Oh, I hugged him, an’ I kissed him, an’ I baiged him not to go;
  But he tol’ me dat his conscience, hit was callin’ to him so,
  An’ he could n’t baih to lingah w’en he had a chanst to fight
  For de freedom dey had gin him an’ de glory of de right. 
  So he kissed me, an’ he lef me, w’en I ’d p’omised to be true;
  An’ dey put a knapsack on him, an’ a coat all colo’ed blue. 
  So I gin him pap’s ol’ Bible f’om de bottom of de draw’,—­
  W’en dey ‘listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

  But I t’ought of all de weary miles dat he would have to tramp,
  An’ I could n’t be contented w’en dey tuk him to de camp. 
  W’y my hea’t nigh broke wid grievin’ ’twell I seed him on de street;
  Den I felt lak I could go an’ th’ow my body at his feet. 
  For his buttons was a-shinin’, an’ his face was shinin’, too,
  An’ he looked so strong an’ mighty in his coat o’ sojer blue,
  Dat I hollahed, “Step up, manny,” dough my th’oat was so’ an’ raw,—­
  W’en dey ‘listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

  Ol’ Mis’ cried w’en mastah lef huh, young Miss mou’ned huh brothah Ned,
  An’ I did n’t know dey feelin’s is de ve’y wo’ds dey said
  W’en I tol’ ’em I was so’y.  Dey had done gin up dey all;
  But dey only seemed mo’ proudah dat dey men had hyeahed de call. 
  Bofe my mastahs went in gray suits, an’ I loved de Yankee blue,
  But I t’ought dat I could sorrer for de losin’ of ’em too;
  But I could n’t, for I did n’t know de ha’f o’ whut I saw,
  ’Twell dey ‘listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

  Mastah Jack come home all sickly; he was broke for life, dey said;
  An’ dey lef my po’ young mastah some’r’s on de roadside,—­dead. 
  W’en de women cried an’ mou’ned ’em, I could feel it thoo an’ thoo,
  For I had a loved un fightin’ in de way o’ dangah, too. 
  Den dey tol’ me dey had laid him some’r’s way down souf to res’,
  Wid de flag dat he had fit for shinin’ daih acrost his breas’. 
  Well, I cried, but den I reckon dat ’s whut Gawd had called him for,
  W’en dey ‘listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

LINCOLN

  Hurt was the nation with a mighty wound,
  And all her ways were filled with clam’rous sound. 
  Wailed loud the South with unremitting grief,
  And wept the North that could not find relief. 
  Then madness joined its harshest tone to strife: 
  A minor note swelled in the song of life. 
  ’Till, stirring with the love that filled his breast,
  But still, unflinching at the right’s behest,
  Grave Lincoln came, strong handed, from afar,
  The mighty Homer of the lyre of war. 
  ’T was he who bade the raging tempest cease,
  Wrenched from his harp the harmony of peace,
  Muted the strings, that made the discord,—­Wrong,
  And gave his spirit up in thund’rous song. 
  Oh mighty Master of the mighty lyre,
  Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire: 
  Earth learned of thee what Heav’n already knew,
  And wrote thee down among her treasured few.