The girls were sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we turned to go,—
We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.
Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey.
Boston, United States, 1854.
We buried him slyly on Monday night, the sods with our shooting-sticks turning, for he wrote a new poem, and read it with might, in spite of the Editor's warning.
QUADS.