But Chris'mas scooped the Sheriff, The egg-nogs gethered him in; And Shelby's boy Leviticus Was, New Year's, tight as sin; And along in March the Golyers Got so drunk that a fresh-biled owl Would 'a' looked 'longside o' them two young men, Like a sober temperance fowl. Four months alone I walked the chalk, I thought my heart would break; And all them boys a-slappin my back And axin', "What'll you take?" I never slep' without dreamin' dreams Of Burbin, Peach, or Rye, But I chawed at my niggerhead and swore I'd rake that pool or die. At last--the Fo'th--I humped myself Through chores and breakfast soon, Then scooted down to Taggart's store-- For the pledge was off at noon; And all the boys was gethered thar, And each man hilt his glass-- Watchin' me and the clock quite solemn-like Fur to see the last minute pass. The clock struck twelve! I raised the jug And took one lovin' pull-- I was holler clar from skull to boots. It seemed I couldn't git full. But I was roused by a fiendish laugh That might have raised the dead-- Them ornary sneaks had sot the clock A half an hour ahead! "All right!" I squawked. "You've got me, Jest order your drinks agin, And we'll paddle up to the Deacon's And scoop the ante in." But when we got to Kedge's, What a sight was that we saw! The Deacon and Parson Skeeters In the tail of a game of Draw. They had shook 'em the heft of the mornin', The Parson's luck was fa'r, And he raked, the minute we got thar, The last of our pool on a pa'r. So toddle along with your pledge, Squire, I 'low it's all very fine, But ez fur myself, I thank ye, I'll not take any in mine. WANDERLIEDER. SUNRISE IN THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE. (PARIS, AUGUST 1865.) I stand at the break of day In the Champs Elysees. The tremulous shafts of dawning, As they shoot o'er the Tuileries early, Strike Luxor's cold grey spire, And wild in the light of the morning With their marble manes on fire, Ramp the white Horses of Marly. But the Place of Concord lies Dead hushed 'neath the ashy skies. And the Cities sit in council With sleep in their wide stone eyes. I see the mystic plain Where the army of spectres slain In the Emperor's life-long war March on with unsounding tread To trumpets whose voice is dead. Their spectral chief still leads them,-- The ghostly flash of his sword Like a comet through mist shines far,-- And the noiseless host is poured, For the gendarme never heeds them, Up the long dim road where thundered The army of Italy onward Through the great pale Arch of the Star!