AN AMERICAN LYRIC.-TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN, WE'RE Coming, Father Abraäm, we're coming all along, But don't you think you're coming it yourself a little strong? Three hundred thousand might be called a pretty tidy figure, We've nearly sent you white enough, why don't you take the nigger? Consider, Father Abraäm, and give the thing a thought, This war has just attained four times the longitude it ought; And all the bills at Ninety Days as you have draw'd so free, Have been dishonoured, Abraäm, as punctual as could be. This song was written in April, 1861, by Mr. James R. Randall, a native of Baltimore, and first published in The Delta, whence it was soon copied into every journal in the Southern States. It is sung to the tune of a favourite college song, entitled "Lauriger Horatius," which itself is borrowed from a German air known as "Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum." Two young ladies, Miss H. Cary and Miss Jennie Cary, first set it to music, and sung it to the Confederate troops in their camp at Manassas. THE despot's heel is on thy shore, His torch is at thy temple door, The following parody of the Rebel War song alludes to the failure of the Southern forces to hold Maryland, the object of General Lee's advance northward, and which was defeated by the battles of South Mountain and Antietam. AH me! I've had enough of thee, Maryland, my Maryland! Dear land, thou art too dear for me, I'll take the nearest ford and go, Maryland, my Maryland! You've dashed my hopes, ungrateful State, Go! bless your stars I came too late, Maryland, my contraband! This iron forms no tyrant's chain, Britannia now sends not in vain, She greets her kindred o'er the main- We shout in greeting back again, Yankeeland, my Yankeeland! The Wheeling Annual for 1885, quoted this parody without any acknowledgment of the source from whence it was derived. It was written by Mr. J. G. Dalton, and published in his volume of poems entitled Lyra Bicyclica. Hodges and Co., Boston, U.S. 1885. There was another cycling parody in The Umpire for May 5, 1888, on the same original, but not so good as the above. Welcome, friends, who once were fues. While the stars of heaven shall burn, Graven deep with edge of steel, All the world their names shall read! Only Union's golden key Guards the Ark of Liberty! While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One! Hail, Columbia ! strong and free, Thy march triumphant still pursue! In the loving chorus blend! While the stars in heaven shall burn, Ever shall the circling sun Find the Many still are One! EDGAR ALLAN POE. Before leaving the American Poets a few supplemental parodies of E. A. Poe may be inserted here. His works were dealt with in Volume II. of this collection (Parts 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18), but since then, May 1885, several excellent parodies of his poems have appeared, besides which a few others have come to light which had then escaped attention. Annabel Lee was printed on p. 61, Vol. II., the following are some additional parodies of it : : DEBORAH LEE. 'Tis a dozen or so of years ago, Somewhere in the west countree, That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know By the name of Deborah Lee: Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, Now I was green, and she was green, And we loved as warmly as other folks,- With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdǝm But somehow it happened a long time ago, And the grim steam doctor (drat him!) came The doctor and death, old partners they The angels wanted her in Heaven (But they never asked for me), And that is the reason, I rather guess, In the aguish West countree, That the cold March wind and the doctor and death, Took off my Deborah Lee My beautiful Deborah Lee From the warm sunshine and the opening flower, And bore her away from me. Our love was as strong as a six horse team, But death, with the aid of doctor and steam, He closed the peepers and silenced the breath, And her form lies cold in the prairie mould, The foot of the hunter shall press her grave, In their odorous beauty around it wave, The still bright summer hours; And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass, And the nectar-laden bee, With his dreamy hum on his gauze wings pass, She wakes no more to me; Ah! never more to me; Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, She wakes no more to me. Yet oft in the hush of the dim still night, Gliding soft to my bedside,-a phantom of light, My bride that was to be; And I wake to mourn that the doctor and death, And the cold March wind should stop the breath Of my darling Deborah Lee Adorable Deborah Lee That angels should want her up in Heaven, Before they wanted me. American Paper. CAMOMILE TEA. It was many and many a year ago, In a cot by the Irish sea, ANONYMOUS. |