d be to have led
such a movement--what a glory it would be for every man who marched in
the great uprising.

Let us continue by singing:

'TRELAWNEY.'

Shall Freedom droop and die
And we stand idle by,
When countless millions yet unborn
Will ask the reason why?

If for her flag on high,
You bravely fight and die,
Be sure that God on his great roll
Will mark the reason why.

But should you basely fly.
Scared by the battle-cry,
Then down through all eternity
You'll hear the reason why.

* * * * *

'Great _Onion_ victory!' cried a little newsboy, lately, through the
streets of a certain village, wherein we were 'over-nighting,' as the
Germans say. He had not well learned orthoepy, and held that _u-n_, un,
was to be pronounced as in 'unctuous.' Still there are some droll sounds
to be extracted from the word--witness the following song in which by a
slight modulation of sound the word _Union_ is made a war-cry to
advance:

DE-CAMPING SONG.

U-_ni_-on--you an' I on!
It's time that you and I were gone;
Gone to fight with all our might,
And drive the rebels left and right;
There is Uncle Sam, and I am Sam's Son,
And we'll crush the Philistines with you an' I on.

CHORUS.

U-ni-on--you an' I on!
It's time that you an' I were gone.

U-ni-on, are _you_ nigh on?
It's time we were there, and the fight were won;
O Old Samson! you never knew
What _this_ Sam's son, when he tries, can do;
Your jaw-bone made the enemy flee--
They shall walk jaw-bone from Tennessee.
U-ni-on--you an' I on!
It's time that you an' I were gone.

Reader, if the great call should come, drafting the whole North, why,
pack up your blankets and travel, light of heart, remembering that when
_you_ are there, the secession-pool of rebellion must 'dry up' in a
hurry.

Much has been said as to the degree of complicity in which the
confederates were guilty in stirring up savages against us. In a
'Secesh' poem which 'De Bow' declares to be among the best which belong
to the war, we find the following, which seems to have been written in
the Indian interest:

'Our women have hung their harps away,
And they scowl on your brutal bands,
While the nimble poignard dares the day
In their dear defiant hands;
They will strip their tresses to string our bows
Ere the Northern sun is set;
There's faith in their unrelenting woes,