Oh, ef we hed on’y jes’ gut Reecognition,
  Things now would ha’ ben in a different position! 
  You’d ha’ hed all you wanted:  the paper blockade
  Smashed up into toothpicks,—­unlimited trade
  In the one thing thet’s needfle, till niggers, I swow,
  Hed ben thicker ’n provisional shinplasters now,—­
  Quinine by the ton ’ginst the shakes when they seize ye,—­
  Nice paper to coin into C.S.A. specie;
  The voice of the driver’d be heerd in our land,
  An’ the univarse scringe, ef we lifted our hand: 
  Wouldn’t thet be some like a fulfillin’ the prophecies,
  With all the fus’ fem’lies in all the best offices? 
  ‘T wuz a beautiful dream, an’ all sorrer is idle,—­
  But ef Lincoln would ha’ hanged Mason an’ Slidell! 
  They ain’t o’ no good in European pellices,
  But think wut a help they’d ha’ ben on their gallowses! 
  They’d ha’ felt they wuz truly fulfillin’ their mission,
  An’, oh, how dog-cheap we’d ha’ gut Reecognition!

  But somehow another, wutever we’ve tried,
  Though the the’ry’s fust-rate, the facs wun’t coincide: 
  Facs are contrary ‘z mules, an’ ez hard in the mouth,
  An’ they allus hev showed a mean spite to the South. 
  Sech bein’ the case, we hed best look about
  For some kin’ o’ way to slip our necks out: 
  Le’’s vote our las’ dollar, ef one can be found,
  (An’, at any rate, votin’ it hez a good sound,)—­
  Le’’s swear thet to arms all our people is flyin’,
  (The critters can’t read, an’ wun’t know how we’re lyin’,)—­
  Thet Toombs is advancin’ to sack Cincinnater,
  With a rovin’ commission to pillage an’ slarter,—­
  Thet we’ve throwed to the winds all regard for wut’s lawfle,
  An’ gone in for sunthin’ promiscu’sly awfle. 
  Ye see, hitherto, it’s our own knaves an’ fools
  Thet we’ve used,—­those for whetstones, an’t’ others ez tools,—­
  An’ now our las’ chance is in puttin’ to test
  The same kin’ o’ cattle up North an’ out West. 
  I——­But, Gennlemen, here’s a despatch jes’ come in
  Which shows thet the tide’s begun turnin’ agin,—­
  Gret Cornfedrit success!  C’lumbus eevacooated! 
  I mus’ run down an’ hev the thing properly stated,
  An’ show wut a triumph it is, an’ how lucky
  To fin’lly git red o’ thet cussed Kentucky,—­
  An’ how, sence Fort Donelson, winnin’ the day
  Consists in triumphantly gittin’ away.

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

The Sisters, Inisfail, and other Poems. By AUBREY DE VERE.  London.