[The attentive reader will doubtless have perceived in the foregoing poem an allusion to that pernicious sentiment, Our country, right or wrong.' It is an abuse of language to call a certain portion of land, much more, certain personages, elevated for the time being to high station, our country. I would not sever nor loosen a single one of those ties by which we are united to the spot of our birth, nor minish by a tittle the respect due to the Magistrate. I love our own Bay State too well to do the one, and as for the other, I have myself for nigh forty years exercised, however unworthily, the function of Justice of the Peace, having been called thereto by the unsolicited kindness of that most excellent man and upright patriot, Caleb Strong. Patriae fumus igne alieno luculentior is best qualified with this, - Ubi libertas, ibi patria. We are inhabitants of two worlds, and owe a double, not a divided, allegiance. In virtue of our clay, this little ball of earth exacts a certain loyalty of us, while, in our capacity as spirits, we are admitted citizens of an invisible and holier fatherland. There is a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolves us from our other and terrene fealty. Our true country is that ideal realm which we represent to ourselves under the names of religion, duty, and the like. Our terrestrial organizations are but far-off approaches to so fair a model, and all they are verily traitors who resist not any attempt to divert them from this their original intendment. When, therefore, one would have us to fling up our caps and shout with the multitude, 'Our country, however bounded!' he demands of us that we sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher to the lower, and that we yield to the imaginary claims of a few acres of soil our duty and privilege as liegemen of Truth. Our true country is bounded on the north and the south, on the east and the west, by Justice, and when she oversteps that invisible boundary-line by so much as a hair's-breadth, she ceases to be our mother,

1 Mr. R. C. Winthrop, M. C., in a speech at Faneuil Hall, July 4, 1845, said in deprecation of secession: Our country -bounded by the St. John's and the Sabine, or however otherwise bounded or described, and be the measurements more or less-still our country to be cherished in all our hearts, to be defended by all our hands.' The sentiment was at once taken up and used effectively by the Cotton' Whigs, those who inclined to favor the Mexican War. (F. B. Williams.)

The liquor can't git into it ez 't used to in the true one;

So it saves drink; an' then, besides, a feller could n't beg

A gretter blessin' then to hev one ollers sober peg;

It's true a chap's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum,

But all the march I'm up to now is jest to Kingdom Come.

I've lost one eye, but thet 's a loss it's easy to supply

Out o' the glory thet I've gut, fer thet is all

my eye;

An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it,

To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it;

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Officers I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' kickins,

Du wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickins;

So, ez the eye's put fairly out, I'll larn to go without it,

An' not allow myself to be no gret put out about it.

Now, le' me see, thet is n't all; I used, 'fore leavin' Jaalam,

To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems to ail 'em:

Ware's my left hand? Oh, darn it, yes, I recollect wut's come on 't;

I haint no left arm but my right, an' thet's gut jest a thumb on 't;

It aint so hendy ez it wuz to cal❜late a sum on 't.

I've hed some ribs broke, six (I b'lieve), -I haint kep' no account on 'em; 30 Wen pensions git to be the talk, I'll settle

Can be took off an' sot away wenever ther's a puddin'.

I spose you think I'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder,

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With shiploads o' gold images an' varus sorts o' plunder;

Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o'

Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land flowin' with rum an' water,

Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation,

An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation,

Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin',

Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin',

Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram 'em,

An' desput rivers run about a beggin' folks to dam 'em;

Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' silver

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Thet you could take, an' no one could n't hand ye in no bill fer;

Thet's wut I thought afore I went, thet's wut them fellers told us

Thet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us;

I thought thet gold-mines could be gut cheaper than Chiny asters,

An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors;

But sech idees soon melted down an' did n't leave a grease-spot;

I vow my holl sheer o' the spiles would n't come nigh a V spot;

Although, most any wares we've ben, you need n't break no locks,

Nor run no kin' o' risks, to fill your pocket full o' rocks.

I 'xpect I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral feeturs

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O' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle creeturs,

But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded)

How one day you'll most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next git drownded. The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewter

Our Preudence hed, thet would n't pour (all she could du) to suit her;

An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be a layin' heads together

Ez t' how they'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,

'T would pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot.

The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I'm allowed to leave here,

One piece o' propaty along, an' thet 's the shakin' fever;

It's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one,

Nor 't aint so tiresome ez it wuz with t' other leg an' arm on;

An' it's a consolation, tu, although it doos

we're jest the grist thet 's put into War's hoppers; Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers.

It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in't,

An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in't;

But glory is a kin' o' thing I sha'n't pursue no furder,

Coz thet's the officers' parquisite,— yourn's on'y jest the murder.

Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there's one

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Thing in the bills we aint hed yit, an' thet 's the GLORIOUS FUN:

Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may persume we

All day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezumy.

I'll tell ye wut my revels wuz, an' see how you would like 'em;

We never gut inside the hall: the nighest ever I come

Wuz stan'in' sentry in the sun (an', fact, it seemed a cent'ry)

A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come out thru the entry,

An' hearin' ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses,

A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinktyclink o' glasses:

I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed inside;

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It's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt;

The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a feller

Must own a nigger o' some sort, jet black, or brown, or yeller.

Now I haint no objections agin particklar climes,

Nor agin ownin' anythin' (except the truth sometimes),

But, ez I haint no capital, up there among ye, maybe,

You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby,

An' then to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to say

They hate an' cus the very thing they vote fer every day,

Say you're assured I go full but fer Libbaty's diffusion

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An' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the

Institootion;