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An Amber glint,
A frosted veil,
And a wail
Two lowered eyes;
Two parched lips
A-joy there slips
It lingers there
In sweet repose,
Withdraws its nose
The soul returns,
The glint is gone,
Is quite undone—
A moisten'd eye,
John A. Moroso. New York City.
TO JOE SWEENEY
Appomattox County, Va., Befo'-the-war Makes And Master Of A Famous Musical Instrument.
Its ter-rumpity, umpity, umpi-tum tum,
And they say that as music it's all on the bum,
But if anyone hand you
A tune from the banjo
To your head it will fly,
Your toes, too, you'll ply,
Without airs that are proud,
It will whoop up the crowd—
Edwin A. Herndon. Lynchburg.
To fair Virginia's purple peaks,
Her wave-washed shores and limpid creeks,
We raise on high our glass of cheer
In homage to our State most dear.
Her Sons of past and present fame,
But deeper still we drink the toast
To those who are the Southman's boast!
Our mothers true, who gave our lives:
Our Mothers, Daughters, Sweethearts, Wives!
Lily Tyler. East Radford, Virginia.
TO THE OLD BLACK MAMMY
When we came into the mysteries of life she took us in her arms, coddled and cared for our every need, and through years of alternity day and night, with a self-effacement and docile, loyal love the world will never know again, she helped her "little lamhs" to grow familiar with the bonds and walls and limitations of a life.
She endured our flashes of temper with the fidelity with which a dog creeps back to lick the master's boot, and so in sun and shade through all the changes of our earthly life, she served and worshipped, swathed us for life, and shrouded for the tomb,
The First At The Cradle, The Last To Leave The Grave. God bless her!
Lily Patton Kearsley. East Radford, Virginia.