I talked this morning with your county judge. He said she came here late in ’65 Or early ’66, Was seen by farmers near the Salem Mill, A loitering, mumbling woman, Not old, but looking old, and aging fast As she became a figure in your streets And alleys with a gunny-sack on back, Wherein she stuffed old bottles, paper, things She picked industriously and stored away. Would buy a bit of cold food at the baker’s. Sometimes would sit on door steps eating cake, Which friendly hands had given her, then depart And say, “God rest your souls!” Attended mass On Sunday mornings, knew no one And had no friends. In ’69 was found incompetent, And placed in charge of a conservator. Then as she was not dangerous went ahead At picking rags, Until in ’97 passed away. Such was the life and death of a fine girl, The daughter of a judge in South Carolina And a belle of New Orleans. And after life at best knew life at worst, Beginning in a southern capitol Where she knew riches, admiration, place, She ended up in Petersburg, Illinois, A little croaking, mad but harmless waif, A withered leaf stirred by the Lincoln storm. And here’s my guess: The fancy of her madness brought her here To see the country where The man who was a laborer, kept a store, Could rise therefrom, And bring such desolation to the South, Such sorrow to herself, that is my guess. The name’s Cordelia Stacke inside this ring You tell me. She’s the same no doubt. We all lived in Columbia when the troops Of Sherman whirled upon us to the sea. I was a year old then. We were burned out, Lost everything. The troops came howling, plundering, And tossing combustible chemicals. They butchered just for sport our cattle; Split chests and cabinets with savage axes; Walked with their hob-nailed boots on our pianos; Ran bayonets through pictures; Rode horses in our parlors; Broke open trunks and safes; Searched cellars, opened graves for hoarded gold, And yelled “You dirty rebels now we’ve got you.” They filled their bellies up with wine and whisky, And drunken, howling through Columbia’s streets They carried vases, goblets, silver, gold, And rolled about with pockets full of loot, And then at last they stuck the torch to us And made a bon-fire of our city.