9. what shall be done for Jeff Davis?
Weave him a mantle of burning shame!Stamp on his forehead that dreadful name
Which deeds like his inscribe in blood;
A Traitor to man! a Traitor to God!
Plait him a crown, of the flower that comes
In the ashes that lie o'er buried homes I
Let his sceptre be, the smoking brand
Which his fiat sent throughout the land!
[11] Let his paeans be the bitter cries
From millions of anguished hearts that rise,
Both day and night to that listening ear,
Which ever stoops their plaints to hear.
'Mid the ruin dire, his hands have wrought,
Let him find the throne, he long has sought;
While starving crowds, in hoarse notes ring,
Not Cotton, but grim old Death, is King!
New-York, May 29, 1862.
M. A.
--New-York Express.
