We know we’ve got a cause, John,
    Thet’s honest, just, an’ true;
  We thought ’t would win applause, John,
    Ef nowhere else, from you. 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    His love of right,” sez he,
  “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton;
    There’s natur’ in J.B.,
    Ez well ez you an’ me!”

  The South says, “Poor folks down!” John,
    An’ “All men up!” say we,—­
  White, yaller, black, an’ brown, John;
    Now which is your idee? 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    John preaches wal,” sez he;
  “But, sermon thru, an’ come to du,
    Why there’s the old J.B. 
    A-crowdin’ you an’ me!”

  Shall it be love or hate, John? 
    It’s you thet’s to decide;
  Ain’t your bonds held by Fate, John,
    Like all the world’s beside? 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    Wise men fergive,” sez he,
  “But not ferget; an’ some time yet
    Thet truth may strike J.B.,
    Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

  God means to make this land, John,
    Clear thru, from sea to sea,
  Believe an’ understand, John,
    The wuth o’ bein’ free. 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    God’s price is high,” sez he;
  “But nothin’ else than wut he sells
    Wears long, an’ thet J.B. 
    May larn, like you an’ me!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

* * * * *

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.

  “All quiet along the Potomac,” they say,
    “Except now and then a stray picket
  Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
    By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
  ’Tis nothing:  a private or two, now and then,
    Will not count in the news of the battle;
  Not an officer lost,—­only one of the men,
    Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”

  All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
    Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
  Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
    Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
  A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
    Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
  While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
    Keep guard,—­for the army is sleeping.

  There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread
    As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
  And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,
    Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
  His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
    Grows gentle with memories tender,
  As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
    For their mother,—­may Heaven defend her!

  The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
    That night when the love yet unspoken
  Leaped up to his lips,—­when low, murmured vows
    Were pledged to be ever unbroken;
  Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
    He dashes off tears that are welling,
  And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
    As if to keep down the heart-swelling.