your plaster,
The rash will break out till you go to disaster--
Which you plainly can see is the case with my Muse,
For she scratches away though she's said her adieus.

Dear Ladies, though last to receive my oblation,
And last in the list of Mosaic creation,
The last is the best, and the last shall be first.
Through Eve, sayeth Moses, old Adam was cursed;
But I cannot agree with you, Moses, that Adam
Sinned and fell through the gentle persuasion of madam.
The victim, no doubt, of Egyptian flirtation,
You mistook your chagrin for divine inspiration,
And condemned all the sex without proof or probation,
As we rhymsters mistake the moonbeams that elate us
For flashes of wit or the holy afflatus,
And imagine we hear the applause of a nation,--
But all honest men who are married and blest
Will agree that the last work of God is the best.

And now to you all--whether married or single--
Whether sheltered by slate, or by "shake," or by shingle--
God bless you with peace and with bountiful cheer,
Happy houses, happy hearts--and a happy New Year!

P.S.--If you wish all these blessings, 'tis clear
You should send in your "stamps" for the old _Pioneer_.

* * * * *

MY FATHER-LAND

[From the German of Theodor Korner.]

Where is the minstrel's Father-land?
Where the sparks of noble spirits flew,
Where flowery wreaths for beauty grew,
Where strong hearts glowed so glad and true
For all things sacred, good and grand:
There was my Father-land.

How named the minstrel's Father-land?
O'er slaughtered son--'neath tyrants' yokes,
She weepeth now--and foreign strokes;
They called her once the Land of Oaks--
Land of the Free--the German Land:
Thus was called my Father-land.
Why weeps the minstrel's Father-land?
Because while tyrant's tempest hailed
The people's chosen princes quailed,
And all their sacred pledges failed;
Because she could no ear command,
Alas must weep my Father-land.

Whom calls the minstrel's Father-land?
She calls on heaven with wild alarm--
With desperation's thunder-storm--
On Liberty to bare her arm,
On Retribution's vengeful hand:
On these she calls--my Father-land.

What would the minstrel's Father-land?
She would strike the base slaves to the ground
Chase from her soil the tyrant hound,
And free her sons in shackles bound,
Or lay them free beneath her sand:
That would my Father-land.

And hopes the minstrel's Fath