
My breath is growing scant;

Your hand upon my heart there,
Can you not hear me pant?
Your
thoughts I know will wander
Sometimes to where I lie--
How dark
it grows! True comrade
And faithful friend, good-by!"
A moment, and he lay there
A statue, pale and calm.
His youthful
head reclining
Upon his comrade's arm.
His limbs upon the
greensward
Were stretched in careless grace,
And by the fitful
moon was seen
A smile upon his face.
SONG OF THE CROAKER. *
0. Written by request for the Philadelphia Sanitary Fair.
An old frog lived in a dismal swamp,
In a dismal kind of way;
And
all that he did, whatever befell,
Was to croak the livelong day.


Croak, croak, croak,
When darkness filled the air,
And croak, croak,
croak,
When the skies were bright and fair.
"Good Master Frog, a battle is fought,
And the foeman's power is
broke."
But he only turned a greener hue,
And answered with a

croak.
Croak, croak, croak,
When the clouds are dark and dun,

And croak, croak, croak,
In the blaze of the noontide sun.
"Good Master Frog, the forces of right
Are driving the hosts of
wrong."
But he gave his head an ominous shake,
And croaked out,
"Nous verrons!"
Croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,

And croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.
To poison the cup of life,
By always dreading the worst.
Is to make
of the earth a dungeon damp,
And the happiest life accursed.
Croak,
croak, croak,
When the noontide sun rides high,
And croak, croak,
croak,
Lest the night come by and by.
Farewell to the dismal frog;
Let him croak as loud as he may,
He
cannot blot the sun from heaven,
Nor hinder the march of day,

Though he croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,
And
croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.
KING COTTON.
KING COTTON looks from his window
Towards the westering sun,

And he marks, with an anguished horror,
That his race is almost
run.
His form is thin and shrunken;
His cheek is pale and wan;
And the
lines of care on his furrowed brow
Are dread to look upon.
But yesterday a monarch,
In the flush of his pomp and pride,
And,
not content with his own broad lands,
He would rule the world
beside.
He built him a stately palace,
With gold from beyond the sea;
And
he laid with care the corner-stone,
And he called it Slavery:
He summoned an army with banners,
To keep his foes at bay;
And,

gazing with pride on his palace walls,
He said, "They will stand for
aye!"
But the palace walls are shrunken,
And partly overthrown,
And the
storms of war, in their violence,
Have loosened the corner-stone.
Now Famine stalks through the palace halls,
With her gaunt and
pallid train;
You can hear the cries of famished men,
As they cry
for bread in vain.
The king can see, from his palace walls.
A land by his pride betrayed;

Thousands of mothers and wives bereft.
Thousands of graves
new-made.
And he seems to see, in the lowering sky,
The shape of a flaming
sword;
Whereon he reads, with a sinking heart,
The anger of the
Lord.
God speed the time when the guilty king
Shall be hurled from his
blood-stained throne;
And the palace of Wrong shall crumble to dust,

With its boasted corner-stone.
A temple of Freedom shall rise instead,
On the desecrated site:
And
within its shelter alike shall stand
The black man and the white.
OUT OF EGYPT.
To Egypt's king, who ruled beside
The reedy river's flow,
Came
God's command,