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Beauregard and Gillmore.

At midnight, in his blackguard tent,
“Old Beau” was dreaming of the hour
When Gillmore, like a suppliant bent,
Should tremble at his power.
In dreams, through camp and street he bore
The trophies of a conqueror.
He sported Gillmore's gold-laced hat--
His red-topped boots, his gay cravat,
As wild his fancy as a bat,
Or “any other bird.”
An hour passed on--“Old Beau” awoke,
Half strangled by a villainous smoke,
Enough the very devil to choke,
While all around the “stink-pots” broke
And blinded him with smoke.
He cursed the villainous compound,
While stunk the pole-cats far around;
Then roared with wild, demoniac shriek:
“Lord! what a stink! the Greek! the Greek [63]
Put out this villainous Greek fire!
Or in the last red ditch expire.
'Tis sweet to draw one's dying breath
For one's dear land, as Horace saith,
But dreadful to be stunk to death.”

--Nashville Union.

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