“Ugh! ugh! 
’Twill drag along—­drag along”
Growled a cross patriot in the throng,
His battered umbrella like an ambulance-cover
Riddled with bullet-holes, spattered all over. 
“Hurrah for Grant!” cried a stripling shrill;
Three urchins joined him with a will,
And some of taller stature cheered. 
Meantime a Copperhead passed; he sneered. 
  “Win or lose,” he pausing said,
“Caps fly the same; all boys, mere boys;
Any thing to make a noise. 
  Like to see the list of the dead;
These ‘craven Southerners’ hold out;
Ay, ay, they’ll give you many a bout”
  “We’ll beat in the end, sir”
Firmly said one in staid rebuke,
A solid merchant, square and stout. 
  “And do you think it? that way tend, sir”
Asked the lean Cooperhead, with a look
Of splenetic pity.  “Yes, I do”
His yellow death’s head the croaker shook: 
“The country’s ruined, that I know”
A shower of broken ice and snow,
  In lieu of words, confuted him;
They saw him hustled round the corner go,
  And each by-stander said—­Well suited him.

Next day another crowd was seen
In the dark weather’s sleety spleen. 
Bald-headed to the storm came out
A man, who, ’mid a joyous shout,
Silently posted this brief sheet: 

GLORIOUS VICTORY OF THE FLEET!

FRIDAY’S GREAT EVENT!

THE ENEMY’S WATER-BATTERIES BEAT!

WE SILENCED EVERY GUN!

THE OLD COMMODORE’S COMPLIMENTS SENT
PLUMP INTO DONELSON!

“Well, well, go on!” exclaimed the crowd
To him who thus much read aloud. 
“That’s all,” he said.  “What! nothing more”
“Enough for a cheer, though—­hip, hurrah!”
“But here’s old Baldy come again—­”
“More news!”—­And now a different strain.

(Our own reporter a dispatch compiles,
  As best he may, from varied sources.)

Large re-enforcements have arrived—­
  Munitions, men, and horses—­
For Grant, and all debarked, with stores.

The enemy’s field-works extend six miles—­
The gate still hid; so well contrived.

Yesterday stung us; frozen shores
  Snow-clad, and through the drear defiles

And over the desolate ridges blew
A Lapland wind. 
               The main affair
  Was a good two hours’ steady fight
Between our gun-boats and the Fort. 
  The Louisville’s wheel was smashed outright. 
A hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound ball
Came planet-like through a starboard port,
Killing three men, and wounding all
The rest of that gun’s crew,
(The captain of the gun was cut in two);
Then splintering and ripping went—­
Nothing could be its continent. 
  In the narrow stream the Louisville,
Unhelmed, grew lawless; swung around,
  And would have thumped and drifted, till
All the fleet was driven aground,
But for the timely order to retire.

Some damage from our fire, ’tis thought,
Was done the water-batteries of the Fort.