What though in Abram's form and face Good sense makes for what of grace up Is lacking in Abe Lincoln. No Webster-flow of diction grand The Chivalry of whips and chains They'll soon sup sorrow for their pains, Quoth brave, right-loving Lincoln. And so they did: Lo! millions thralled At once to Freedom's banquet called! The whipper's back is now the galled: That's tit for tat," quoth Lincoln ! Pray we that soon, his work to crown, A God-sent chief in Lincoln. And when his foes all changed to friendsHis upright rule auspicious ends, The joy that work well-done attends Be richly owned by Lincoln. A HIGHLAND HERO'S "CORONACH." (The following verses were occasioned by the death of Lieutenant Colonel Duncan McVicar, one of the many brave Scotsmen, bred to military life, who accepted commissions in the United States army, at the commencement of the late civil war in that country. Returning from a reconnoitring ride into the country occupied by the Confederate army, on the day immediately preceding the battle of Chancellorville, Colonel McVicar found his passage suddenly intercepted by Gen. Fitzhugh Lee, at the head of a large body of the enemy, previously concealed in an adjoining wood. Determining however to break through the snare thus prepared for him, onward at a gallop, straight at the foe before him, he led his devoted troop -the 6th New York Cavalry-and fell, mortally wounded by a rifle ball, while in the act of cutting his way through the enemy's ranks. Col. McVicar was a native of the Island of Islay.) My friend, so late my boast, My noble-hearted one! Alas, that he is lost To Freedom's battle-van! Far from his native shore The bravest of the brave— 'Mid battle's storm and stour The land that gave him birth To knaves o'er all the earth That hate was fierce and strong. He round the Upas tree Saw warring hosts, and he Instinctive grasped his sword. What boots it now to sing How he, without a pause, Gave-welcome offering— That sword to Freedom's cause,— What boots it to declare How danger's post he wooed, Till, all too frequent there, His star was quench'd in blood! I think I see him where, His path by foemen crossed, He meets the shock of war, A handful to a host. One moment, and but one- Well might Fitzhugh admire His gory falchion flashed. If on stout hearts and steel The sands of Stuartsville Had never clasped his clay ! What though, in that foul fray Let no dull mortal think Snapt off from Slavery's chain. Long to those heroes he Led, in his last dread ride, McVicar's name shall be A watchword and a pride. Long shall Columbia strew Fresh laurels o'er his grave, A homage justly due The bravest of the brave! MY WHERRY, "BRUNETTE," CANADIAN FISHERMAN'S SONG. THOUGH my wherry Brunette and yon cot by the shore Where others, with much, are aye craving for more, And well do I ween that not many there be Who pass through this life with a heart so care-free- With my boys for a crew, off each evening I go If only good luck be the fruit of the throw, A fish from our nets and a good oaten cake, At morning returning, mayhap with a haul, My wife is all smiles, and there's nothing at all |