An' God wun't leave us yit to sink or swim,

Ef we don't fail to du wut's right by him.

This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be

A better country than man ever

see.

I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry Thet seems to say, "Break forth an' prophesy!"

O strange New World, thet yit wast never young,

Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung,

Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed

Was prowled roun' by the Injuns' cracklin' tread,

An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains,

Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains,

Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain

With each hard hand a vassal ocean's

I put some thoughts thet bothered me in rhyme:

I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on, But here they be—it's

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

IT don't seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John,
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We know it now," sez he,
"The lion's paw is all the law,
Accordin' to J. B.,

Thet's fit for you an' me!"

Blood ain't so cool as ink, John;
It's likely you'd ha' wrote,
An' stopped a spell to think, John,
Arter they'd cut your throat?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
He'd skurce ha' stopped, "sez he,
"To mind his p's an' q's ef thet
weasan'

He'd b'longed to ole J. B.,
Instid o' you an' me!"

"It doesn't foller thet he can swaller

Prescriptions signed 'J. B.'
Put up by you an' me!"

We own the ocean, tu, John:

You mus'n' take it hard,
Ef we can't think with you, John,
It's jest your own back-yard.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Ef thet's his claim," sez he,
"The fencin'-stuff'll cost enough
To bust up friend J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honor, when it meant
You didn't care a fig, John,
But jest for ten per cent?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
He's like the rest," sez he:
"When all is done, it's number

one

Thet's nearest to J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We give the critters back, John,

Coz Abra'm thought 'twas right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We've a hard row,"
"" sez he,

"To hoe just now: but thet,
somehow,

May happen to J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We ain't so weak an' poor, John,
With twenty million people,
An' close to every door, John,
A school-house an' a steeple.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
It is a fact," sez lie,

"The surest plan to make a Man
Is, Think him so, J. B.,

Ez much ez you or me!"

Our folks believe in Law, John:
An' it's for her sake, now,
They've left the axe an' saw, John,
The anvil an' the plough.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Ef't warn't for law," sez he,
"There'd be one shindy from
here to Indy;

66

An' thet don't suit J. B., (When 'tain't 'twixt you an' me!")

But now should my guests be merry, the house is in holiday guise, Looking out, through its burnished windows like a score of welcoming eyes.

Come hither, my brothers who wander in saintliness and in sin! Come hither, ye pilgrims of Nature! my heart doth invite you in.

My wine is not of the choicest, yet bears it an honest brand;

And the bread that I bid you lighten

I break with no sparing hand; But pause, ere you pass to taste it,

one act must accomplished be: Salute the flag in its virtue, before ye sit down with me.

The flag of our stately battles, not

struggles of wrath and greed: Its stripes were a holy lesson, its spangles a deathless creed; 'Twas red with the blood of freemen, and white with the fear of the foe,

And the stars that fight in their courses 'gainst tyrants its symbols know.

Come hither, thou son of my mother! we were reared in the selfsame arms;

Thou hast many a pleasant gesture, thy mind hath its gifts and charms,

But my heart is as stern to question as mine eyes are of sorrows full:

Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass on where others rule.

Thou lord of a thousand acres, with heaps of uncounted gold, The steeds of thy stall are haughty, thy lackeys cunning and bold: I envy no jot of thy splendor, I rail at thy follies none: Salute the flag in its virtue, or leave my poor house alone.

Fair lady with silken trappings, high

waving thy stainless plume, We welcome thee to our numbers, a flower of costliest bloom: Let a hundred maids live widowed to furnish thy bridal bed; But pause where the flag doth question, and bend thy triumphant head.

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear

A movement in the stream that checked my breath:

Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?

But something said, "This water is of Death!

The Sisters wash a Shroud, -ill thing to hear!"

I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three,

Known to the Greek's and to the Norseman's creed,

That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree,

Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede,

One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be."

"What make we, murmur'st thou, and what are we?

When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud,

The time-old web of the implacable Three:

Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud?

Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it; why not he?"

"Is there no hope?" I moaned. "So strong, so fair!

Our Fowler, whose proud bird would brook erewhile

No rival's swoop in all our western air!

Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file For him, life's morn-gold bright yet in his hair!