Under the yaller-pines I house, When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, An' hear among their furry boughs The baskin' west-wind purr contented,-- While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin', The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow, Further an' further South retreatin'. Or up the slippery knob I strain An' see a hunderd hills like islan's Lift their blue woods in broken chain Out o' the sea o' snowy silence; The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth, Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin', Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth Of empty places set me thinkin'. Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows, An' rattles di'mon's from his granite; Time wuz, he snatched away my prose, An' into psalms or satires ran it; But he, nor all the rest thet once Started my blood to country-dances, Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce Thet ha'n't no use for dreams an' fancies. Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street I hear the drummers makin' riot, An' I set thinkin' o' the feet Thet follered once an' now are quiet,-- White feet ez snowdrops innercent, Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't, No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. Why, ha'n't I held 'em on my knee? Did n't I love to see 'em growin', Three likely lads ez wal could be, Handsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'? I set an' look into the blaze Whose natur', jes' like their'n, keeps climbin', Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways, An' half despise myself for rhymin'. Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth On War's red techstone rang true metal, Who ventered life an' love an' youth For the gret prize o' death in battle? To him who, deadly hurt, agen Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, Tippin' with fire the bolt of men Thet rived the Rebel line asunder? 'T a'n't right to hev the young go fust, All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust To try an' make b'lieve fill their places: Nothin' but tells us wut we miss, Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, An' thet world seems so fur from this Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in! My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners; I pity mothers, tu, down South, For all they sot among the scorners: I 'd sooner take my chance to stan' At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, Than at God's bar hol' up a han' Ez drippin' red ez your'n, Jeff Davis!