If in the sight of God it's right,
We're ready to take a hand.

For when a nation doth profess
To be of Christian race,

And act as Spain has lately done,

It is a sad disgrace.

And now we ask what should be done

With such a class of men?

We've got to bring them down to terms,
Or whip them if we can.

We've borne more base insults from Spain,
Than any other nation;

And now we think it's time for them

To change their calculation.

They tried their best with shot and shell
The Cubans to subdue;

With that they find they can't succeed,
And are trying something new.

Then Weyler was sent to take the lead,
He being the most treacherous man,
He thought that to starve them all to death
Would be the cheapest plan.

His orders were to drive them all

Like cattle in a yard;

And then surround them, night and day,

With military guard.

But Uncle Sam, who always has

A sympathetic heart,

Told Spain to stop such work as that,

Or he would take a part.

Hurrah for Uncle Sam! we cry,

That's what we like to hear!

Such treacherous work is quite to close
To our own hemisphere.

"Come on, brave boys," says Uncle Sam,
"You've all read my decree;

Put on your straps and shoulder arms,
For Cuba shall be free!"

TO COLUMBIA.

LOUIS S. AMONSON.

Then gird thy loins and draw thy righteous sword,
The solemn hour of vengeance is at hand;

Thus reads the mandate of the outraged Lord,
Thus roars the echo from thy anguished land.

A treacherous host has shown thee how to sup
To the wild music of thy children's groans;

Up to the brim the Spaniards fill thy cup

With blood and brains and bones that were thine own.

Swift to Havana, whose fair, wonton lips

Lulled thy brave sailors to a frightful sleep;
Launch the first blow, and hurl thy battle-ships

Like battering rams across the blood-stained deep.

Tear the foul banner from the ancient forts!
Drive the oppressors from the famished Isle!
Rain the hot lightning o'er the perjured ports,
And throttle the traitor on the smoking plie!

Duty and honor both command to go

Dreadful is war, but worse a shameful peace.

Almighty God stands back of every blow;

Strike for the Right; strike, that the Wrong may cease!

A SONG OF '98.

JENNIE R. ANDERSON.

Our eyes have seen fair Cuba with four hundred thousand slain,

We have seen our slaughtered seamen, we have seen the stricken Maine,
And the hand that wrought the ruin, was the dastard hand of Spain,
Our host is marching on.

Our Eagle, from his eyrie, sees the vulture down below,

He is sweeping from his hilltop, beak and talons toward the foe,

With the war-cry Cuba Libre! All the Dons will have to go!

Our host is marching on.

We have breathed the air of freedom and our hearts are strong and true, We will halt not till fair Cuba breathes the air of freedom, too;

See! Our glorious banner floating o'er our solid ranks of blue.

Our host is marching on.

We will bear the "stars" of freedom where the "star" of Cuba waves, Side by side we'll plant the colors, in the land of many graves,

Till a nation, free, emerges from a land of Spanish slaves;

Our host is marching on.

With the whole world's gaze upon us, we will meet the hordes of Spain, And the blood of Cuban martyrs shall no more be shed in vain,

We will rear a new republic, a memorial to the Maine,

Our host is marching on.

Chorus:

Forward! Forward! Cuba Libre!
Forward! Forward! Cuba Libre!
Forward! Forward! Cuba Libre!
Our host is marching on.

Or, Glory, glory hallelujah, etc.

AS THE SUN WENT DOWN.

WALDRON W. ANDERSON.

Two soldiers lay on the battlefield
At night when the sun went down.
One held a lock of thin gray hair

And one held a lock of brown.

One thought of the sweetheart back at home,
Happy and young and gay,

And one of his mother left alone,

Feeble and old and gray.

Each, in the thought that a woman cared,

Murmured a prayer to God,

Lifting his gaze to the blue above,

There on the battle sod.

Each in the joy of a woman's love

Smiled through the pain of death,
Murmured the sound of a woman's name,
Though with his parting breath.

Pale grew the dying lips of each,
Then, as the sun went down,
One kissed a lock of thin gray hair,
And one kissed a lock of brown.

THE PRIVATE'S SONG.

ANONYMOUS.

It's nothin' more or less than the old, old story

The private does the fighting and the general gets the glory! But away

To the fray,

For we're in it to obey

The private does the fightin' and the general draws the pay!

It's nothin' more or less than the old, old story

The private makes the harvest and the general reaps the glory!
But I say,
Boys, away!

For we're in it to obey,

And we'll climb through twenty battles to the epaulets some day!
Nothin' more or less than the old, old story-

The cap'ans an' the colonels an' the generals get the glory!
All in sight;

For we're in it for the right;

God keep the generals hearty till the bugles blow "Good night!"

SOME CONVERSATIONS.

JACK APPLETON.

Says Admiral Dewey to Commodore Schley,
"My, my,

You're devilish S(ch)l(e)y!

And as slick at you job as they make 'em;

You follow the regular plan I laid out

Smash 'em, and burn 'em and knock 'em about

And if any are left, just take 'em!"

Says Admiral Sampson, "Whew! you

Whatever

Did Cervera

Do?

Just when I was busy at another place,
Dashed out of the bottle and gave 'em a race?
Sure, I'll never forgive that Dago-man

I only got in at the death, though I ran!"

Says Lieutenant Morton: "The top of the day-
Cervera, I say!-

Your sword if you please, and that right away.
I'm sorry to trouble-don't take it amiss-
But we're makin' collections of swords like this,

And the Admiral is anxious for words with you,
Will you step in this 'Yankee' Pig's skiff-it'll do?"

Says the President: Sampson, I'm glad!

Not bad,

My lad,

For a Fourth of July celebration,

To hand a whole fleet to a nation!

'Tis rather smashed up, but it's welcome, I think, So a health to your army and navy we'll drink!"

Says Cervera to Blanco: "I tried

To hustle the Yankees aside,
But they shot and they shot,

And I'm now in their pot,

Will you send me some clothes to put on at fetes?

I may spend my vacation with friends in the State.

(Ship prepaid, for the war tax has raised express rates)."

OUR MARTYRED DEAD.

(MRS.) MALIE HENDERSON ARMSTRONG.

The sailors slept. No thought

Nor dawn of treachery, nor aught

Of cruel death disturbed their slumbers.

Such dreams come not to haunt

The pillows of the brave.

The southern moon in anguish

Hid her face behind the mantle

Of the cloud,

The black, still waters of the harbor bay

Were breathless, awed, dismayed,

For deed more foul than any yet

That had besmirched the fame of Spain

This night would shroud

Two hundred souls, with two score more and ten

Hurled to eternity, by Spanish mine,

Without one prayer.

'Twas like a Spaniard, who,

Like traitorous viper, deals