The mean poltroon of later days Who dons a mask in devious ways, Black mask and heart, in liver white, Fleet as a hare in coward flight And worthy of the hangman’s loop Ne’er found his like in Morgan’s troop. They lashed no helpless foeman’s back, No woman felt his brute attack. He burned no roof o’er matron’s head, While sleeping with her babes in bed, Nor scourged with thorns till shoulders bled. No town was burned in bandit flame Till the poltroon Night-riders came, With bloody threats in unsigned letters And switches to alarm their betters; An anarchist of basest soul, The gallows-tree his fitting goal Without a hope of reformation He forces this dilemma on the nation, Expatriation or Extermination. Bred in a home of luxury, The very flower of courtesy, The pet of good life’s merry whirl, Kindly and handsome as a girl, The dread of many a Federal band, The darling of the Southern land, Rode Morgan like a Centaur’s self, But not for vulgar greed or pelf, Chivalrous men of force and pride, Sought brave adventures at his side, How shrewd he struck, how hard his blow The bravest Federal well might know, Even while their needed stores were brough Destruction came as quick as thought. Victim of Woman’s treachery, He perished not as the brave should die, Decoyed to death, unarmed he died. No friend nor weapon by his side, Without resistance or a blow, His death-doom came from heartless foe, And strong men of heroic heart Who stooped not to the assassin’s art Dropped at the news an honest tear When Morgan after bright career Unscathed by ball or battle-spear, Rested at last upon his bier, And unattended and unshriven The warrior’s soul went up to Heaven.