Illness of the Eagle.The Eagle was sick.
He'd had too much physic of Abolition;
The blood in his veins was hot and thick,
The Eagle's pulse was fevered and quick,
A thousand ways his feathers would stick,
He was in a sad condition.
They called a doctor to cure the bird:
There came with the doctor General Scott.
The voice of Sir Fuss and Feathers was heard--
He could not set by without saying a word,
As the ire of the gallant old soldier was stirred!
He proposed that the bird be shot.
Loud rose the voice of Greeley and Seward!
Many their words — we're sorry to lose them--
They told how the Eagle might be cured,
Like a Duffield ham — and his life insured.
Raymond and Bennett added a word,
And they hid him in Abraham's bosom.
Poor old Eagle, of Stars and Stripes,
There was a nest for you, I said;
At the very thought my eyes I wipe,
Your talons I see take a firmer gripe.
The stars fade away, but you feel the stripe--
Poor Eagle hangs down his head.
Better the fate proposed by Scott;
Perhaps not better, but full as well;
Rather than live, so I would be shot,
Picked of my feathers, boiled in a pot;
Rather would list to my funeral knell,
Be dead and be buried and go to — well,
Send me to climes where orange trees bloom,
There let me rest my wearied head,
Fan my feathers with sweet perfume;
Let music of honest contentment come,
With manly hearts I find my home,
And sleep in their shade when dead.
Bird of the broad and sweeping wing,
They have swept your nest with a dirty broom,
Tarnished your glorious covering;
From Tammany Hall I hear them sing,
Weed and Morgan and Governor King,
Vanderbilt, Law, Beecher, and Tyng--
Priest and pirate, together they come.
Arise, proud Eagle I thy bird of fame I
Phoenix-like soar from thy burning nest;
Not wrong nor oppression thy spirit can tame,
Or drive away truth from thy noble breast.
Come, proud Eagle! our old bird, come!
And live in an honest Southern home.