But hinterest, my cove, we must look hafter now,
Unless principle yields, it are poor anyhow."

So spoke Johnny Bull, so ee spake hunto me,
Hand I 'inted slyly to Jefferson D.,

Who, very much pleased, rubbed 'is 'ands in 'is joy, Hand exclaimed: "You 're the man for my money, old boy.

"Go in, Johnny Times! I will feather your nest;
Never mind if you soil it, 'tis foul at the best;
Strange guests have been thar, but my cotton is clean,
And a cargo is yourn, if you manage it keen."

So I pitched hinto Doodle like a thousan' of brick,
May'ap it warn't proper to do it — on tick,
But John Bull is almighty, he'll see I am paid,
And my cargo of cotton will break the blockade.

PART SECOND.

So Bull ee vent hin the blockade for to bust;
The Christians they cried, and the sinners they cuss'd;
There vos blowin', and blusterin', and mighty parade,
And hall to get ready to break the blockade.

Ven hall hof a sudden it come in the 'ed

Hof a prudent hold covey, who up and 'e said: "Hit's bad to vant cotton, but worser by far, His the sufferin' hand misery you'll make by a war.

"There 'is cotton in Hingy, Peru, and Assam,
Guayaquil and Jamaica, Canton, Surinam ;
'Arf a loaf, or 'arf cotton, tight papers hi call,
But a 'ole var hentire his the devil and hall."

So he sent not 'is vessel hacross the broad sea,
Vich vos hawful 'ard lines for poor Jefferson D.,

GOD SAVE JOHN BULL.

57

Hand wrote hunto Doodle, "'Old hon, and be true!" And Jonathan hanswered Bull, "Bully for you!"

SEQUEL AFTER-TIMES.

Has Bull vos valking in London haround,

'E found the Times lyin' hupon the cold ground,
With a big bale hof cotton right hover 's side;
Says Bull,"Hi perceive 't was by cotton he died!"

GOD SAVE JOHN BULL.*

GOD save me, great John Bull !
Long keep my pocket full!
God save John Bull !

Ever victorious,

Haughty, vain-glorious,

Snobbish, censorious,

God save John Bull

O Lords, our gods, arise!
Tax all our enemies,
Make tariffs fall!

Confound French politics,
Frustrate all Russian tricks,

Get Yankees in a "fix,"

God "bless" them all! [Sinistrâ manu ]

*It has been thought that should a time arrive when God save the King cannot be sung in Great Britain, because, that peculiar institution having been found superfluous and expensive, there will be no king to be saved, the old national hymn will be altered to something like the lines above given.

Maintain oppressive laws,

Frown down the poor man's cause!
So sing with heart and voice,
I, great John Bull!

R. G. W.

THE POTOMAC - 1861.

THE light of stars shook through the trees,
The large-eyed moon looked o'er the lawn,
O day, I said, delay thy dawn!

A little whisper stirred the breeze.

A frightened bird thrilled through the place,
A dead leaf fell at my still feet,
And my wild heart, oh loud it beat!
He read my answer in my face.

All night across the moonlit land,

Far southward, where the river runs, I heard the booming of their guns, While in his own he held my hand.

Trust God, oh little heart! he said,
And galloped forth into the light ;
That day he rode into the fight,
And there they shot my lover dead.

My stricken soul rose from the dust,

And pushed rebellious hands toward God;
I will not to the earth be trod,

Thou art nor wise, nor good, nor just!

And thus it was not sanctified

My sorrow

and when I did pray:

THE POTOMAC — 1861.

My end, O God! no more delay, Now take me to him, Lord, I cried.

One night I dreamed, and he stood by,
Clothed, angel-wise, in love and light.
I durst not touch his robes of white,
He chid me with his pitying eye.

Only that look, nor any word,

And I had learned, not all too late,

Had learned to live, and work, and wait, And my dead faith to life was stirred.

Oh well I knew that not for me

Were robe of white, the palm, the crown,
Till I more worthy them had

grown,

Had earned, like him, euthanasy!

Nor sitting still with folded palms,

To nurse my grief through the long years, But reading through my bitter tears Strange mockery in the eternal psalms ;

In some far circle from the throne

Content if I, at last, may stand, He holding in his own my hand, And our two voices making one —

One voice of praise, prevailing thence
Unto the Lamb upon the Hill
The far-off memory of ill,
Crowning the long, long recompense.

59

Harpers' Weekly.

"EIN FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT."

(Luther's Hymn.)

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

WE wait beneath the furnace blast
The pangs of transformation;
Not painlessly doth God recast
And mould anew the nation.
Hot burns the fire
Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand

That from the land

Uproots the ancient evil.

The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared,
Its bloody rain is dropping;
The poison plant the fathers spared

All else is overtopping.

East, West, South, North,

It curses the earth:

All justice dies,

And fraud and lies

Live only in its shadow.

What gives the wheat-field blades of steel?
What points the rebel cannon?
What sets the roaring rabble's heel
On the old star-spangled pennon?
What breaks the oath

Of the men o' the South?
What whets the knife

For the Union's life?

Hark to the answer: SLAVERY!

Then waste no blows on lesser foes,
In strife unworthy freemen;