(MISSISSIPPI).

By Miss Maria E. Jones.

Over the river there are fierce, stern meetings,
No kindly clasp of hand, no welcome call;
But hatred swells the chorus of the greetings,
Of foes who meet at Death’s high carnival;
No flash of wine-cups, but the red blood streaming
From ragged wounds, upon the thirsty sand,
And fierce, wild music of bright sabre gleaming,
Where eager foemen grapple hand to hand.
Over the river are our lov’d ones lying,
Alone and wounded on the couch of pain;
Consum’d by wasting fevers—even dying—
Sighing for those they ne’er may see again;
There are untended graves where grass is growing
Rankly and tall o’er each lone sleeper’s head;
There are long trenches, where bright flowers blowing,
Mark the common grave of thousands dead.
Over the river victory shouts of gladness,
Great waves of joy rise above seas of woe;
Over the river comes a wail of sadness,
A city’s fallen, or a chief laid low;
Alas! for us! we must sit still and ponder
Upon the woes of battle all the day,
And dream, and sew, and weep, while our thoughts wander
Over the river! Let us watch and pray.

PRIVATE MAGUIRE.

“Och, it’s nate to be captain or colonel,
Divil a bit would I want to be higher;
But to rust as a private, I think’s an infernal
Predicament, surely,” says Private Maguire.
“They can go sparkin’ and playin’ at billiards,
With money to spend for their slightest desire,
Loafin’ and atin’ and drinkin’ at Ballard’s,
While we’re on the pickets,” says Private Maguire.
“Livin’ in clover, they think it’s a trifle
To stand out all night in the rain and the mire,
And a Yankee hard by, with a villainous rifle,
Just riddy to pop ye,” says Private Maguire.
“Faith, now, it’s not that I’m afther complainin’,
I’m spilin’ to meet ye, Abe Lincoln, Esquire!
Ye blaggard! it’s only I’m weary of thrainin’,
And thrainin’, and thrainin’,” says Private Maguire.
“O Lord, for a row! but Maguire, boy, be aisy,
Kape yourself swate for the inimy’s fire;
General Lee is the chap that shortly will plaze ye,
Be the Holy St. Patrick!” says Private Maguire.

“And, lad, if ye’re hit (O, bedad, that infernal
Jimmy O’Dowd would make love to Maria!)
Whether ye’re captain, or major, or colonel,
Ye’ll die with the best then,” says Private Maguire.

STONEWALL JACKSON.

By a lady formerly of Richmond.