"This, this is the season for trying men's souls, The nerves of their arms, and the worth of their polls! So, we 'll have his Majesty _over the coals_, And make him the first that shall _run_: When, heated to melting, he hides in the mould, We 'll hold him there still, till new-shapen and cold; Then, off he shall go, like a tale that is told, In the voice of the thundering gun! "The discomposed Sovereign with us shall unite, And fly at his friends for our cause in the fight, To scatter his subjects--to purchase our right-- The land of oppression to clear. And he, to whom, whizzing, his monarch shall come, In the form of a ball, 'mid the noise of the drum, The flashes and smoke, will have finished the sum Of his deeds as a royalist here!" Then, flat to the earth was his Eminence cast! The dust rose above him, and mounted the blast, While a bevy of Rome's feathered sentinels passed, Raised their wings, and huzzaed as he fell! But, how the proud royalist felt, when the lead Of his late British Majesty came at his head, While some dropped before it, and some turned and fled, Is more than a _Yankee_ can tell. THE BIRD'S MATERNAL CARE. The following is but versified statement of a touching, literal fact that occurred not long since a few rods from my own door. A shadowy tree, that grew beside Its city owner's door, Its branches threw so high and wide, That many a bird could sing, and hide Among the leaves it bore. A robin came, and built her nest In that green rustling tree. At evening, there she sank to rest And furled her weary wings, as blest As little bird could be. Upon her side her drowsy head, Beneath her folded wing, She pillowed, while the night-hours fled; When morning flushed the east with red, She 'd wake, and mount, and sing. Five pretty eggs of azure hue, In that soft nest she laid. So clear and vivid was their blue, Like polished balls they shone to view, Of purest sapphire made. And many a day she brooded o'er Those treasures, till they grew, In what the shells contained before, To something different--something more-- Young birds came peeping through! Five little baby birds were there, In that fond robin's nest, All callow; and their mother's care Was now to find their daily fare, And shield them with her breast. Her tiny game, or berries ripe From some far distant stem She 'd bring them; then her beak she 'd wipe, And sit upon a twig, and pipe A mother's tune to them.