THE TWO SHARPSHOOTERS.

BATTLE OF HUTTONSVILLE, W. VA.,
JANUARY 4TH, '62.

Two men went out from the fire-lit camp
In the autumn midnight gray;
Over the quaking, croaking swamp

To the edge of the woodland still and damp,
With rifle and spade went they.

A hunting owl wailed out to its young,
And the picket stood as still

In the meadow below as the shadows flung
By the beaded tent-lights thickly strung
On the silver-threaded rill.

'Twas long ere the picket moved away, And there was no time to lose;

The pits must be dug by dawn of day:
Said one, "We are digging graves, I say;"
And the other whispered, "Whose?"

With the morning light a column of steel
Moved upward along the hill

Toward the hidden pits, but a double peal
Close in the front made the column reel
A moment, and then stand still.

The check won a battle-field that day;
On the morrow the dead were laid
Head to foot in a trench of clay;
But two apart in the front that lay
Were buried without a spade.

W. H. LONGFELLOW.

WHAT PA THINKS.

BEFORE THE BATTLE OF SILVER CREEK, MO.,
JANUARY 8TH, '62.

PA thinks of Bloomy toddling down.
Before 'tis fairly light,

In his night-cap and loose night-gown,
And wishes for a sight.

With clean-washed face, smooth-combed hair,
Pa thinks 'twould him delight,

To see his Bloomy place each chair

Around the table right.

And then to see him seated there,
By pancake good and light,
Buttered and lassied, cut up square,
Pa thinks would be a sight.

Pa thinks of prayer time, and, the kiss
That does each one delight,
And wishes he could share the bliss
Of taste as well as sight.

Or with Romy going to the barn,

To see if all is right,

And feed the geese a little corn,
Were worth a cent a sight;
Pa'd march thro' mud, march thro' rain,
By darkness and day-light,

If he could only get again

Of his two boys a sight.

A PRIVATE OF 110TH N. Y. S. V.

WHEN MY LOVER RETURNS.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF BLUE GAP, VA.,
JANUARY 9TH, '62.

Он, my bird, my beautiful bird!
Sing no more to-day;

The saddest maiden under the sun
I must be, till this weary war is done;
For my lover has gone away.

Ah! your voice could never drop as it does
Down through those slender bars;

If you ever had loved a soldier lad,
And he was all the friend you had,

And was gone away to the wars.

You are quiet now! too quiet, my bird,
To suit my restless mood;

'Tis fearful to feel the house so still,
Sing out again, till you sing your fill;
I shall die with solitude!

Yet low, sing low, while he is gone
To fight for the stripes and stars;
I would not hear your voice ring out,
Till it blends itself with the nation's shout,
When my lover comes from the wars.

You must sing for us both in that blessed day,
When I welcome my soldier boy;
For my eyes will be dim with the happy tear,
And my heart will come to my lip so near,
That I cannot speak for joy!

PHEBE CARY.

THE DYING DRUMMER BOY.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF CEDAR KEYS, FLA.,
JANUARY 13TH, '62.

"I AM dying comrades, raise my head
And place it on my drum,

I've long time feared, and yet I hoped,
This time might never come.

'Tis not because I fear to die-
No! I would rather yield

A thousand lives, if they were mine,
Than we should lose the field.

"But 'tis because within my home,
Now many miles away,
I see my aged mother kneel

At eventide to pray.

And 'tis for me, her only son,

She offers up that prayer;.
She prays that He who reigns above-
Her only child will spare.

"She little thinks that on the field,

All wet with crimson gore,

Her darling boy is dying now—
She ne'er will see him more.

But, comrades, tell her, ere she dies,
What were my last words here-
(And then he raised his glassy eyes)
I'll watch for her up there."

LOUISA.

WHAT TIDINGS FROM THE CAMP.

BATTLE OF MILL SPRINGS, KY.,

JANUARY 19TH, '62.

My brother and loved soldier friend,
How farest thou in the camp to-night?
To thee love's greetings now I send,
As from my peaceful home I write.
Within thy tent, or out on guard

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On "picket" guard, God shield thee e'er; Or in the battle raging hard,

God shield thee still shall be my prayer.

What tidings are there from the camp,
What news from the seat of war, to-night?
Dost hear the sentry's measured tramp?
Dost sit beside the camp-fire bright?
O, brother mine, and soldier-friend,

I charge thee tell how speeds the fight?
Is Treason's might soon to have end?
Will it soon dawn Freedom's day-light?

What tidings are there from the war?
What do our troops-and what the foe?
O, by all things which righteous are,

Strike! to give Treason its death blow!
Advance our standards!-forward, march!
Forward to battle and to fame!

And 'neath Heaven's blue, ethereal arch,
Act valor worthy of our name.

JAMES A. C. O'CONNOR.