An' ye've filled our souls with bitterness that goes from sire to son, So ye best be kind o' careful down there in Washington. THE RED DEW _Being some small account of the war experience of an East River pilot, whose boat was the Susquehanna, familiarily known as the Susq, and who lost his leg and more at Gettysburg._ At de break o' day I goes t' bed, an' I goes to work at dusk, Fer ev'ry night dat a boat can run I takes de wheel o' de Susq. De nights is long in de pilot-house? Well, now d'ye hear me speakin'? No night is long since de one I spent wid me sta'b'ard side a-leakin'. I'd gone t' de war an' was all stove in, an' I seen how a little white hand Can take holt of a great big chump like me an' make him drop his sand. An' her face! De face o' de Holy Mary warn't any sweeter 'n hern! If ye like I'll set de wheel o' me mind an' let 'er drift astern. We'd fit all day till de sun was low an' I t'ought de war was fun, Till a big ball skun de side o' me face an' smashed de end o' me gun. Den anodder one kicked me foot off--see? an' I tell ye it done it cunnin', An' I trun meself in de grass, kerplunk, but me mind kep' on a-runnin'. Next I knowed I was feelin' o' somebody's face, an' I seen de poor devil was cryin', An' he tumbled all over me tryin't' r'ise, an' he cussed an' kep' turnin' an' tryin'; "Good Gawd!" sez I, "what's de matter wid you? Shut up yer face an' hark," An' s' help me, de odder man's face was mine an' I was alone in de dark. When I lay wid me back ag'in de world I seen how little I was An' I knowed, fer de firs' time in me life, how deep an' broad de sky was; An' me mind kep' a-wanderin' off 'n de night, till it stopped where de Bowery ends, An' come back a-sighin' an' says t' me dat it couldn't find no friends. Den I fumbled me breat' till I cert'inly t'ought I never could ketch it ag'in. If I'd bin a-bawlin' t' git a prize ye bet cher life I'd 'a' win. If ye're dyin' an' ain't no home in de world an' yer fr'ends is all on de shelf, An' dere's nobody else t' bawl fer ye--ye're goin' t' bawl fer yerself. De sun peeped over de hills at last, an' as soon as I seen his rim De dew in de valley was all afire wid a sort o' a ruby glim. De blue coats lay in de tumbled grass--some stirrin' but most o' 'em dead-- 'Pon me word, de poor devils had bled so much, de dew in de valley were red! An' what d'ye t'ink? de nex' t'ing I knowed, a lady had holt o' me hand, An' smoothed de frills all out o' me face an' brushed off de dew an' de sand. No lady had ever mammied me an' I were scairt so I dassent say boo,