Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see
The sleeve hanging loose at your side
The arm you lost was worth to me
Every Yankee that ever died.
But you don't mind it at all;
You swear you've a beautiful stump,
And laugh at that damnable ball--
Tom, I knew you were always a trump.
A good right arm, a nervy hand,
A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,
Buried deep in the Malverri sand--
To laugh at that, is a sorry joke.
Never again your iron grip
Shall I feel in my shrinking palm--
Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip;
All within is not so calm.
Well! the arm is gone, it is true;
But the one that is nearest the heart
Is left--and that's as good as two;
Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?
Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve
A badge of honor; so do I,
And all of us:--I do believe
The fellow is going to cry!
"She deserves a perfect man," you say;
"You were not worth her in your prime:"
Tom! the arm that has turned to clay,
Your whole body has made sublime;
For you have placed in the Malvern earth
The proof and pledge of a noble life--
And the rest, henceforward of higher worth,
Will be dearer than all to your wife.
I see the people in the street
Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes;
And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet
As homage shown in mute surmise.
Bravely your arm in battle strove,
Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it;
It has perished--but a nation's love
In proud remembrance will save it.
Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith--
You're a fool for staying so long--
Woman's love you'll find no myth,
But a truth; living, tender, strong.
And when around her slender belt
Your left is clasped in fond embrace,
Your right will thrill, as if it felt,
In its grave, the usurper's place.
As I look through the coming years,
I see a one-armed married man;
A little woman, with smiles and tears,
Is helping--as hard as she can
To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve,
Tie his cravat, and cut his food;
And I say, as these fancies I weave,
"That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."
The years roll on, and then I see
A wedding picture, bright and fair;
I look closer, and its plain to me
That is Tom with the silver hair.
He gives away the lovely bride,
And the guests linger, loth to leave
The house of him in whom they pride--
"Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."
The Cotton-Burners' Hymn.
"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--Memphis Appeal.