You'll have to get round rather spry,
Uncle Abe-

You'll have to get round rather spry ;

To plant "that big foot" on the necks of these wights,

To settle the problem of rights and of mights.

The battle that order with anarchy fights,

The duties of capital, laborers' rights,

The lights and the spites and the pitiful plights That progress has left on the days and the nights Of the ages, on bloody and terrible flights,

Uncle Abe.

What, hey! d'ye think it a capital joke,
Or have you been "buying some pig in a poke,"
Uncle Abe?

A rather big thing, don't you

Uncle Abe,

think?

A rather big thing, don't you think?

To stand by the brink, upon anarchy's verge,
To peer into chaos for light to emerge,

While Gabriel blows in your ears Time's last dirge;
To feel 'neath your feet the upheaving and surge
Of ruin, behind you the pitiless scourge

Of modern democracy, striving to urge

You down to that point whence the honest diverge, Uncle Abe.

What, hey! now be honest and truly confess,
Rebellions are difficult things to suppress,
Uncle Abe.

The thing seems to grow on your hands,
Uncle Abe,

The thing seems to grow on your hands.
The multiplied swarms of political knaves,
The wail of the orphan o'er dead fathers' graves,
The desolate homes and the slaughter of braves,
The moan of the widow, the shriek of the slaves;
Maimed millions of paupers on pitiless paves,
Resound from the shores which the St. Lawrence
laves

To the sun-blessed isles where the palmetto waves,
Uncle Abe.

What, hey! come, old fellow, and candidly say, D'ye think the investment is likely to pay, Uncle Abe?

A nice sort of thing is a war,
Uncle Abe,

A nice sort of thing is a war,

What splendor, what music, what glory, what pride, What chivalry, honor-what profit beside. Contractors and shoulder-straps charmingly glide And the nice little pickings so gayly divide,

While patriot legions triumphantly ride

On slaughter-fields red with the blood-flowing tide,
Of fathers, and brothers, and friends side by side,
Where hell, death, and carnage insatiate cried
In glee-while grim Horror his bloody trade plied,
Uncle Abe.

You'll have a good time without doubt,
Uncle Abe,

You'll have a good time without doubt,

In squaring affairs of the world up to date.
Strike a balance with man, and with God, and with
fate,

Settle questions of equity, morals, and state;
Sift rights of the small from the wrongs of the great,
Fix discount on knaves, and on fools set the rate,
Divide those who practise from traitors who prate.
You'll have to rise early and go to bed late;
Hurry up, hurry up, for the people won't wait,
Uncle Abe.

What, hey! you have rather a long row to hoe,
You'd better be up, and a-doing, you know.

No time to swap penknives just now,

Uncle Abe,

No time to swap penknives just now.

In camp or in council, wherever you go,
Is treason around you, above and below;
While traitors and demagogues rise, ebb and flow,
Confusion confounded continues to grow,
Rebellion's grim chaldron to seethe and to glow,
And heap in your pathway perdition and wo.
A very large contract you've taken, I trow,
A very long, very deep, wide "row to hoe;"
Politeness to rebels is "played out" you know;
Don't you think, Uncle Abram, you've been rather
slow?

The vigorous policy now's "all the go."

Let 'em reap, let 'em garner the hell which they

Then "swing for the Jack," swing him high, and

the foe

May be crushed, and the Union restored at a blow, Uncle Abe.

What, hey! for the game is your own without doubt,

So wake up, old fellow, and play your hand out.

WHE

TO GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

HERE rests the harp that once was strung,
By fair Ohio's beauteous stream,

Whose silvery chords so often sung

Of life's bright joys and love's sweet theme? Have they no voice in these dark hours, To wake again the silent string, And move once more the lyric powers, That erst for us were wont to sing?

Where rests the harp, whose gentle notes
Came wafted o'er the mountain steep,
Like some delicious strain that floats
Amid the rosy bowers of sleep?
Waiting, I list, and fondly trust,

The minstrel hand that slumbereth long,
Will rouse and shake away the dust,
And give the lyre a nation's song.

Ay, sing of love-the patriot's love;
Of Freedom and her glowing charms;
Of that dear flag that waves above

Our homes in peace-our hosts in arms;