When the Rebels come a-marchin' I'm a Southern man
And I feed their horses on my best.
When the Yankees come a-marchin' I'm a Northern man,
And I feed their horses what the Rebels left.

You can tell Jeff Davis I'm a Democrat,
And I'll help his army all I can.
But if you see the Yankees as you go along,
Please tell Abe Lincoln I'm a Northern man.

You can tell Grant and Sherman I think they're great,
And their names will shine in history.
But if you see the Johnnies along this way,
Just give my respects to Robert E. Lee.

Say not when all your scanty stores afford
Is spread at once upon the sparing board
What further shall this feeble life sustain.
And what shall cloth[e] these shivering limbs again
Say does not life its nurishment exceed
And the fair body its investing weed
Behold and look away your low despair
See the light tenants of the barren air
To them no stores or granereys belong
Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song
Yet your kind heavenly father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky

To him they sing when spring renews the plain

Through the forest there fluttered a song
Upborne upon airy gay wings;
As the breeze lisps the beech-boughs among
So softly it lit on my strings:
And my harp told the River again:
And the trees and the birds caught the strain:
And the flow'rs set up soft whisperings.

Through the forest came loitering Love:
There was budding and blooming at this:
The birds woke, with welcome, the grove
And the rocks and the springs felt the bliss;
It seemed 'twould be sunshine forever
As the sun shed red gold on the River

Sufî, hither gaze! for brightly shines the Mirror of the Cup;
Gaze into the ruby wine, and see what thing it flingeth up.

No one ever noosed the Anka—God's Bird—throw away thy snare!
All its mesh can ever catch thee, in this world, is empty air.

Cleave to pleasures of the Present! Adam, judging otherwise,
Lost his altered House of Peace; the lovely lawns of Paradise.

At Time's table, quick to vanish, quaff a cup, ere thou must go;
Ask not what He will not give thee, leave to always banquet so.

A grain adown the velvet strolled—Glory!
No purer pearl could be—Glory!
The pearl against a ruby rolled—Glory!
Most beautiful to see—Glory!
Big is the pearl by ruby's side—Glory!
Well for the bridegroom with his bride—Glory!

I love thee, dear, and knowing mine own heart
With every beat I give God thanks for this;
I love thee only for the self thou art;
No wild embrace, no wisdom-shaking kiss,
No passionate pleading of a heart laid bare,
No urgent cry of love's extremity—
Strong traps to take the spirit unaware—
Not one of these I ever had of thee.
Neither of passion nor of pity wrought
Is this, the love to which at last I yield,
But shapen in the stillness of my thought
And by a birth of agony revealed.
Here is a thing to live while we do live

Who am I my God & my Lord
& what is my house in thy eye
Thou hast brought me here of thy sovereign accord
& cloathed me in majesty

Yet this was a trifling thing unto thee
Thou hast spoke of thy servant whose house is to last
Like a man of estate & of noble degree
O God though in lowness his lot hath been cast

What can David speak more unto thee
For the honour of thy servant—or need
For thou knowest thy servant was of humble degree
& exaltest him highly indeed

O Lord for thy servants sake only

A woman poor and a peeress proud,
A dingy room and a crushing crowd,
The gloom of death and grave and shroud,
A stifled cry and a sob, aloud.

A heart has heard and an eye has read;
A soul has writhed, and a lowered head
Is bowed, and a trembling tongue has said:
“My God! My God! And he is dead!”

A wail, a sob, and a bitter cry;
An anguished tear in a woman's eye;
A peeress' face where agony
Is carved, and a mutely murmured “Why?”

A woman stares and a peeress starts.
Without, the din of traffic's marts

‘Under which king?’ you ask, my friend.
‘The Hermit of the Suffolk shore?—
The Tent-maker of Naishápúr?—
Omar , Fitz Gerald —which?’ Perpend.

The great Corneille , when pressed of yore,
To judge two sonnets, answered thus:—
‘One, in its way, is marvellous;
And yet—I like the other more.’

This is my case betwixt your twain.
But if you further question why
I sit in this brave company,
I will—with your good leave—explain.

Life is a toilsome thing at best:
We all too-heavy burdens bear,
And groaning 'neath our load of care,

Youth gave you to me, but I'll not believe
That Youth will, taking his quick self, take you.
Youth's all our Truth: he cannot so deceive.
He has our graces, not our ownselves too.
He still compares with time when he'll be spent,
By human doom enhancing what we are;
Enriches us with rare experiment,
Lends arms to leagured Age in Time's rough war.

Look! This Youth in us is an Old Man taking
A Boy to make him wiser than his days.
So is our old Youth our young Age's making:
So rich in time our final debt he pays.