"By Zhorzhe!"—as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,—
You tell me they're dead, but I know it's a lie!
Is Jackson not President?—What was 't you said?
It can't be; you're joking; what,—all of 'em dead?
Jim,—Harry,—Fred,—Isaac,—all gone from our side?
They could n't have left us,—no, not if they tried.
Look,—there 's our old Prises,—he can't find his text;
See,—P——- rubs his leg, as he growls out "The next!"
I told you 't was nonsense. Joe, give us a song!
Go harness up "Dolly," and fetch her along!—
Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not!
Hurrah for Old Hickory!—Oh, I forgot!
Well, one we have with us (how could he contrive
To deal with us youngsters and still to survive?)
Who wore for our guidance authority's robe,—
No wonder he took to the study of Job!
And now, as my load was uncommonly large,
Let me taper it off with a classical charge;
When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun—
And then stand at ease, for my service is done.
Bibamus ad Classem vocatam "The Boys" Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est "Noyes"; Et floreant, valeant, vigeant tam, Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam!
THE OLD CRUISER
1869
HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine,
Forty times she 's crossed the line;
Same old masts and sails and crew,
Tight and tough and as good as new.
Into the harbor she bravely steers
Just as she 's done for these forty years,
Over her anchor goes, splash and clang!
Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!