They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons, And wonder what I am,--alas, there are no German 'coons! For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree, The symbol of democracy, that's woolly, blithe, and free. And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, For _I_ have tasted liberty, these others _they_ have not; So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels. Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill, To Jasper Burke and Col. Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest, Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest. Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at all To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall; And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer. ARMENIAN LULLABY. IF thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, My mulberry one, my golden son, The rose shall sing thee lullabies, My pretty cosset lambkin! And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee,-- A silver boat in a golden sea,-- My velvet love, my nestling dove, My own pomegranate-blossom! The stork shall guard thee passing well All night, my sweet, my dimple-feet, And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, My gentle rain-of-springtime; And for thy slumber-play shall twine The diamond stars with an emerald vine, To trail in the waves of ruby wine, My hyacinth-bloom, my heart's perfume, My cooing little turtle! And when the morn wakes up to see My apple-bright, my soul's delight, The partridge shall come calling thee, My jar of milk-and-honey! Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, You wakeful one, you naughty son, You chirping little sparrow! THE PARTRIDGE. AS beats the sun from mountain crest, With "Pretty, pretty," Cometh the partridge from her nest. The flowers threw kisses sweet to her (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); Yet hasteneth she to mine and me,-- Ah, pretty, pretty! Ah, dear little partridge! And when I hear the partridge cry So pretty, pretty, Upon the house-top breakfast I. She comes a-chirping far and wide, And swinging from the mountain-side I see and hear the dainty dear,-- Ah, pretty, pretty! Ah, dear little partridge!