THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE.

BY CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

HA! Bully for me* again, when my turn for picket is

over;

And now for a smoke, as I lie, with the moonlight in the

clover.

My pipe it is only a knot from the root of the brier-wood

tree;

But it turns my heart to the northward: Harry, give it

to me.

And I'm but a rough at best, bred up to the row and the

riot,

But a softness comes o'er my heart when all are asleep and quiet.

For many a time in the night strange things appear to

my eye,

As the breath from my brier-wood pipe sails up between me and the sky.

Last night a beautiful spirit arose with the wisping smoke; O, I shook, for my heart felt good, as it spread out its hands and spoke,

Saying, "I am the soul of the brier: we grew at the root of a tree

Where lovers would come in the twilight, two ever, for company.

* The use of "bully," as an expression of encouragement and approval among our roughs and Bowery boys, and boys not Bowery, is no novelty in the language. The word is found similarly used in the dramatists of the Elizabethan period, and those of the Restoration.

THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE.

"Where lovers would come in the morning,

two, together;

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ever but

When the flowers were full in their blow, the birds in their song and feather.

"Where lovers would come in the noontime loitering, never but two,

Looking in each other's eyes, like the pigeons that kiss and coo.

"And O! the honeyed words that came when the lips were parted,

And the passion that glowed in eyes, and the lightning looks that darted!

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Enough, Love dwells in the pipe: so ever it glows

with fire.

I am the soul of the bush, and the spirits call me Sweet

Brier."

That's what the Brier-wood said, as nigh as my tongue can tell,

And the words went straight to my heart, like the stroke of the fire-bell.

To-night I lie in the clover, watching the blossomy

smoke;

I'm glad the boys are asleep, for I'm not in the humor to joke.

I lie in the hefty clover:* between me and the waning

moon

The smoke from my pipe arises: my heart will be quiet

soon.

*I do not know what the author means by "hefty" clover. Hardly, having "heft," or weight.

My thoughts are back in the city; I'm everything I've

been;

I hear the bell from the tower; I run with the swift machine.

I see the red-shirts crowding around the engine-house

door;

The foreman's hail through the trumpet comes with a sullen roar.

The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the row in the beer saloon,

Where I put in my licks at Big Paul, come between me and the moon.

I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp of the cowskin boots;

We are marching to the Capital, — the Fire-Zouave recruits.

White handkerchiefs wave before me.

is pretty

O! but the sight

On the white marble steps, as we march through the heart of the city.

Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips that bring us good hap,

And the splendid lady that gave me the havelock for my cap.

O! up from my pipe-cloud rises, between me and the

moon,

A beautiful white-robed lady: my heart will be quiet

soon.

The lovely golden-haired lady ever in dreams I see,
Who gave me the snow-white havelock; but what does

she care for me?

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

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Look at my grimy features: mountains between us stand; I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she with her jewelled

hand.

What care I? The day that is dawning may see me when all is over,

With the red stream of my life-blood staining the hefty clover.

Hark! the reveille sounding out on the morning air! Devils are we for the battle: - Will there be angels

there?

Kiss me again, Sweet-Brier; the touch of your lips to

mine

Brings back the white-robed lady, with hair like the golden wine.

Blood an't so cool as ink, John :
It's likely you'd ha' wrote,
An' stopped a spell to think, John,
Arter they'd cut your throat!
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

He'd skurce ha' stopped," sez he,
"To mind his p's and q's ef that weasan'
Hed belonged to ole J. B.,

Instid o' you an' me!"

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,
On your front-parlor stairs,
Would it jest meet your views, John,
To wait an' sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
I on'y guess," sez he,

"Thet, ef Vattel on his toes fell,
'T would kind o' rile J. B.,
Ez wall ez you an' me!"

Who made the law thet hurts, John,
Heads I win ditto, tails?
"J. B." was on his shirts, John,

Onless my memory fails.*

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Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,

(I'm good at thet,)" sez he,

"Thet sauce for goose an't jest the juice

*Mr. Biglow's memory (for we suppose Hosea loquitur) did not fail, as may be seen by the following extract from the London Times' first article about the Trent affair, October 28th, 1861:-" Unwelcome as the truth may be, it is nevertheless a truth that we have ourselves established a system of international law which now tells against us. In high-handed and almost despotic manner we have in former day's claimed privileges over neutrals which have at different times banded all the maritime powers of the world against us. We have insisted upon stopping ships of war of neutral nations and taking British subjects out of them."