Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,

And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before

We are coming, Father Abra'am-three hundred thousand more!

SONG OF THE HOOSIERS.

WE

DEDICATED TO GOV. MORTON.

E are coming, Father Abraham, thirty thousand more,

From the prairies of the Wabash, from Ohio's vine-clad shore,

From the battle-grounds of Harrison, St. Clair and gallant Wayne,

With our Star-Spangled Banner waving gayly o'er the plain.

We are coming from the workshop, the office, and

plough,

We've turned our faces from our homes, we are our country's now;

The foeman knows our banner, and his face is blenched with fear,

As his scout repeats with quivering lips, "Indian ians are near."

Thrice twenty thousand freemen, with eagle eye and heart,

Are in the field before us, and have borne a noble

part;

And here's thirty thousand more-list the thunder of their tread,

As they come to greet the living and avenge the honored dead.

As the tempest sweeps the forest, as the lightning rends the oak,

So sweep our legions o'er the field, so falls our sabre-stroke,

With Wallace, Morris, Burnside, and impetuous Milroy,

And a hundred hero-leaders, each one a "Hoosier

boy."

Rich Mountain's side and Carrick's Ford a bloody tale can tell,

Where shell and shot and bayonet rung many a traitor's knell,

At Donelson and Shiloh resistless was the throng Of volunteers and veterans that rolled our tide

along.

Jeff Davis says we're "cowards," but another tune he'll sing,

As did his traitor legions at Pea Ridge and Mill

Spring;

At Malvern Hill and Baton Rouge and Slaughter Mountain's wood,

We threw the falsehood in their teeth, and its record drowned in blood.

We are coming, Father Abraham, the sons of glorious sires,

Who have heard Tecumseh's war-whoop and seen his midnight fires;

Who made for us the noblest land that patriot ever

trod,

And consecrated it to us, to liberty, and God.

Washington, August 24, 1862.

W. T. DENNIS.

FATHER ABRAHAM'S REPLY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SYBELLE."

WELCOME you, my gallant boys, from Maine's resounding shore,

From far New-England's granite hills I see your legions pour,

From Massachusetts' fertile vales, from old Vermont they come;

Connecticut wheels into line at the rolling of the

drum,

And little Rhody springs to arms, like David in his

might,

Upon rebellion's giant front to strike one blow for

right,

One blow for right, my hero boys, for right and Uncle Sam,

Strike, and receive the blessing of the God of Abraham.

I see from all her boundaries the glorious Empire State

A countless host is sending forth, with freemen's hopes elate;

From Delaware there comes a gleam of white and crimson bars,

Where faithful hands are holding up the banner of the stars;

New-Jersey answers to the call as if along her shore Each grain of sand had said: "We come, three hundred thousand more;

We come to strike for liberty, for right and Uncle

Sam,

Who gives us all the blessings of the God of Abraham."

And Pennsylvania, keystone of this glorious Union arch,

Is sounding through her thousand caves the thrilling order, "March!”

I see her dusky sons come forth from every darkened mine,

And, like the clouds along her hills, swift forming into line;

Their eyes have such a fiery gleam, from glowing forges caught,

Their arms such strength, as if they were of iron sinews wrought;

I think when on Secession's head they strike for Uncle Sam,

Each blow will fall like vengeance from the God of Abraham.