The helpless prey of treason's lust, She thrills! her blood begins to burn, Stretch out thy thousand loyal hands, Belle Missouri ! My Missouri! Up with the loyal Stripes and Stars, Now by the crimson crest of wars, TO GENERAL G. B. McCLELLAN. I TURN from the records of deeds in the past; The heroes of old seem forgotten at lastThe bright page of knighthood attracts me no more, Though the chivalric spirit as dreamed of before, Grows real, and sheds on my country its rayWith that country alone can my thoughts rest today. Our dear native land, in the hour of its woe- But who may be second where Scott is the chief? Who so gallantly work for his country's relief? McClellan! McClellan! our hearts with a bound With thee for a leader, so faithful, so brave, Lead on, then, O youthful commander! lead on; man. With patience we'll wait, with a cheer we will dare, For why should we not, if McClellan be there? God keep thee, McClellan! God keep thee and guide; Before him the strongest are weak in their pride; But we know he may grant to the prayer of the weak, The victory that armies else vainly might seek; And so in our hearts shall be ever a prayer, While our cry shall be "Forward! McClellan is there!" -Boston Post, January, 1862. IT JONATHAN TO JOHN. A YANKEE IDYL. T don't seem hardly right, John, guess We kno it now," sez he; Thet's fit for you an' me!" Blood an't so cool as ink, John: An' stopped a spell to think, John, Arter they'd cut your throat! Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess He'd skurce ha' stopped," sez he, "To mind his p's and q's ef that weasan' Hed belonged to ole J. B., Instid o' you an' me!" Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, I on'y guess," sez he, "Thet, ef Vattel on his toes fell, Ez wall ez you an' me!" Who made the law thet hurts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, (I'm good at thet,)" sez he, "Thet sauce for goose an't jest the juice For ganders with J. B., No more than you or me!" When your rights was our wrong, John, Britanny's trident-prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Though physic's good," sez he, "It doesn't foller that he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' |