Ah! very noble it seems to be,
This modern standard of chivalry ;
And very noble and very grand
Is the chiefest magnate in the land—
Abraham Lincoln, stalwart and tall,

Who ran away, quaking, from nothing at all;
The "honest uncle" in sixty-one,

Who skulked in the night to Washington.

-New-Orleans Crescent.

SANGUINARIA CANADENSIS.

BY JOEL BENTON.

I.

I

KNOW the patch where the waxen, milkwhite blossoms grow,

On a pea-green palmate leaf by the woody slope of the hill ;

Close to the budding coppice, thick as an army

of snow,

And the May wind drifts their leaves in a heap by the silver rill.

II.

I plucked a flower from its stem, lustrous and

fair to see,

One that had loitered late with a splendor for me to behold;

Saxifrage, Colts-foot, Trillium, Rue, and Ane

mone,

I bound in a quaint bouquet, with its central nimbus of gold.

III.

Lo! a color of red, of orange, a saffron stain Darkens my hand, and clings in a multiplied ragged scar;

"What if I had plucked the flower that was planted in pain,

And bathed with scarlet blood my country in crimson war?"

IV.

I thought: "O parricide, traitor, perjurer, villain, knave,

Prince of the rebels, striking at Freedom's

consummate flower;

You will carry a damning Macbeth stain to your grave

That shall brighten the name of Arnold to

history's latest hour. ”

-The Independent, May 30, 1861.

SONG ON GENERAL SCOTT.

BY N. B. I.

TUNE-Poor Old Horse, let him die.

VIRGINIA had a son

Who gathered up some fame,

He many battles won,

And thereby won a name;
But now he is growing old,
And nature doth decay,
Virginia she does scold,
And all can hear her say,

Poor old Scott, let him die.

He is old and very mean, sir;
He is dull and very slow,
And it can now be seen, sir,

He still does meaner grow;

He is not fit to fight,

Nor will he ever pray― Then kick him out of sight,

And let Virginia say,

Poor old Scott, let him die.

The sound of his war-whoop

No one again will hear;
In dread laps he his hasty soup,
With hell-fire in his rear;
I had rather be a hog

And wallow in the mud,
Than be old Lincoln's dog,
Or be his warrior stud.

Poor old Scott, let him die.

I had rather be a dog,

And bay the stars and moon; I had sooner be a frog,

With a dungeon for my doom, Than to be poor old Scott,

To fill a traitor's grave, And there in silence rot, Without a soul to save.

Poor old Scott, let him die.

JEFFERSON D.

BY H. S. CORNWELL.

YOU'RE a traitor convicted, you know very

well!

Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

You thought it a capital thing to rebel,
Jefferson D.!

But there's one thing I'll say:

You'll discover, some day,

When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree, There's an accident happened you didn't foresee, Jefferson D.!

What shall be found upon history's page?
Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

When the student explores the republican age!
Jefferson D.!

He will find, as is meet,

That at Judas's feet

You sit in your shame, with the impotent plea, That you hated the land and the law of the free, Jefferson D.!

What do you see in your visions at night,
Jefferson D., Jefferson D.?