There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, Far away, in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender. As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, And their mother--"may heaven defend her!" [Illustration: "There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread."] The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then-- That night, when the love, yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling; And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, As if to keep down the heart's swelling. [Illustration: "And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing."] He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree, And his footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: "Ha, Mary, good-by!" And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing. "All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, And the picket's off duty forever! "INDEPENDENCE DAY." Oh, Freedom is a blessed thing! And men have marched in stricken fields, And fought, and bled, to nobly grasp The glorious fruit that freedom yields. Then let the banner float the air, The fairest ones of freedom's types-- The stars are fading one by one-- What matter? We have still the stripes! Oh! happy men of Maryland, Remember! we have still the stripes! Why heed the cannon in your streets, The bayonets that block your way? Rejoice, for you were free men once, And this is, "Independence Day." Then let the banner float the air, The fairest one of freedom's types-- The stars are fading one by one-- What matter? we have still the stripes! Oh! happy men of Maryland, Remember! we have still the stripes! FLIGHT OF DOODLES. I come from old Manassas, with a pocket full of fun-- I killed forty Yankees with a single-barrelled gun; It don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Big Yankee, little Yankee, all run or die. I saw all the Yankees at Bull Run, They fought like the devil when the battle first begun, But it don't make a niff-a-stifference to neither you or I They took to their heels, boys, and you ought to see 'em fly. I saw old Fuss-and-Feathers Scott, twenty miles away, His horses stuck up their ears, and you ought to hear 'em neigh; But it don't make niff-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Old Scott fled like the devil, boys; root, hog, or die.