He six foot one way an’ two foot todder,
    An’ he weigh six hundred poun’;
  His coat so big he couldn’t pay de tailor,
    An’ it won’t reach half way roun’;
  He drill so much dey calls him cap’n,
    An he git so mighty tanned,
  I spec he’ll try to fool dem Yankees,
    For to tink he contraband,
      De massa run, ha, ha! 
      De darkey stay, ho, ho! 
      It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’,
      An’ de yar ob jubilo.

  De darkeys got so lonesome libb’n
    In de log hut on de lawn,
  Dey moved dere tings into massa’s parlor
    For to keep it while he gone. 
  Dar’s wine an’ cider in de kitchin,
    An’ de darkeys dey hab some,
  I spec it will be all fiscated,
    When de Lincum sojers come. 
      De massa run, ha, ha! 
      De darkey stay, ho, ho! 
     It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’,
     An’ de yar ob jubilo.

  De oberseer he makes us trubble,
    An’ he dribe us roun’ a spell,
  We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar,
    Wid de key flung in de well. 
  De whip am lost, de han’-cuff broke,
    But de massy hab his pay;
  He big an’ ole enough for to know better
    Dan to went an’ run away. 
      De massa run, ha, ha! 
      De darkey stay, ho, ho! 
      It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’,
      An’ de yar ob jubilo.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE CONQUERED BANNER.

  Furl that Banner, for ’tis weary;
  Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary: 
    Furl it, fold it,—­it is best;
  For there’s not a man to wave it,
  And there’s not a sword to save it,
  And there’s not one left to lave it
  In the blood which heroes gave it,
  And its foes now scorn and brave it: 
    Furl it, hide it,—­let it rest!

  Take that Banner down! ’tis tattered;
  Broken is its staff and shattered;
  And the valiant hosts are scattered,
    Over whom it floated high. 
  Oh, ’tis hard for us to fold it,
  Hard to think there’s none to hold it,
  Hard that those who once unrolled it
    Now must furl it with a sigh!

  Furl that Banner—­furl it sadly! 
  Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
  And ten thousands wildly, madly,
    Swore it should forever wave;
  Swore that foeman’s sword should never
  Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
  Till that flag should float forever
    O’er their freedom or their grave!

  Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
  And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
    Cold and dead are lying low;
  And that Banner—­it is trailing,
  While around it sounds the wailing
    Of its people in their woe.

  For, though conquered, they adore it,—­
  Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
  Weep for those who fell before it,
  Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
  And oh, wildly they deplore it,
    Now to furl and fold it so!