What is in the bugle’s blast? 
  It is:  “Victory at last! 
      Now for rest.” 
  But, my comrades, come behold him,
  Where our colors now enfold him,
      And his breast
  Bares no more to meet the blade,
  But lies covered in the shade.

  What a stir there is to-day! 
  They are laying him away
      Where he fell. 
  There the flag goes draped before him;
  Now they pile the grave sod o’er him
      With a knell. 
  And he answers to his name
  In the higher ranks of fame.

  There’s a woman left to mourn
  For the child that she has borne
      In travail. 
  But her heart beats high and higher,
  With the patriot mother’s fire,
      At the tale. 
  She has borne and lost a son,
  But her work and his are done.

  Fling the flag out, let it wave;
  They ’re returning from the grave—­
      “Double quick!”
  And the cymbals now are crashing,
  Bright his comrades’ eyes are flashing
      From the thick
  Battle-ranks which knew him brave,
  No tears for a hero’s grave.

  In the east the morning comes,
  Hear the rattle of the drums
      Far away. 
  Now no time for grief’s pursuing,
  Other work is for the doing,
      Here to-day. 
  He is sleeping, let him rest
  With the flag across his breast.

A FROLIC

  Swing yo’ lady roun’ an’ roun’,
    Do de bes’ you know;
  Mek yo’ bow an’ p’omenade
    Up an’ down de flo’;
  Mek dat banjo hump huhse’f. 
    Listen at huh talk: 
  Mastah gone to town to-night;
    ’T ain’t no time to walk.

  Lif yo’ feet an’ flutter thoo,
    Run, Miss Lucy, run;
  Reckon you ‘ll be cotched an’ kissed
    ‘Fo’ de night is done. 
  You don’t need to be so proud—­
    I’s a-watchin’ you,
  An’ I’s layin’ lots o’ plans
    Fu’ to git you, too.

  Moonlight on de cotton-fiel’
    Shinin’ sof an’ white,
  Whippo’will a-tellin’ tales
    Out thaih in de night;
  An’ yo’ cabin ’s ’crost de lot: 
    Run, Miss Lucy, run;
  Reckon you ‘ll be cotched an’ kissed
    To’ de night is done.

NODDIN’ BY DE FIRE

  Some folks t’inks hit’s right an’ p’opah,
    Soon ez bedtime come erroun’,
  Fu’ to scramble to de kiver,
    Lak dey ‘d hyeahed de trumpet soun’. 
  But dese people dey all misses
    Whut I mos’ly does desiah;
  Dat ‘s de settin’ roun’ an’ dozin’,
    An’ a-noddin’ by de fiah.

  When you ‘s tiahed out a-hoein’,
    Er a-followin’ de plough,
  Whut’s de use of des a-fallin’
    On yo’ pallet lak a cow? 
  W’y, de fun is all in waitin’
    In de face of all de tiah,
  An’ a-dozin’ and a-drowsin’
    By a good ol’ hick’ry fiah.