Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas early one morn, in a log-cabin land,
Where the tallest air-castles, however, are planned,
Where swagger is often mistaken for sense,
And faith is a thing of no small consequence.
I mean not that faith which is taught in the Bible,—
The backwoods professor would sue for a libel;
The faith of the Book sees a mansion in heaven,
But this sees a town where a stake is just driven.

'Twas early one morn; 'twas the Fourth of July;
Some time must elapse ere the sun lit the sky;
And, thinking o'er-night of the glorious day,
'Twas natural my dreams, too, should wander that way.
So I dreamed, as a Yankee boy frequently will,
Of Lexington, Concord, and old Bunker Hill;
Saw the redcoated column up Bunker arise;
Heard old Putnam's speech 'bout the “white of their eyes.”
They neared the redoubt, and the guns bristled o'er;
But just as the Yankees their volley would pour,

Martial sounds 'gan to rise,
And I opened my eyes,
And thought 'twas a part of the dream gone before.
But I listened, so still;
It was not Bunker Hill,
But without in the street they were making uproar;
While a man with a fife
Squealed as if for his life,
And a drum put in shakes Ole Bull might adore.

Sleep fled past a doubt; so I dress'd and went out;
Had you seen what I saw, you'd have laughed with a shout:
The offspring of Orpheus, blowing the fife,
By the “cut of his jib,” wasn't long for this life;
For five feet and five I should judge the utmost
Longitudinal metre his person could boast;
But Nature, kind dame, had made up, it would seem,
Deficit in length, by the “breadth of his beam.”
His hat was “caved in”—had of brim scarce a bit;
He wore a short jacket, too small for a fit;
And a ludicrous thought flitted over my mind,
That the fifer was very full breasted behind.

The drummer, beside him, personified Saul;
As gaunt as a greyhound, and bony, and tall.
But ever I can
Describe you this man,
I'll state the condition of both—that is all:
Though scarcely 'twas morn,
They'd both had their corn,
Were so drunk, that to stand, they must lean on the wall;

The din and devotion
Inspired them with motion,
At March! they would go; but at Halt! they would sprawl.

Were I good with the charcoal, my tale I'd adorn
With a sketch of the drummer that auspicious morn.
A view of his figure—a side view—to me
Looked, more than aught else, like a bad figure 3;
His hat, which had suffered, was cocked on one side;
His breeks were too short, by a foot, and too wide;
On the toe of his left foot, and heel of his right,
He hitched to the tune of the “Soldier's Delight.”
His aspect was fierce, with a sprinkling of woe,
His eyes dead ahead, and his arms akimbo;
The poor fifer, I fear,
When he staggered too near,
Received from his elbows a cruel side blow;
A pause would occur,
A trill or a slur,
But the roll of the drum was unbroken, I know;
For the sticks down would come
On the head of the drum,
And the way rub-a-dub rattled out wasn't slow.

The rabble behind them were trundling a gun,
About a ten-pounder, I judged such an one;
But foremost, and leading the glorious van,
Marched a man, 'tis my plan to ban if I can.
In his gait, in his dress, in his dignified air,
With his “brethren in arms” like a prince he'd compare;
He'd striven for office, he'd striven for fame.
He longed for a deed to emblazon his name.

The law was his hobby, at least by pretence;
He was great on a case without need of defence;
And his talents, beside, most decidedly were,
For the use of his countrymen, la militaire.
How he lived, the Lord knows; but 'twas my calculation,
It was partly on faith, partly on speculation.
He appeared to feel grand; yea, he felt rather bigger
Than the man who had seen Gen'ral Washington's “nigger!”
But I'll prove him full soon, if my proof doesn't fail,
A “creature of circumstance”; so to our tale.

I joined in the march, with an inkling of fun;
The music roll'd on, and they trundled the gun.
They came to a spot,
A square vacant lot,
Called after the name of the great Washington.
The gun was now tried,
The match was applied,
And forth belched the thunder to herald the sun.
It looked like a fight,
For overcome quite
The martial musicians lay stretched like the done.

Bang! bang! went the gun, till there wanted but one
More shot, and the job for the sunrise was done;
'Twas likely to fail, for I heard a man swear
That nothing to serve for a wadding was there.
To fail in completion the shame would be great,
Amounting almost to the shame of defeat.
No! that wouldn't do; they must give the last shot,
But where was a wadding at hand to be got?

Our hero stood near, in contemplative mood,
Ruminating a speech, as a cow does her cud;
But, sudden a thought!
His pocket he sought
And drew forth a handkerchief dirty as mud.
“Here! take that! my lad,
And use it, egad!
The gun shall not fail for the want of a wad!”
Soon the gun roared anew,
Into shreds the rag flew;—
“There goes my best handkerchief—silk one—by—”

A drizzle set in; and the gun was now housed;
But fame, for our hero, was fully aroused.
Her echoing trump was at once to her mouth;
All over the district, east, west, north, and south,
His name spread abroad; and, spreading, the story
Gathered in bulk, while it gathered him glory;
Till, by the time that the story had back again got,
In the “last war” he'd killed twenty men at one shot!

The next thing we see in the “People's Gazette”;
Our hero for Congress his visage has set.
The editor, there, Mr. Butcher's-meat's-ris,
Comes out with a column of something like this:

“It is time for the people to rouse from their sleep!
The wolves are abroad in the clothing of sheep;
But give the pull long,
The pull very strong,
The pull altogether.—Oh! pull while you weep!
'Tis our duty to sow,
Though our readers must know,
No personal benefit hoping to reap.

Come, bards, tune your lays
To our candidate's praise,
And we to the music our eyeballs will keep.
Our man is a patriot, true as the sun;
Familiarly known as the ‘Son-of-a-gun!’
For what man but he, on that glorious day
When patriots gather, as patriots may;
When likely to fail was the national round,
And brave men e'en wept when no wadding was found;
Save he who would suffer, unanswered, we say,
His own private wardrobe to be shot away?
Let his name, like the clouds, o'er Columbia scud!
Let his name brightly gleam in the annals of blood!
Let this deed of his fame be embalmed with the tale
Of Putnam's bold feat, or the hanging of Hale!”

Success seemed more sure, as election drew nigher;
But one “circumstance” more knocked his fat in the fire;
For lo! there was one
That morn, by the gun,
Who did not exactly belong to the squire;
So merely for sport
He spread the report,
The candidate was as profane as a liar;
That he stood on the spot
When the 'kerchief was shot,
And the squire swore so bad he was forced to retire!

Enough;—for the other side sought out this man;
A dollar in hand, and a swig at the can;
Deposition was made 'fore a magistrate lawful;
The man on his oath said the swearing was awful;

And next day appeared in the “Voice of the People”
A yarn half as long as a meeting-house steeple.
Therein 'twas shown clear as the light of the sun,
That they should not vote for the Son-of-a-gun.
They called on the people to rally anew
And vote for their candidate, called the “True Blue.”
He had all the other man's patriot pride;
Was rather inclined to be pious, beside;
Sure, slander pursued him, but still 'twasn't true
He once was indicted for stealing an ewe;
He held to equality when people meet,—
Been seen shaking hands with a “nig” in the street;
And as for his courage, why blest be his name,
He had entered a house that was roaring on flame,
And saved, at the imminent risk of his life,
A print representing John Rogers and wife;
Then hurrah for True Blue! for he only can save
Our country from Ruin's oblivious grave!

The contest grew fiercer each following day,
The young and the old of both sides joined the fray;
Some voters were bought,
Some duels were fought;
One man had a part of his thigh shot away;
Both editors wrote,
The people would quote,
The candidates mounted the stump for display;
While some Oberlin men,
To the number of ten,
Bethought it a matter for which they should pray.

The day came at last, the ballots were cast,
And both parties' colors were nailed to the mast;
But the Oberlin men,
To the number of ten,
Struck the friends of Son-of-a-gun all aghast!
For neither they knew
The “Gun” or “True Blue,”
But thought it the safest to vote for the last.
And this, as their reasons for voting, they gave:
A man who would greet
A poor nig in the street,
Must certainly be a good friend of the slave;
And a man who would swear,
As profane as the “'square,”
Must certainly be an ungodly old knave.
“True Blue” was returned by majority ten,
And those were the votes of the Oberlin men.

MORAL.

Let every “constituent” coming to call,
Who's seen an election, and lived through it all,
With blush of conviction acknowledge, forsooth,
That the tale I have told isn't far from the truth.
When a President's up, or lower the grade
Of seekers for office, a hubbub is made;
A green one, perusing the prints at such times,
Would deem they'd selected a man for his crimes.
And though we can't say but a “Son-of-a-gun,”
Or another “True Blue,” too often is run,
'Twould be better by far
To have less wordy war,
Less blazonry, billingsgate, twitting, and pun;
For it all ends in self,
The pickings and pelf,—
Division takes place when the battle is won;

But the government stands
Though it changes its hands,
And keeps forward march, as it ever has done.