The crystal streams, the pearly streams,
The streams in sunbeams flashing,
The murm'ring streams, the gentle streams,
The streams down mountains dashing,
Have been the theme
Of poets' dream,
And, in wild witching story,
Have been renowned for love's fond scenes,
Or some great deed of glory.
The Rhine, the Tiber, Ayr, and Tweed,
The Arno, silver-flowing,
The Hudson, Charles, Potomac, Dan,
With poesy are glowing;
But I would praise
In artless lays,
A stream which well may match ye,
Though dark its waters glide along--
The swampy Salkehatchie.
'Tis not the beauty of its stream,
Which makes it so deserving
Of honor at the Muses' hands,
But 'tis the use it's serving,
And 'gainst a raid,
We hope its aid
Will ever prove efficient,
Its fords remain still overflowed,
In water ne'er deficient.
If Vandal bands are held in check,
Their crossing thus prevented,
And we are spared the ravage wild
Their malice has invented,
Then we may well
In numbers tell
No other stream can match ye,
And grateful we shall ever be
To swampy Salkehatchie.
The Broken Mug.
Ode (so-called) on a Lite Melancholy Accident in the Shenandoah Valley (so-called.)
John Esten Cooke.
My mug is broken, my heart is sad!
What woes can fate still hold in store!
The friend I cherished a thousand days
Is smashed to pieces on the floor!
Is shattered and to Limbo gone,
I'll see my Mug no more!
Relic it was of joyous hours
Whose golden memories still allure--
When coffee made of rye we drank,
And gray was all the dress we wore!
When we were paid some cents a month,
But never asked for more!
In marches long, by day and night,
In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,
Strapped on the saddle at my back
This faithful comrade still I bore--
This old companion, true and tried,
I'll never carry more!