Singing, hurrah, hurrah, for Hooker's boys, The gallant Fighting Joe, We'll follow him with heart and hand, THE BLOWING UP OF THE MERRIMAC. BY AN OLD WOMAN OUT OF BREATH. MY goodness-gracious! Is that fearful— thing Bu'sted? How inexpressible-I feel! Blowed up-and sunk? Well, I declare to man— 'Tis enough to make a feelin' woman-reel! My patience!-how I've-lied awake o' nights; on't! I thought of movin' straight to cousin Joe's- They said New-York wasn't safe!—if that thing come! Nothin' cud stop it!-O my! how I dew talk! 'Twould set us all afire !—them shells 'd throw Every body's things-out on the walk! O dear! I've heerd my father tell—how things— Oh! where's my fan ?--I shall sink to the ground! They didn't hev, in-Revolution times No murderin' iron things-a-steaming round! They fit with guns-and other Christian-things— Like Decatur-Perry-and that air Paul Jones ! No Merrimac—and Monitor things-went round A-givin' folks—the agur in their-bones! My patience!-I'm so glad that-thing's blow'd up! Nothing has made me narvous-but that one thing! I hope they'll keep to Christian-warfare, now; For reg'lar sleep's so ne'ssary-in the spring. JUBILATE! JULY FOURTH, 1862. THE clouds are breaking, breaking, thank God, are breaking, Our foes are quaking, quaking, ah! yes! are quak ing— The war is almost o'er. A voice is speaking, speaking, thank God! is speaking, It peace is seeking, seeking, ah! yes, is seeking, And cries: No more! no more! Their hearts are turning, turning, thank God! are turning, With deep shame burning, burning, ah! yes, are burning To see their country so. At last they're learning, learning, ah! yes, are learning, To them returning, yes, thank God! returning, She'll grant surcease from woe. No more the cannon's roar, oh! thank God! no more Be heard along our shore, not for evermore, The deadly iron hail, the lone widow's wail, sail, Our fields no longer red. Our fathers' God, to thee! we cry alone to thee; These stripes of red upon its wide-spread field of white, This cherished blue-do thou them all in one unite, Thy bow of promise true. THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE. WE E are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi's winding stream and from NewEngland's shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly be fore We are coming, Father Abra’am-three hundred thousand more! If you look across the hill-tops that meet the Northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind an instant tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride; And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour We are coming, Father Abra'am-three hundred thousand more! If you look all up our valleys, where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer-boys fast forming into line; And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow, against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage-door; We are coming, Father Abra'am-three hundred thousand more! You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide, To lay us down, for freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside; |