Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled too,-- Because we knowed ef Tom _had_ signed Ther wa'n't no man 'at wore the "blue" 'At was more honester inclined: An' then and there we kindo riz,-- The hull dern gang of us 'at bit-- An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whizz,-- "_Tom Johnson's quit!_" I've heerd 'em holler when the balls Was buzzin' 'round us wus 'n bees, An' when the ole flag on the walls Was flappin' o'er the enemy's, I've heerd a-many a wild "hooray" 'At made my heart git up an' git-- But Lord!--to hear 'em shout that way!-- "_Tom Johnson's quit!_" But when we saw the chap 'at fetched The news wa'n't jinin' in the cheer, But stood there solemn-like, an' reched An' kindo wiped away a tear, We someway sorto' stilled agin, And listened--I kin hear him yit, His voice a-wobblin' with his chin,-- "Tom Johnson's quit-- "I hain't a-givin' you no game-- I wisht I was!... An hour ago, This operator--what's his name-- The one 'at works at night, you know?-- Went out to flag that Ten Express, And sees a man in front of hit Th'ow up his hands an' stagger--yes,-- _Tom Johnson's quit_." LULLABY. The maple strews the embers of its leaves O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves; And the moody cricket falters in his cry--Baby-bye!-- And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky--Baby-bye!-- The lid of night is falling o'er the sky! The rose is lying pallid, and the cup Of the frosted calla-lily folded up; And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh--Baby-bye!-- O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie--Baby-bye!-- O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie! Yet, Baby--O my Baby, for your sake This heart of mine is ever wide awake, And my love may never droop a drowsy eye--Baby-bye!-- Till your own are wet above me when I die--Baby-bye!-- Till your own are wet above me when I die. IN THE SOUTH. There is a princess in the South About whose beauty rumors hum Like honey-bees about the mouth Of roses dewdrops falter from; And O her hair is like the fine Clear amber of a jostled wine In tropic revels; and her eyes Are blue as rifts of Paradise. Such beauty as may none before Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips Of fingers such as knights of yore Had died to lift against their lips: Such eyes as might the eyes of gold Of all the stars of night behold With glittering envy, and so glare In dazzling splendor of despair. So, were I but a minstrel, deft At weaving, with the trembling strings Of my glad harp, the warp and weft Of rondels such as rapture sings,-- I'd loop my lyre across my breast, Nor stay me till my knee found rest In midnight banks of bud and flower Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.