Across the battle-field is borne a dull and muffled sound,
The fielder like a bullock falls, the ball rolls on the ground. 
Around the bases on the wing the gallant Muggsy speeds,
And follows swiftly in the track where fast his comrade leads. 
And from the field of chaos where the dusty billows float,
With calm, majestic mien there stalks O’Reilly’s billy-goat.

Above the crags of Shantytown the flaunting pennant waves,
And cheering myriads chant the praise of Muggsy’s lusty braves. 
The children shout in gladsome glee, each fair one waves her hand,
As down the street the heroes march with lively German band;
But wilder grows the tumult when, with ribboned horns and coat,
They see, on high in triumph borne, O’Reilly’s billy-goat.

* * * * *

THE CUCKOO CLOCK

When Ezry, that’s my sister’s son, come home from furrin parts,
He fetched the folks a lot of things ter brighten up their hearts;
He fetched ’em silks and gloves and clothes, and knick-knacks, too, a
    stock,
But all he fetched fer us was jest a fancy cuckoo clock. 
’T was all fixed up with paint and gilt, and had a little door
Where sat the cutest little bird, and when ’t was three or four
Or five or six or any time, that bird would jest come out
And, ‘cordin’ ter what time it was, he’d flap his wings and shout: 
    “Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!”

Well, fust along we had it, why, I thought ’twas simply prime!  And used to poke the hands around ter make it “cuckoo” time; And allers when we’d company come, they had ter see the thing, And, course they almost had a fit when “birdie” come ter sing.  But, by and by, b’gosh!  I found it somehow lost its joys, I found it kind er made me sick to hear that senseless noise; I wished ’t was jest a common clock, that struck a gong, yer know, And didn’t have no foolish bird ter flap his wings and go: 
    “Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!”

Well, things git on from bad to wuss, until I’m free ter grant, I’d smash it into kindlin’, but a present, so, I can’t!  And, though a member of the church, and deacon, I declare, That thing jest sets me up on end and makes me want ter swear!  I try ter be religious and ter tread the narrer way, But seems as if that critter knew when I knelt down ter pray, And all my thoughts of heaven go a-tumblin’ down ter,—­well, A different kind of climate—­when that bird sets out ter yell: 
    “Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!”

I read once in a poetry book, that Ezry had ter home, The awful fuss a feller made about a crow, that come And pestered him about ter death and made him sick and sore, By settin’ on his mantel-piece and hollerin’ “Nevermore!” But, say, I’d ruther have the crow, with all his fuss and row, His bellerin’ had some sense, b’gosh!  ’T was English, anyhow; And all the crows in Christendom that talked a Christian talk Would seem like nightingales, compared ter that air furrin squawk: 
    “Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!”