Chapter 19

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_[CU] 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_[CV]--'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,

[CU] The Juggler.

[CV] Horns of the Devil!--equivalent to the exclamation--The Devil!

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_.

* * * * *

MY FATHER-LAND

[From the German of Theodor Korner.]

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

[From the German of Wolfgang Muller.]

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.

THE MINSTREL

[From the German of Goethe]

[_Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship, Book 2, Chap. 2._]

"What hear I at the gateway ringing? What bard upon the drawbridge singing? Go bid him to repeat his song Here, in the hall amid the throng," The monarch cried; The little page hied; As back he sped, The monarch said-- "Bring in the gray-haired minstrel."

"I greet you, noble lords and peers; I greet you, lovely dames. O heaven begemmed with golden spheres! Who knows your noble names? In hall of splendor so sublime, Close ye, mine eyes--'tis not the time To gaze in idle wonder."

The gray-haired minstrel closed his eyes; He struck his wildest air; Brave faces glowed like sunset skies; Cast down their eyes the fair. The king well pleased with the minstrel's song, Sent the little page through the wondering throng A chain of gold to bear him.

"O give not me the chain of gold; Award it to thy braves, Before whose faces fierce and bold Quail foes when battle raves; Or give it thy chancellor of state, And let him wear its golden weight With his official burdens.

"I sing, I sing as the wild birds sing That in the forest dwell; The songs that from my bosom spring Alone reward me well: But may I ask that page of thine To bring me one good cup of wine In golden goblet sparkling?"

He took the cup; he drank it all: "O soothing nectar thine! Thrice bless'd the highly favored hall Where flows such glorious wine: If thou farest well, then think of me, And thank thy God, as I thank thee For this inspiring goblet."

HOPE

[From the German of Schiller.]

Men talk and dream of better days-- Of a golden time to come; Toward a happy and shining goal They run with a ceaseless hum. The world grows old and grows young again, Still hope of the better is bright to men.

Hope leads us in at the gate of life; She crowns the boyish head; Her bright lamp lures the stalwart youth, Nor burns out with the gray-haired dead; For the grave closes over his trouble and care, But see--on the grave--Hope is planted there!

'Tis not an empty and flattering deceit, Begot in a foolish brain; For the heart speaks loud with its ceaseless throbs, "We are not born in vain"; And the words that out of the heart-throbs roll, They cannot deceive the hoping soul.

MRS. MCNAIR

_Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem.--Horace._

Mrs. McNair Was tall and fair; Mrs. McNair was slim; She had flashing black eyes and raven hair; But a very remarkably modest air; And her only care was for Mr. McNair; She was exceedingly fond of him.

He sold "notions" and lace With wonderful grace, And kept everything neatly displayed in its place: The red, curly hair on his head and his face He always persisted Should be oiled and twisted; He was the sleekest young husband that ever existed.

Precisely at four He would leave his store; And Mr. McNair with his modest bride Seated snugly and lovingly by his side, On the rural Broadway, Every pleasant day, In his spick-span carriage would rattle away.

Though it must be allowed The lady was proud, She'd have no maid about her the dear lady vowed: So for Mr. McNair The wear and the fare She made it a care of her own to prepare. I think I may guess, being married myself, That the cause was not solely the saving of pelf.

As for her, I'll declare, Though raven her hair, Though her eyes were so dark and her body so slim, She hadn't a thought for a man but him.

From three to nine, Invited to dine, Oft met at the house of the pair divine: Her husband--and who, by the way, was well able-- Did all the "agreeable" done at the table; While she--most remarkably loving bride-- Sat snugly and modestly down by his side. And when they went out It was whispered about, "She's the lovingest wife in the town beyond doubt;" And every one swore, from pastor to clown, They were the most affectionate couple in town.

Yes; Mrs McNair Was modest and fair; She never fell into a pout or a fret; And Mr. McNair Was her only care And indeed her only pet. The few short hours he spent at his store She spent sewing or reading the romancers' lore; And whoever came It was always the same With the modest lady that opened the door.

But there came to town One Captain Brown To spend a month or more. Now this same Captain Brown Was a man of renown, And a dashing blue coat he wore; And a bright, brass star. And a visible scar On his brow--that he said he had got in the war As he led the van: (He never ran!) In short, he was the "General's" right-hand man, And had written his name on the pages of fame. He was smooth as an eel, And rode so genteel That in less than a week every old maid and dame Was constantly lisping the bold Captain's name.

Now Mr. McNair, As well as the fair, Had a "bump of reverence" as big as a pear, And whoever like Brown Had a little renown, And happened to visit that rural town, Was invited of course by McNair--to "go down."

So merely by chance, The son of the lance Became the bold hero of quite a romance: For Mrs. McNair thought him wonderful fair, And that none but her husband could with him compare. Half her timidity vanished in air The first time he dined with herself and McNair. Now the Captain was arch In whiskers and starch And preferred, now and then, a gay waltz to a march. A man, too, he was of uncommon good taste; Always "at home" and never in haste, And his manners and speech were remarkably chaste. To tell you in short His daily resort He made at the house of "his good friend McNair," Who ('twas really too bad) was so frequently out When the Captain called in "just to see _him_" (no doubt) But Mrs. McNair was so lonely--too bad; So he chatted and chattered and made her look glad. And many a view Of his coat of blue, All studded with buttons gilt, spangled and new, The dear lady took Half askance from her book, As she modestly sat in the opposite nook. Familiarly he And modestly she Talked nonsense and sense so strangely commingled, That the dear lady's heart was delighted and tingled. A man of sobriety Renown and variety It could not be wrong to enjoy his society: O was it a sin For him to "drop in," And sometimes to pat her in sport on the chin?

Dear Ladies, beware; Dear Ladies, take care-- How you play with a lion asleep in his lair: "Mere trifling flirtations"--these arts you employ? Flirtations once led to the siege of old Troy; And a woman was in For the sorrow and sin And slaughter that fell when the Greeks tumbled in; Nor is there a doubt, my dears, under the sun, But they've led to the sack of more cities than one. I would we were all As pure as Saint Paul That we touched not the goblet whose lees are but gall; But if so we must know where a flirtation leads; Beware of the fair and look out for our heads. Remember the odious, Frail woman, Herodias Sent old Baptist John to a place incommodious, And prevailed on her husband to cut off his head For an indiscreet thing the old Nazarite said.

Day in and day out The blue coat was about; And the dear little lady was glad when he came And began to be talkative, tender and tame. Then he gave her a ring, begged a curl of her hair, And smilingly whispered her--"don't tell McNair." She dropped her dark eyes And with two little sighs Sent the bold Captain's heart fluttering up to the skies.

Then alas-- What a pass! He fell at the feet of the lady so sweet, And swore that he loved her beyond his control-- With all his humanity--body and soul! The lady so frail Turned suddenly pale, Then--sighed that his love was of little avail; For alas, the dear Captain--he must have forgot-- She was tied to McNair with a conjugal knot. But indeed She agreed-- Were she only a maid he alone could succeed; But she prayed him by all that is sacred and fair, Not to rouse the suspicion of Mr. McNair.

'Twas really too bad, For the lady was sad: And a terrible night o't the poor lady had, While Mr. McNair wondered what was the matter, And endeavored to coax, to console and to flatter. Many tears she shed That night while in bed For she had such a terrible pain in her head! "My dear little pet, where's the camphor?" he said; "I'll go for the doctor--you'll have to be bled; I declare, my dear wife, you are just about dead."

"O no, my dear; I pray you don't fear, Though the pain, I'll admit, is exceeding severe. I know what it is--I have had it before-- It's only neuralgia: please go to the store And bring me a bottle of 'Davis's Pain- Killer,' and I shall be better again." He sprang out of bed And away he sped In his gown for the cordial to cure her head, Not dreaming that Cupid had played her a trick-- The blind little rogue with a sharpened stick. I confess on my knees I have had the disease; It is worse than the bites of a thousand fleas; And the only cure I have found for these ills Is a double dose of "Purgative Pills." He rubbed her head-- And eased it, she said; And he shrugged and shivered and got into bed. He slept and he snored, but the poor lady's pain, When her lord slept soundly, came on again. It wore away However by day And when Brown called again she was smiling and gay; But alas, he must say--to the lady's dismay-- In the town of his heart he had staid out his stay, And must leave for his regiment with little delay.

Now Mrs. McNair Was tall and fair, Mrs. McNair was slim, But the like of Brown was so wonderful rare That she could not part with him. Indeed you can see it was truly a pity, For her husband was just going down to the city, And Captain Brown-- The man of renown-- Could console her indeed were he only in town. So McNair to the city the next Monday hied, And left bold Captain Brown with his modest young bride.

As the serpent did Eve Most sorely deceive-- Causing old father Adam to sorrow and grieve, And us, his frail children, tho' punished and chidden, To hanker for things that are sweet but forbidden-- The Captain so fair, With his genius so rare, Wound the web of enchantment round Mrs. McNair; And alas, fickle Helen, ere three days were over, She had sworn to elope with her brass-buttoned lover. Like Helen, the Greek, She was modest and meek, And as fair as a rose, but a trifle too weak. When a maid she had suitors as proud as Ulysses, But she ne'er bent her neck to their arms or their kisses, Till McNair he came in With a brush on his chin-- It was love at first sight--but a trifle too thin; For, married, the dreams of her girlhood fell short all, And she found that her husband was only a mortal.

Dear ladies, betray us-- Fast and loose play us-- We'll follow you still like bereaved Menelaus, Till the little blind god with his cruel shafts slay us. Cold-blooded as I am, If a son of old Priam Should break the Mosaic commands and defy 'em, And elope with my "pet," and moreover my riches, I would follow the rogue if I went upon crutches To the plains of old Troy without jacket or breeches. But then I'm so funny If he'd give up the money, He might go to the dogs with himself and his "Honey."

The lovers agreed That the hazardous deed Should be done in the dark and with very great speed, For Mr. McNair--when the fellow came back-- Might go crazy and foolishly follow their track. So at midnight should wait At her garden-gate A carriage to carry the dear, precious freight Of Mrs. McNair who should meet Captain Brown At the Globe Hotel in a neighboring town. A man should be hired To convey the admired. And keep mum as a mouse, and do what was desired.

Wearily, wearily half the night The lady watched away; At times in a spirit of sadness quite, But fully resolved on her amorous flight, She longed to be under way; Yet with sad heaving heart and a tear, I declare, As she sorrowfully thought of poor Mr. McNair.

"Poor fellow," she sighed, "I wish he had died Last spring when he had his complaint in the side For I know--I am sure--it will terribly grieve him To have me elope with the Captain and leave him. But the Captain--dear me! I hardly can see Why I love the brave Captain to such a degree: But see--there's the carriage, I vow, at the gate! I must go--'tis the law of inveterate fate." So a parting look At her home she took, While a terrible conflict her timid soul shook; Then turned to the carriage heart-stricken and sore, Stepped hastily in and closed up the door. "Crack!" went the whip; She bit her white lip, And away she flew on her desperate trip. She thought of dear Brown; and poor Mr. McNair-- She knew he would hang himself straight in despair.

She sighed And she cried All during the ride, And endeavored--alas, but she could not decide. Three times she prayed; Three times she essayed To call to the driver for pity and aid-- To drive her straight To her garden-gate, And break the spell of her terrible fate. But her tongue was tied-- She couldn't decide, And she only moaned at a wonderful rate.

No mortal can tell "What might have befell," Had it been a mile more to the Globe Hotel; But as they approached it she broke from her spell. A single hair For Mr. McNair She vowed to herself that she did not care; But the Captain so true In his coat of blue-- To his loving arms in her fancy she flew. In a moment or more They drove up to the door, And she felt that her trials and troubles were o'er. The landlord came hastily out in his slippers, For late he had sat with some smokers and sippers. As the lady stepped down With a fret and a frown, She sighed half aloud, "Where is dear Captain Brown?" "This way, my dear madam," politely he said, And straightway to the parlor the lady he led.

Now the light was dim Where she followed him, And the dingy old parlor looked gloomy and grim. As she entered, behold, in contemplative mood, In the farther corner the bold Captain stood In his coat of blue: To his arms she flew; She buried her face in his bosom so true: "Dear Captain!--my Darling!" sighed Mrs. McNair; Then she raised her dark eyes and--Good Heavens' I declare!--- Instead of the Captain 'twas--_Mr. McNair!_ She threw up her arms--she screamed--and she fainted; Such a scene!--Ah the like of it never was painted.

Of repentance and pardon I need not tell; Her vows I will not relate, For every man must guess them well Who knows much of the "married state." Of the sad mischance suffice it to say That McNair had suspected the Captain's "foul play;" So he laid a snare For the bold and the fair, But he captured, alas, only Mrs. McNair; And the brass-buttoned lover--bold Captain Brown-- Was nevermore seen in that rural town.

Mrs. McNair Is tall and fair; Mrs. McNair is slim; And her husband again is her only care-- She is wonderfully fond of him; For now he is all the dear lady can wish--he Is a captain himself--in the State militia.

1859.

THE DRAFT

[January, 1865.]

Old Father Abe has issued his "Call" For Three Hundred Thousand more! By Jupiter, boys, he is after you all-- Lamed and maimed--tall and small-- With his drag-net spread for a general haul Of the "suckers" uncaught before.