The ragged boy who brought the news, Offered me much from which to choose. _Times_, _Tribune_, _Herald_, I refuse, My Punch. Within the carriage sickly white Were men from Chicamanga’s fight. My eyes were moistened by the sight, My Punch. “Discharged from hospital,” they sigh, “Where yet a thousand sufferers lie, And coming home at last” to die, My Punch. For those sad faces homeward turned, Their short-lived pensions fully earned, How many mother’s hearts had yearned, My Punch. ’Twas scarce a twelvemonth since, I know, When eager crowds beheld them go, Their youthful faces all a-glow, My Punch. And now all twisted by the cramps, Which wrung them ’mid the noxious damps Of fenny bivouacks and camps, My Punch. Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim, Lithe was each crutch-supported limb, Merry were once those spectres grim, My Punch. What contrast between now and then! Their mothers scarce would know again Those mournful, feeble, dying men, My Punch. One speechless on his pallet lay, They take him forth, “His home” they say A wretched hamlet by the way, My Punch. My wandering fancy sadly bore My vision to the half-ope’d door, The tearful clasp――I saw no more, My Punch. Oh, fearful reign of greed and hate! Oh, Nation haughty and elate, Writing in blood its dreadful fate! My Punch. It haunts me, this repulsive theme, With gory phantasies which seem The nightmares of a troubled dream, My Punch. For through the surface gloze so thin One sees the Carnival of Sin, The devil’s dice they play. Who win? My Punch. The train is stopped by drifting snows, An inn is reached, but no repose Exhausted hungry nature knows, My Punch. Here I am forced to sit up late, Amid the chewing crowds I hate, Who patiently expectorate My Punch. The whistle sounds ere I depart, I clasp thee to my aching heart, Balm for the exile’s keenest smart, My Punch. ――――:o:―――― MY STOCKINGS. A nobler theme let others choose; Fit subject for my humble muse Are ye, whom night and day I use, My Stockings. Soon as Aurora points the skies, (Ere from my sluggard couch I rise,) For you I raise my earliest cries, My Stockings.