The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales in Verse Part 60

In this they'll find a certain, speedy cure, For madness such as they have always shown.

Go, Lincoln, then, and if Canadians' prayers May aught avail, thou may'st their prayers command.

FEBRUARY, 1861.

"Sumpter has Fallen, but Freedom is Saved."

(_New York Tribune, April, 1861_.)

Thank G.o.d 'tis so! for now we know All compromise is ended.

List Lincoln's call, then freemen, all Who have from braves descended.

Your Stripes and Stars, ye gallant tars, Keep proudly o'er you waving; Strike for the _right_ with all your might, Stern danger freely braving!

Ye Soldier hosts, stand to your posts Like Anderson, unflinching.

Those Southern foes need heavy blows To cure them of their "lynching."

A traitor's fate may them await, But yet their monstrous madness May work you woe for aught ye know, And fill the world with sadness.

Innocent blood--of this a flood For vengeance loud is calling!

And G.o.d's light hand shall blast that land With plagues the most appalling,

Which dares to hold from love of gold Poor slaves in galling fetters!

Rise, East--West--North! Your might put forth, For you are Freedom's debtors!

SONG.

MY LOVE IS NO GAY, DASHING MAID.

My love is no gay, dashing maid, With rosy cheeks and golden curls, Nor high-born lady well arrayed In glittering diamonds and pearls.

Yet she is a lovely, loving wife, Who can blithely sing while working well; And so happy is our married life, That I on its pleasures fondly dwell.

O my love is no gay, dashing maid, But a wife in matronly worth, arrayed.

I've seen young girls of beauty rare, With ruby lips and sparkling eyes, Use all their charms to form a snare By which to carry off a _prize_.

I've noted the wedded life of such, Oft finding them slatterns void of love; And none need wonder so very much If I value high my turtle dove.

For she is no vain, dashing maid, But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

Through years of matrimonial care, And constant toil from day to day, To me her face has still been fair, As if her charms would ne'er decay.

And our house is full of girls and boys, The pledges sweet of a sacred love, Sent to keep young and bright the joys Which many with wealth oft fail to prove.

O my love is no gay, dashing maid, But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

THE SEWING MACHINE.

1861.

I sing the Sewing Machine, The blessings it brings to the fair.

Some of those blessings I've seen, And therefore its praises declare.

'Tis a curious thing Of which I now sing, And poets have sung it before me; But if the theme's good, 'Twill be well understood I'm right in prolonging the story.

Well finished Sewing Machine!

Whose form is so graceful and neat; Thou of inventions art Queen, And to look at thy work is a treat.

Each nice burnished wheel, With the plate of pure steel, Thy gold bedecked arms and the gauges, All speak of the skill Which the genius at will Puts forth in the work that he wages.

Wonderful Sewing Machine!

No visions of gloom and despair Float over my mind serene, As I thy performance compare To the old-fashioned st.i.tch, The dread sorrows which Accompanied work by the fingers Of those forced to sew 'Midst a life full of woe.

With pity my soul on it lingers.

Excellent Sewing Machine!

Thy musical click-a-click-click, Removes far away the spleen From those who of toiling are sick.

Thy task speeds along, While the fair ones in song Give vent to their feelings of gladness.

How diff'rent I ween From the sight often seen By HOOD with a heart full of sadness.

[Footnote: See "Song of the Shirt."]

Dutiful Sewing Machine!

Now cheerfully st.i.tching away, Neatly and quickly, as seen In the things by my wife made to-day; Enraptured am I, For no heart-bursting sigh Escapes from the dear operator; But a smile of delight Is now alwavs in sight, Of happiness sweet indicator.

Beautiful Sewing Machine!

How thankful am I to the man Through many years who has been Thus carefully forming thy plan!

May smiles from the fair, Rid of much toil and care-- Shine on him, in moments of anguish.

May their tender hands To obey his commands Be ready, should he in life languish.

TABBY AND TIBBY.

As Tabby and Tibby were playing one day, I, watching their frolicksome mood, Greatly wondered they never got tired of play, But the secret I soon understood.

For, listening, I hear on the drum of the ear, These thoughts in cat language conveyed-- The which I interpret lest it should appear Of telling the truth I'm afraid.

Said Tabby to Tibby: "Our master's downcast; Else why are his looks full of gloom?

There's something like spectres in future or past, Which strangely before his mind loom.

"So, daughter, still further in frolic indulge, And thus chase his sadness away; Our motives we need not to mortals divulge; Then at it in right earnest play."

This said, she gave Tibby a sly, knowing wink, And straight on her haunches sat down, While Tibby, who is of all kittens the pink, Laid the counsel safe by in her crown.