The earth was like a frying-pan,

Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;

I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—

I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;

I saw them chase the clouds as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches,-
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-
"My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,

How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them:

I saw the wide and ghastly rents

Where demon claws had torn them;

A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
For ever and for ever!

And not till fate has cut the last

Of all my earthly stitches,

This aching heart shall cease to mourn

My loved, my long-lost breeches !

THE SWEET LITTLE MAN.

DEDICATED TO THE STAY-AT-HOME RANGERS.

Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles,
Each at his post to do all that he can,

Down among

rebels and contraband chattels,

What are you doing, my sweet little man?

All the brave boys under canvas are sleeping,

All of them pressing to march with the van, Far from the home where their sweethearts are weeping; What are you waiting for, sweet little man?

You with the terrible warlike mustaches,
Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan,

You with the waist made for sword belts and sashes,
Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet little man?

Bring him the buttonless garment of woman!
Cover his face lest it freckle and tan;

Muster the Apron-string Guards on the Common,
That is the corps for the sweet little man!

Give him for escort a file of young misses,
Each of them armed with a deadly rattan ;
They shall defend him from laughter and hisses,
Aimed by low boys at the sweet little man.

All the fair maidens about him shall cluster,
Pluck the white feathers from bonnet and fan,
Make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster,—
That is the crest for the sweet little man!

Oh, but the Apron-string Guards are the fellows!
Drilling each day since our troubles began,-
"Handle your walking-sticks!" "Shoulder umbrellas!"
That is the style for the sweet little man.

Have we a nation to save? In the first place
Saving ourselves is the sensible plan,—

Surely the spot where there's shooting's the worst place
Where I can stand, says the sweet little man.

Catch me confiding my person with strangers!
Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran !
In the brigade of the Stay-at-home Rangers
Marches my corps, says the sweet little man.

Such was the stuff of the Malakoff-takers,

Such were the soldiers that scaled the Redan ; Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty Quakers, Brave not the wrath of the sweet little man!

Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery maidens !
Sauve qui peut! Bridget, and right about! Ann ;—
Fierce as a shark in a school of menhadens,
See him advancing, the sweet little man!

When the red flails of the battlefield's threshers
Beat out the continent's wheat from the bran,
While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers,

What will become of our sweet little man?

When the brown soldiers come back from the borders,
How will he look while his features they scan?
How will he feel when he gets marching orders,
Signed by his lady love? sweet little man!

Fear not for him, though the rebels expect him,-
Life is too precious to shorten its span ;
Woman her broomstick shall raise to protect him,
Will she not fight for the sweet little man!

Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-home Ranger!
Blow the great fish-horn and beat the big pan!
First in the field that is farthest from danger,
Take your white-feather plume, sweet little man!

THE SPECTRE PIG.

A BALLAD.

It was the stalwart butcher man,
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle Pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.

And oh! it was the gentle Pig

Lay stretched upon the ground,
And ah! it was the cruel knife,
His little heart that found.

They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;
They put a stick between his lips,

And through his heels a thong;

And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,
And, like a mighty pendulum,
All solemnly he swung !

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
And think what thou hast done,
And read thy catechism well,

Thou bloody-minded one;

For if his sprite should walk by night,

It better were for thee,

That thou wert mouldering in the ground, Or bleaching in the sea.

It was the savage butcher then,

That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath,
He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son,—
His voice was broke with sighs,

And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes ;

All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,
And, in his soft simplicity,

Out spoke the tender child :

"O father, father, list to me; The Pig is deadly sick,

And men have hung him by his heels
And fed him with a stick."

It was the bloody butcher then,
That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry ;-

"O Nathan, Nathan, what's a pig,

That thou shouldst weep and wail?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail!"

It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,

That sobbed as if her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair;

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,— Fast fell the tear-drops big ;

"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!

The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.