When into the yard the farmer goes, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray,"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Now to her task the milk-maid goes: About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, While the pleasant dews are falling ;— Soothingly calling, "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so! To supper at last the farmer goes: The apples are pared, the paper read, The housewife's hand has turn'd the lock; "Co', boss! co', boss; co'! co'! co'!" MIDWINTER. THE speckled sky is dim with snow, But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; I watch the slow flakes as they fall On turf and curb and bower-roof The hooded beehive, small and low, All day it snows: the sheeted post The sumach and the wayside thorn; And clustering spangles lodge and shine Still cheerily the chickadee But in my The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts, as soft and white GUY HUMPHREY MCMASTER. Born 1829 THE OLD CONTINENTALS. (Carmen bellicosum.) In their ragged regimentals Yielding not, While the grenadiers were lunging, Cannon-shot; When the files Of the Isles, From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn; And grummer, grummer, grummer, roll'd the roll of the drummer, Through the morn! Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder, crack'd the black gunpowder, Cracking amain! Now like smiths at their forges And the "villainous saltpetre " As the swift With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangour On our flanks; Then higher, higher, higher, burn'd the old-fashion'd fire Through the ranks! Then the bare-headed Colonel And his broadsword was swinging, Then the blue And the trooper-jackets redden'd at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roar'd the iron six-pounder, Hurling death! HENRY TIMROD. Born 1829-died 1867. CHARLESTON. CALM as that second summer which precedes In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war, And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couch'd, Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouch'd, Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim Seem each one to have caught the strength of him Thus girt without and garrison'd at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, Across her tranquil bay. |