We have taken us trophies-our swords and our

knives,

And our bullets have reaped us a harvest of lives; The cannon they boasted, of deadliest powers, Why, all of the best and the grandest are ours; They will want to rejoice o'er the victory won! And I wonder if Washington musters a gun.

We captured their knights by the hundred-they

ran,

As only an athlete or pickpocket can;

We pounced on their arms and their stores, and, in fine,

We took from them every thing, even their wine; The "champagne" and "heidsieck" to drink to our fall

And the bracelets they bought for us, handcuffs and all!

But the trophy of trophies! oh! heard you it not?
Was the one that we gained from the shoulder of
Scott.

When the Hero of Chippewa took to his heels,
His "six feet five inches" fast striding the fields,
As if Brock and his British, and the Seminole
pack,

And the Mexican's "lasso" were all on his track!

Oh! never before 'midst the deadliest blows,

Had the gallant old chief turned his back to his foes, No marvel he sped his inglorious flight

When for foes he had brethren and kinsmen in

sight!

His footsteps might well be as fleet as the wind,
Virginia! the Nemesis, followed behind!

'Tis fitting that now from his shoulder should fallThat shoulder once pierced by the enemy's ballThe token of honor-if happen it must,

This his epaulette's fame should be trailed in the dust;

'Tis just retribution it be on the soil,

His native, his own, which he sought to despoil!

M. J. P.

THE LITTLE ZOUAVE.

ONE little stocky fellow in the Fire regiment killed thirteen men in thirteen shots. He was afterward killed himself.

WAS a little Zouave, of the fireman sort,

"TWAS

His face powder-blackened, his hair shingled
short,

His brawny chest naked, his eyes flashing flame,
As over the red field of battle he came;

Then c-r-r-rack! went his gun,

On the banks of Bull Run,

And the great rebel army was lessened by one.

The batteries thundered, the cannon-balls flew, The smoke and the dust hid the soldiers from view; But whenever the cloud lifted up, you might scan The little Zouave taking aim at his man.

Then c-r-r-rack! went his gun,

On the banks of Bull Run,

And put a quietus to some rebel's fun.

The day was a scorcher, the men were athirst,
And the little Zouave often fluently cursed;
But still he pressed on among shrapnel and shell,
And each time he fired an enemy fell;
For c-r-r-rack! went his gun,

On the banks of Bull Run,

And every shot told, on the dead list, for one.

The rebels, astonished, remarked, now and then,
"Them red-legged devils fight wuss'n our men,"
For they saw that no rebel and traitor could have
One quarter the pluck of the little Zouave;
So c-r-r-rack! went his gun,

On the banks of Bull Run,

Making holes in the rascals, to let in the sun.

Still forward, bare-breasted, and spiling for fight,
The little Zouave battled well for the right;
Perhaps it was lucky he never could know
How our army received a repulse from the foe.
For c-r-r-rack! went his gun,

On the banks of Bull Run

A Minie-ball came, and the Zouave was done!

There, prone on the field of his prowess he lay,
In the last fading light of the lingering day;
The wound in his forehead was ghastly to see,
But the little Zouave had done gloriously!
And his merciless gun,

On the shores of Bull Run,

Had settled the hash of a dozen and one!

THE LONDON TIMES' COURIER.

A BALLAD-NOT BY CAMPBELL.

A HORSEMAN, from Manassas bound,

Cries: "Soldier, noble soldier!

I'll give to thee a golden pound

To 'pass' me o'er the border."

"Now, who be ye, so skeered and wild,

Would cross this guarded river!" Oh! I'm the Thunderer's fav'rite child, Most dead to reach a kiver.

"Jeff Davis' horse behind pursues, Around my rear they hover;

6

His Tigers,' what would they not do,
Should they my tracks discover?

"Ten hours before these desperate men, I'ved spared nor spur nor leather; For should they find me in the glen, My blood would stain the heather."

By this the hosts came on apace— Came bellowing, shouting, shrieking; And as he heard, the horseman's face Grew pale as he was speaking.

Out spoke the tardy Lincolnite :
"I'll pass you, Doc-I'm ready;
It is not for that sovereign bright,
But for your sovereign lady.

"And by my word and by my sword! You shall no longer tarry;