“‘You ought to seen us launch her t’other day!” Tell dad we’ve christened her for a fight of hisn He fought at Saratoga. Now just listen! She’s twice as big, folks say, As Perry’s ship that took the prize at Put-in-Bay; Yet forty days ago, hull, masts, and mizzen, The whole of her was growin’, live and limber, In God’s green timber. “‘I helped to fell her main-mast back in March. The woods was snowed knee-deep. She was a wonder: A straight white pine. She fell like roarin’ thunder And left a blue-sky arch Above her, bustin’ all to kindlin’s a tall larch.-- Mebbe the scart jack-rabbits skun from under! Us boys hoorayed, and me and every noodle Yelled Yankee Doodle! “‘My, how we haw’d and gee’d the big ox-sledges Haulin’ her long trunk through the hemlock dells, A-bellerin’ to the tinkle-tankle bells, And blunted our ax edges Hackin’ new roads of ice ’longside the rocky ledges. We stalled her twice, but gave the oxen spells And yanked her through at last on the home-clearin’-- Lord, wa’n’t we cheerin’! “‘Since then I’ve seen her born, as you might say: Born out of fire and water and men’s sweatin’, Blast-furnace rairin’ and red anvils frettin’ And sawmills, night and day, Screech-owlin’ like ’twas Satan’s rumhouse run away Smellin’ of tar and pitch. But I’m forgettin’ The man that’s primed her guns and paid her score: The Commodore. “‘Macdonough--he’s her master, and she knows His voice, like he was talkin’ to his hound. There ain’t a man of her but ruther’d drown’d Than tread upon his toes; And yet with his red cheeks and twinklin’ eyes, a rose Ain’t friendler than his looks be. When he’s round, He makes you feel like you’re a gentleman American. “‘But I must tell you how we’re hidin’ here. This Otter Crick is like a crook-neck jug, And we’re inside. The Redcoats want to plug The mouth, and cork our beer; So last week Downie sailed his British lake fleet near To fill our channel, but us boys had dug Big shore intrenchments, and our batteries Stung ’em like bees “’Till they skedaddled whimperin’ up the lake; But while the shots was flyin’, in the scrimmage, I caught a ball that scotched my livin’ image.-- Now, Jean, for Sam Hill’s sake, Don’t let-on this to mother, for, you know, she’d make A deary-me-in’ that would last a grim age. ’Tain’t much, but when a feller goes to war What’s he go for