And there across the street Was crape upon the door--our man was dead, And I was carrying chicken home to boil ACHILLES DEATHERIDGE “Your name is Achilles Deatheridge? How old are you, my boy?” “I’m sixteen past and I went to the war From Athens, Illinois.” “Achilles Deatheridge, you have done A deed of dreadful note.” “It comes of his wearing a battered hat, And a rusty, wrinkled coat.” “Why didn’t you know how plain he is? And didn’t you ever hear, He goes through the lines by day or night Like a sooty cannoneer?” “You must have been half dead for sleep, For the dawn was growing bright.” “Well, Captain, I had stood right there Since six o’clock last night.” “I cocked my gun at the swish of the grass And how am I at fault When a dangerous looking man won’t stop When a sentry hollers halt?” “I cried out halt and he only smiled And waved his hand like that. Why, any Johnnie could wear the coat And any fellow the hat.” “I hollered halt again and he stopped And lighted a fresh cigar. I never noticed his shoulder badge, And I never noticed a star.” “So you arrested him? Well, Achilles, When you hear the swish of the grass If it’s General Grant inspecting the lines Hereafter let him pass.” SLIP SHOE LOVEY You’re the cook’s understudy A gentle idiot body. You are slender like a broom Weaving up and down the room, With your dirt hair in a twist And your left eye in a mist. Never thinkin’, never hopin’ With your wet mouth open. So bewildered and so busy As you scrape the dirty kettles, O Slip Shoe Lizzie As you rattle with the pans. There’s a clatter of old metals, O Slip Shoe Lovey, As you clean the milk cans. You’re a greasy little dovey, A laughing scullery daughter, As you slop the dish water, So abstracted and so dizzy, O Slip Shoe Lizzie! So mussy, little hussie, With the china that you break, And the kitchen in a smear When the bread is yet to bake, And the market things are here-- O Slip Shoe Lovey! You are hurrying and scurrying From the sink to the oven, So forgetful and so sloven. You are bustling and hustling From the pantry to the door, With your shoe strings on the floor, And your apron strings a-draggin’, And your spattered skirt a-saggin’. You’re an angel idiot lovey, One forgives you all this clatter Washing dishes, beating batter. But there is another matter As you dream above the sink: You’re in love pitter-patter, With the butcher-boy I think. And he’ll get you, he has got you If he hasn’t got you yet.