Classic Poem

A hunter, with the luck to roam
Too near the " Ingen nation, "
Returned to find his happy home
A hopeless desolation.

His buildings burned, his people slain,
His fields in dire disorder;
His spoons, his cattle and his grain —
His long life's labor and its gain —
Dispersed with the marauder.

He stood appalled! A granite-stone
Hath greater power to " cuss " !
And when he spoke, 'twas only, " John,
It's too — Ridiculous " !

Poor Dixie hath reserved her wrath
In speechless speculation.
Such mean, malicious mischief hath
" Fatigued her indignation. "