Like Cyclops gloating o’er his feast,
The gallows gapes to gulp him last;
While the vile scum who helped the plot
Are left in dungeons damp to rot;
Like toads, to poison with their breath
Whate’er they touch,—their touch is death.
What though our arms once met rebuff
At Richmond, Bull Run and Ball’s Bluff;
Where imbeciles or traitors led
Our hosts to murder’s gory bed;