Thundered the battery's double bass, - While on the left where now the graves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the Rebels kept Round shot ploughed the upland glades, Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The turkeys screamed with might and main, Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. How do you think the man was dressed? He wore an ancient long buff vest, Yellow as saffron, but his best; And, buttoned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, With tails that the country-folk called "swaller." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat. Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, Close at his elbows all that day, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; "How are you, White Hat ?" "Put her through!” "Your head 's level!" and "Bully for you!" Called him "Daddy," - begged he'd disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off, With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 'T was but a moment, for that respect Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, So raged the battle. You know the rest: At which John Burns a practical man And then went back to his bees and cows. That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question 's whether You'll show a hat that 's white, or a feather! BRET HARTE. TWILIGHT ON SUMTER. After the surrender of Major Anderson, the Confederates strengthened the fort; but, in the spring of 1863, the U. S. guns on Morris Island battered it into a shapeless ruin. STILL TILL and dark along the sea A light was overhead, As from burning cities shed, And the clouds were battle-red, Far away. Not a solitary gun Left to tell the fort had won, Or lost the day! Nothing but the tattered rag Of the drooping Rebel flag, And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play. |