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with thy duty performed; Till the season is turned into summer, And the last rebel stronghold is stormed. Let no knitting of mine be surrendered On a soldier afraid of the fight, Or be dropped by the way, or borne homeward, In some needless and panic-struck flight. The swift-rolling ball in my basket, Like destiny seems to unwind; One vision comes up as I widen, And one as I narrow and bind. Shall my sock be sent off to Missouri, For some of our brave Western boys? Or down to Port Royal and Beaufort, Where Sherman is making a noise? Or off to the old sea-girt Fortress,-- Or where, on Potomac's bright shore, There are regiments drilling and waiting For the word to go forward once more. Perchance this soft fabric, when finished, May cherish an invalid's foot; Or, in some wild scamper of horsemen, Lie hid in a cavalry boot. Perchance it may be taken prisoner, And down into Rebeldom borne; Peradventure — alas! the poor stocking-- It may by some rebel be worn! It may be cut through with
18. the way we went to Beaufort. Full fifty sail we were that day, When out to sea we sped away, With a feeling of brooding mystery; Bound — there was no telling where, But well we knew there was strife to share, And we felt our mission was bound to bear A place in heroic history. The man at the helm, nothing knew he, As he steered his ship out into the sea, On that morn of radiant beauty; And the ships outspread their wings, and flew Like sea-birds over the water blue, One thought alone each brewing. The rebel guns waked a fearful note From our rifled cannon's open throat, And our shells flew fast and steady. The battle is over — the strife is done-- The Stars and Bars from the forts have run-- The blow is struck, and victory won-- Beaufort is ours already! And then we sailed to the beautiful town, Where we tore the emblem of treason down, And planted the starry banner; And the breezes of heaven seemed to play With its folds in a tender and loving way, As though they were proud to
22. Zagonyi. by George H. Boker. Bold captain of the Body-Guard, I'll troll a stave to thee! My voice is somewhat harsh and hard, And rough my minstrelsy. I've cheered until my throat is sore For how our boys at Beaufort bore; Yet here's a cheer for thee! I hear thy jingling spurs and reins, Thy sabre at thy knee; The blood runs lighter through my veins, As I before me see Thy hundred men, with thrusts and blows, Ride down a thousand stubborn foes, The foremost led by thee. With pistol snap and rifle crack-- Mere salvos fired to honor thee-- Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hack The way your swords make free; Then back again — the path is wide This time — ye gods! it was a ride, The ride they took with thee! No guardsman of the whole command Halts, quails, or turns to flee; With bloody spur and steady hand They gallop where they see Thy leading plume stream out ahead, O'er flying, wounded, dying, dead; They can but follow thee. So, captain of the Body-Guard, I pledge a health t
Blasted B'S.--The B's have swarmed upon us for some time, and are more provocative of nightmare than mince pie at ten o'clock. We had Buchanan, Breckinridge, Black, Bright, Bigler, Bayard, Benjamin, and Brown to curse the nation in the civil ranks, and now we are haunted by Bull Run, Ball's Bluff, Big Bethel, and Bull's Bay, boldly entered by our fleet, notwithstanding the ominous prestige against B's. Blast the B's. We hope they will cease to swarm on the boughs of the Tree of Liberty. We hope our fleet will make no Bull in Bull's Bay, and regret that Beaufort begins with B.--Cleveland Plain Dealer. There seems to be another blasted B down at Belmont, Mo.
One of the Beaufort (S. C.) negroes advertised his runaway master in the following clever travestie: $500 reward.--Rund away from me on de 7th ob dis month, my massa Julan Rhett. Massa Rhett am five feet leven inches high, big shoulders, brack har, curly shaggy whiskers, low forehead, an' dark face. He make big fuss when he go 'mong de gemmen, he talk ver big, and use de name ob de Lord all de time. Calls heself Suddern gemmen, but I suppose will try now to pass heself off as a brack maa deep scar on his shoulder from a fight, scratch cross de left eye, made by my Dinah when he tried to whip her. He neber look peple in de face. I more dan spec he will make track for Bergen kounty, in de furrin land ob Jarsey, whar I magin he hab a few friends. I will gib four hundred dollars for him if alive, an' five hundred if anybody show him dead. If he cum back to his kind niggers widout much truble, dis chile will receive him lubingly. Sambo Rhett. Beaufort, S. C., Nov. 9, 1861.