Cordelia had a lover who was killed At Antietam fighting, not for niggers, But fighting back the fools who had been crazed By preachers, poets, Garrisons and Whittiers Who thought they worked for freedom, but instead Worked for New England’s tariff--look at me How could the trust destroy me if the tariff Put no bricks in the bully’s boxing gloves? Well, then, Cordelia lost her lover, And when the troops came was a novitiate Nun at the convent. And the soldiers came To say the convent would be spared. But when The flames arose, she ran into the city To be beside her father and her mother. And she arrived Just as the soldiers entered the house for loot. Her mother was in bed half dead from fright, Not well at best. The soldiers broke the bedroom door, And howled for treasure. When the mother said There was no treasure, then they took her And flung her from the bed, ripped up the matress, Raked pictures from the walls, and smashed the mirrors, Tore closets open, then went to the cellar Leaving the mother lying on the floor, Who lay as dead. They drank what wine they found, Then seized the father, hung him to a tree To make him tell where he kept money hidden. The mother died in two days from the fright. The father was not killed, they took him down, And went their way carousing, yelling out “You dirty rebels now we’ve got you fair.” Cordelia thought no doubt that both were dead. A passerby beheld her on the lawn Her hair let down and plucking at her dress. But who could stop to help her in that hell Of a city burning and the howls and shouts, And falling walls? Cordelia disappeared and from that night Was never seen or heard of. To his death Her father thought she met a terrible fate: Was raped and slaughtered. So you see All of this put together tells the story Of this poor creature whom you called “Old Piery.” But let me add Cordelia had a horse She called “Old Piery”--that fits in my proof. That’s why she named herself “Old Piery” here, And gave your boys and girls a mocking name To hail her with as she went up your alleys; With which to rap the windows of her room, Where bottles, cans, waste rags, and copper things, Old hoops of iron, staves, old boots and shoes, Springs, wheels of clocks, and locks of broken guns, Old boards and boxes, stacks of paper waste Stuffed up the place, and where unknown to all Paper and silver money hid in cracks Between the leaves of fouled and rain-soaked books, Or packed in jars were kept by her. You see Her mind was turned to treasure, hiding it Against the soldiers maybe, in this land Where Lincoln was a laborer, farmer, kept A store at Salem.