The Yankees took her passengers, and put them on their ship,

And swore that base secession could not give them the slip;

But England says she'll have them, if Washington must fall,

So Lincoln and his "nigger craft" must certainly

feel small.

Of all the "Yankee notions" that ever had their

birth,

The one of searching neutrals affords the greatest mirth

To the Southrons; but the Yankees will ever hate

the fame

Which gave to Wilkes and Fairfax their neverdying name.

Throughout the North their Captain Wilkes received his meed of praise,

For doing in these civilized—the deeds of darker

days;

But England's guns will thunder along the Yankee

coast,

And show the abolitionists too soon they made their boast.

Then while Old England's cannon are booming on

the sea,

Our Johnson, Smith, and Beauregard, dear Maryland will free,

And Johnston in Kentucky will whip the Yankees

too,

And start them to the lively tune of "Yankee-doodle-doo."

Then down at Pensacola, where the game is always 66 Bragg,"

The "Stars and Stripes" will be pulled down, and in the dust be dragged;

For Pickens can't withstand us when Braxton is

the cry,

And there you'll see the Yankees, with their usual speed, will fly.

On the coast of Dixie's kingdom there are batteries made by Lee,

And covered up with cotton, which the Yankees want to see;

But when they go to take it, they'll find it will not

do,

And start upon the "double-quick” to “ Yankeedoodle-doo."

Then Evans and his cavalry will follow in their

track,

And drive them in the Atlantic, or safely bring them back,

And hold them till Abe Lincoln and all his North

ern scum

Shall own our independence of "Yankee Doodledom."

-Richmond Dispatch.

A KONGRATELATERY POME.

To them two wuthless old traitors, Mr. Mason and Mr. Slidellimitated from a piece writ by some pesky smart feller a spell

ago,

about ketchin' the two sarpents.

WELL, you've got there, Messrs. Judas!

Reached at last yer longed-for bourne;

Glad to see yer folks, I reckon!

Slidell, how's that gal o' yourn

?

'Pears to me 'taint much to brag on,
Arter what you've both bin threw,
Meetin' such a cool reception-
Say, now-an't yer sumthin' bleu ?

Arter all the fuss and bluster,
Arter bein' pestered so,
Trainin' round inside a prison

Till yer told to pack and go;

Don't yer feel, now, kind o' sheepish?
An't yer 'shamed almost to death?
An't yer, now, as two big humbugs

As the Mairmaid and Joice Heth?

S'pose yer thought that, long 'fore this time,
With yer blusterin' ways and talk,
John Bull 'd got his clutches 'round us,
And 'd made the eagle squawk.
My! how lucky 'twas we grabbed yer!
C'lumby would bin nowhere now;
We'd 'a bin a pack o' wagrants,
Glad to live most anyhow.

Seems the Times warn't glad to see yer—
Says they knowed the rogues afore-
Sez they're comin' jest a purpus
For a row, and nothin' more.
They an't wurth a mite o' notice,
Comin' here to make a name—
Sez if they'd a bin two darkies,
They'd a kicked up jest the same.

Glad the Times has got some reason—
They've been hectorin' long enuf;
Guess they'll find, afore its over,
Yankees have got pluck and stuff;

Guess they'll think, from them great victories

Donelson and Roanoke,

And Kentucky and Missouri-

That rebellion's back is broke.

But you've got there—arter fashion—
Now, what air yer goin' to deu ?
Goin' to coax the British lion

For to poke his claws right threw ?
Don't now, Messrs. S. and Mason!
P'r'aps 'twill hurt us-Oh! now don't!
P'r'aps we'll recognize the rebels-
Then, again, perhaps we won't!

S'pose yer think that, now yer got there,
Every thing 'll go fust-rate;
Ef yer wait till England helps yer,
Kind o' think ye'll have to wait.

I'll be whipped ef I believe it,
And I raly think it's treu

That they wouldn't come to lick us,
Ef the queen did tell 'em to.

J. M.