For our ruined homesteads,

And our ravaged land,
For our women outraged
By the dastard hand.
For our thousand sorrows,
And our untold shame,
For our blighted harvests,
For our towns of flame-
He has sworn (and recks not
Who may cross his path,)
That the foe shall feel him
In his fervid wrath-
That, while will and spirit
Hold one spark of life,
Blood shall stain his broadsword,
Blood shall wet his knife.

Oh! ye Hessian horsemen,

Crush him if ye can;

But woe betide your staunchest slave

Who meets him, man to man!

IV.

"Tis no time for pleasure!

Doff the silken vest! Up, my men! and follow

Marion of the West!

Strike with him for freedom;

Strike with main and might, 'Neath the noon of splendor 'Neath the gloom of night. Strike by rock and roadside, Strike in wold and wood,

By the shadowy valley

By the purpling flood.
On! where Morgan's war-horse
Thunders in the van,

God! who would not gladly die
Beside that glorious man!

The Toast of Morgan's Men.

BY CAPTAIN THORPE, OF KE
KENTUCKY.

UNCLAIMED by the land that bore us,

Lost in the field, we find
The brave have gone before us,
Cowards, are left behind!

Then stand to your glasses, steady,
Here's a health to those we prize,
Here's a toast to the dead already,
And here's to the next who dies!

The Empty Sleeve.

BY DR. G. W. BAGBY, (MOSUS ADDUMS,) VIRGINIA.

Toм, old fellow, I grieve to see

That sleeve hanging loose at your side;

The arm you lost was worth to me

Every Yankee that ever died.

THE EMPTY SLEEVE.

But you don't mind it at all,

You swear you've a beautiful stump,
And laugh at the damnable ball;
Tom, I knew you were always a trump.

A good right arm, a nervy hand,
A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,
Buried deep in the Malvern sand-
To laugh at that, is a sorry joke.
Never again your iron grip

Shall I feel in my shrinking palm-
Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip,
How on earth can I be calm?

Well! the arm is gone, it is true;

But the one that is nearest the heart
Is left-and that's as good as two;

Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?
Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve
A badge of honor; so do I,
And all of us,-I do believe

The fellow is going to cry!

"She deserves a perfect man," you say,
You, "not worth her in your prime "
Tom, the arm that has turned to clay,
Your whole body has made sublime;
For you have placed in the Malvern earth
The proof and pledge of a noble life—
And the rest, henceforward of higher worth,
Will be dearer than all to your wife.

I see the people in the street

Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes;

131

And know you, Tom, there's naught so sweet
As homage shown in mute surmise.
Bravely your arm in battle strove
Freely, for Freedom's sake you gave
It has perished, but a nation's love
In proud remembrance will save it.

Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith-
You're a fool for staying so long-
Woman's love you will find no myth,

But a truth, living, tender and strong.
And when around her slender belt

Your left is clasped in fond embrace,
Your right will thrill, as if it felt,
In its grave, the usurper's place.

As I look through the coming years
I see a one-armed married man;
A little woman, with smiles and tears,
Is helpling as hard as she can
To put on his coat, pin his sleeve-

Tie his cravat, and cut his food;

And I say, as these fancies I weave,

it;

"That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."

The years roll on and then I see
A wedding picture bright and fair;

I look closer, and it's plain to me
That is Tom with the silver hair.

He gives away the lovely bride,

And the guests linger loth to leave
The house of him in whom they pride―

Brave Tom old with the empty sleeve.

SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS.

ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY.

133

England's Neutrality.

A PARLIAMENTARY DEBATE.

BY JOHN R. THOMPSON, VIRGINIA.

ALL ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy, Or yet pursue with eagerness Hope's wild extravagancy, Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled Neutrality,

And give us with a hearty shake, the hand of Nationality,

Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omis

sion,

The next debate in Parliament on Southern Recogni

tion;

They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see,

As truly as the Times report, without the gift of proph

esy.

Not yet, not yet to interfere, does England see occasion, But treats our good Commissioner with coldness and evasion;

Such coldness in the premises that really 'tis refrig

erant

To think that two long years ago, she called us a bellig

erent.

But further Downing Street is dumb, the Premier deaf

to reason,

As deaf as is the Morning Post, both in and out of

season;