She took three hundred Irishmen

And formed her First Battalion.

And when the storm of battle sweeps,
Where fiercest foemen sally on,
There, hard at work, or piled in heaps,
She'll find her bold Battalion.

BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG.

DEDICATED WITH RESPECT AND ADMIRATION TO MAJORGENERAL EARL VAN DORN.

FOR sixty days and upwards

A storm of shell and shot
Rained round us in a flaming shower,

But still we faltered not!

"If the noble city perish,"

Our grand young leader said,
"Let the only walls the foe shall scale
Be ramparts of the dead!"

For sixty days and upwards

The eye of heaven waxed dim;
And even throughout God's holy morn,
O'er Christian's prayer and hymn,
Arose a hissing tumult,

As if the fiends of air

Strove to engulf the voice of faith
In the shrieks of their despair.

There was wailing in the houses,

There was trembling on the marts,

While the tempest raged and thundered,
'Mid the silent thrill of hearts:

BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG.

But the Lord, our shield, was with us;
And ere a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets
With scarce one throb of dread.

And the little children gambolled,
Their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment,

As the huge bombs whirled and blazed!
Then turning with silvery laughter

To the sports which children love,

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Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought,
That the good God watched above.*

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster
From scores of flame-clad ships,
And above us denser, darker,

Grew the conflict's wild eclipse;
Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,
Like a type of doom and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues
Of forked and vengeful fire.

But the unseen hands of angels

These death-shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy

Ruled o'er the battle-tide;

In the houses ceased the wailing,

And through the war-scarred marts
The people strode with the step of hope
To the music in their hearts.

COLUMBIA, S. C., August 6, 1862.

* It has been stated by one professing to have witnessed the fact. that some weeks after the beginning of this terrific bombardment, not only were ladies seen coolly walking the streets, but that in some parts of the town children were observed at play, only interrupting their sports to gaze and listen at the bursting shells.

A SOUTHERN SCENE.

“O MAMMY! have you heard the news?” Thus spake a Southern child,

As in the nurse's aged face

She upward glanced and smiled.

"What news you mean, my little one?

It must be mighty fine

To make my darling's face so red,

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Her sunny blue eyes shine."

Why, Abram Lincoln, don't you know,

The Yankee President,

Whose ugly picture once we saw,

แ

When up to town we went,

"Well, he is going to free you all,
And make you rich and grand,

And you'll be dressed in silk and gold,
Like the proudest in the land.

"A gilded coach shall carry you
Where'er you wish to ride;
And, mammy, all your work shall be
Forever laid aside."

The eager speaker paused for breath,
And then the old nurse said,
While closer to her swarthy cheek
She pressed the golden head:

"My little missus, stop and res',
You' talking mighty fas';

Jes' look up dere, and tell me what
You see in yonder glass?

A SOUTHERN SCENE.

"You sees old mammy's wrinkly face,
As black as any coal,

And underneath her handkerchief
Whole heaps of knotty wool.

"My darlin's face is red and white,
Her skin is soff and fine,
And on her pretty little head
De yallar ringlets shine.

แ

"My chile, who made dis difference

'Twixt mammy and 'twixt you ? You reads the dear Lord's blessed book, And you can tell me true.

"De dear Lord said it must be so;

And, honey, I for one,

Wid tankful heart will always say,

His holy will be done.

"I tanks mas' Linkum all de same,

But when I wants for free,

I'll ask de Lord of glory,

Not poor buckra man like he.

"And as for gilded carriages,
Dey's notin' 't all to see;

My massa's coach, what carries him,
Is good enough for me.

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And, honey, when your mammy wants

To change her homespun dress,

She'll pray like dear old missus,
To be clothed with righteousness.

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My work's been done dis many a day,
And now I takes my ease,

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A waitin' for the Master's call,
Jes' when the Master please.

"And when at las' de time 's done come,
And poor old mammy dies,

Your own dear mother's soff white hand
Shall close dese tired old eyes.

"De dear Lord Jesus soon will call
Old mammy home to Him,
And He can wash my guilty soul
From ebery spot of sin.

"And at His feet I shall lie down,
Who died and rose for me;
And den, and not till den, my chile,
Your mammy will be free.

"Come, little missus, say your prayers;
Let old mas' Linkum 'lone,

The debil knows who b'longs to him,
And he'll take care of his own."

BEYOND THE POTOMAC.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.*

THEY slept on the fields which their valor had won!
But arose with the first early blush of the sun,
For they knew that a great deed remained to be done,
When they passed o'er the River.

* This piece was originally published in the Richmond Whig at the time of "Stonewall" Jackson's last raid into Maryland.