Song.[129]

When cannons roar, when bullets fly, And shouts and groans affright the sky, Amid the battle’s dire alarms, I’ll think, my Mary, on thy charms; The crimson field Fresh proof shall yield Of thy fond soldier’s love; And thy dear form In battle’s storm His guardian angel prove.

Should dangers thicken all around, And dying warriors strew the ground, In varied shapes, though death appear, Thy fancied form my soul shall cheer; The crimson field Fresh proof shall yield Of thy fond soldier’s love; And thy dear form In battle’s storm His guardian angel prove.

And when loud cannons cease to roar, And when the din of battle’s o’er, When safe return’d from war’s alarms, O then I’ll feast on Mary’s charms! In ecstacy I’ll fly to thee My ardent passion prove, Left glory’s field, My life I’ll yield To all the joys of love.

TABITHA TOWZER.

Miss Tabitha Towzer is fair, No guinea-pig ever was neater, Like a hakmatak slender and spare, And sweet as a musk-squash, or sweeter.

Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek, When dress’d in her pretty new tucker, Like an otter that paddles the creek, In quest of a mud-pout, or sucker.

Her forehead is smooth as a tray, Ah! smoother than that, on my soul, And turn’d, as a body may say, Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl.

To what shall I liken her hair, As straight as a carpenter’s line, For similes sure must be rare, When we speak of a nymph so divine.

Not the head of Nazarite seer, That never was shaven or shorn, Nought equals the locks of my dear But the silk of an ear of green corn.

My dear has a beautiful nose, With a sled-runner crook in the middle, Which one would be led to suppose Was meant for the head of a fiddle.

Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes, Glass buttons shone never so bright, Their love-lighted lustre outvies The lightning-bug’s twinkle by night.

And oft with a magical glance, She makes in my bosom a pother, When leering politely askance, She shuts one, and winks with the other.

The lips of my charmer are sweet, As a hogshead of maple molasses, And the ruby red tint of her cheek, The gill of a salmon surpasses.

No teeth like her’s ever were seen, Nor ever described in a novel, Of a beautiful kind of pea-green, And shaped like a wooden-shod-shovel.

Her fine little ears, you would judge, Were wings of a bat in perfection; A dollar I never should grudge To put them in Peale’s grand collection.

Description must fail in her chin, At least till our language is richer, Much fairer than ladle of tin, Or beautiful brown earthen pitcher.

So pretty a neck, I’ll be bound, Never join’d head and body together, Like nice crook’d neck’d squash on the ground, Long whiten’d by winter-like weather.

Should I set forth the rest of her charms, I might by some phrase that’s improper, Give modesty’s bosom alarms, Which I wouldn’t do for a copper.

Should I mention her gait or her air, You might think I intended to banter; She moves with more grace, you would swear, Than a founder’d horse forced to a canter.

She sang with a beautiful voice, Which ravish’d you out of your senses; A pig will make just such a noise When his hind-leg stuck fast in the fence is.

THE SPLENDORS OF THE SETTING SUN.

Sol, slowly sinking down the steep of heaven, With softened splendor greets the musing eye, Resigns his throne to “sober suited even,” But decorates while he deserts the sky.

His noonday beams, insufferably bright, Are now succeeded by a milder blaze, And every slanting filament of light Heaven’s kind and cheering effluence conveys.

Now let me wend my solitary way Where groves and lawns present alternate charms;-- Gaze on the glories of the waning day, Till night shall fold me in her dusky arms.

Mark how the clouds now glow like molten gold, Now gleam like snow-banks, heap’d on banks of snow; Now dash’d with azure, softer hues unfold, Now shift and kindle to a furnace-glow!

Compared with these, what is the pride of art! Your petty palaces and pigmy spires-- The paltry pageants of the noisy mart, And all the city-connoisseur admires!

Should the whole race of man unite as one To celebrate some glorious festal day, The simple splendor of the setting sun Would far surpass their most superb display.

THE SLEEP OF THE SLUGGARD.

O list to an indolent lump of live lumber, Whom slothfulness binds with invisible bands, A little more sleep, and a little more slumber, A little more folding together the hands.

“I’ve a villainous cold--and my head, how it aches! The north wind is blowing, and stings like a hornet, And as to this rising as soon as day breaks, ’Tis a vile vulgar habit, and gentlemen scorn it.

“I’m none of those wretches, who labor for bread Through foul or fair weather, whatever may hap, I mean to enjoy both my table and bed, So let me turn over and take t’other nap.

“I’ve money enough, and can live at my ease, I cannot be caught in necessity’s trap, Will sleep every day till the next, if I please, And so will indulge in another good nap.”

His heavy hydropical carcase he turns, And sinks in uneasy intemperate rest, Till dim in his bosom the lamp of life burns, While snorting with nightmare and plethora prest.

What horrible visions his bed hover o’er, The phantoms of spleen, the blue devils dire, Like Gorgons and Hydras of fabulous lore, Or red dragons belching whole rivers of fire.

Now clings to the side of a prominent steep, O’er a rough, roaring cataract hangs by a hair, Now suddenly sinks in a bottomless deep, And starts, half awake with a shriek of despair!

Thus rolls like a porpoise o’er billows of down, Grows big as a mammoth, and fat as a seal, Lives a plague to his friends, or a charge to the town, And dies to make worms a most plentiful meal.

Ye sons of Columbia, shun the syren of sloth For if you submit to her leaden control, You will find, when too late, like a venomous moth, She consumes a man’s substance and poisons his soul.

If the wizard of indolence takes you in hand, Quick break from his grasp, or you’re quickly undone, Your limbs will be lithe as a wickapy wand, And your sinews be soften’d like wax in the sun.