Soldier, by my mother's pray'r!
Thou dost act a demon's part;
Tell me, ere I strike thee dead,
Whence thou comest, who thou art.
Back! I will not let thee pass—
Why, that dress is Putnam's own!
Soldier, soldier, where art thou?
Vanished—like a shadow gone!
The Southern Confederacy may come to that yet, my boy, if it don't take warning in time from its patron Saint. I refer to Saint Domingo, my boy,—I refer to Saint Domingo.
Yours, musingly,