Gracie of Alabama Walked down the lines with Lee, Marking through mists of gunshot The clouds of enemy. Thrice Alabama’s warning Fell on a heedless ear, While the relentless lead-storm, Converging, hurtled near; Till, straight before his chieftain, Without a word or sign, He stood, a shield the grandest, Against the Union line. And then the glass was lowered, And voice that faltered not Said, in its measured cadence, “Why, Gracie, you’ll be shot!” And Alabama answered,-- “The South will pardon me If the ball that goes through Gracie Comes short of Robert Lee!” Swept a swift flash of crimson Athwart the chieftain’s cheek, And the eyes whose glance was knighthood Spake as no king could speak. And side by side with Gracie He turned from shot and flame,-- Side by side with Gracie Up the grand aisle of Fame! FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR. (By special permission of Mrs. Rosa N. Ticknor.) 45 THE BALLAD OF A LITTLE FUN I rode a horse, a dappled bay, Coal-black his mane and tail,-- A horse who never needed spur, Nor curb, nor martingale. And by my side three others rode, Sun-tanned, long-haired, and grim, Wild men led on by Edmondson, Jim Polk, you’ve heard of him. Behind us galloped, four by four, A swarthy, mottled band Of reckless fellows, chosen from The bravest in the land. Whither away on that fair day? Oh, just a dash for fun. To speed our horses, and keep up With Jim Polk Edmondson. Behind our backs we left the hills; We crossed the Salliquoy; My right-hand comrade smiled and said, “I fished here when a boy.” Then from the rise at Hogan’s house, I saw, as in a dream, Reed-fringed, and silver-blue, and deep, The Coosawattee gleam. A shot rang out! A bullet split The air so close to me I felt the keen hot puff; and then A roar of musketry. A wind of lead blew from the wood; We took it at a run: We sped so fast along the lane The worm-fence panels spun. A horse went down, a dying face Scowled darkly at the sky; A bullet clipped my comrade’s hat And lopped the brim awry. “Come, boys; come on!” our leader cried. Pellmell we struck the line; My comrade’s pistol spat its balls, And likewise so did mine. A swirl of smoke, with rifts of fire, Enveloped friend and foe; Death, so embarrassed, hardly knew Which way his strokes must go. The fight closed in on every side, And tore one spot of ground; There was not room to swing an arm, Or turn your horse around.