repare to shed them now. I will not bury Fed. The evil that roosters
do live after them, but the good is oft interred with their bones.
So let it not be with Confed. Confed left no will, but I will pick him,
and fry him, and dip my biscuit in his gravy. Poor Fed, Confed,
Confederacy, I place one hand on my heart and one on my head, regretting
that I have not another to place on my stomach, and whisper, softly
whisper, in the most doleful accents, Good-bye, farewell, a long
farewell."

"Not a laugh was heard--not even a joke--
As the dead rooster in the camp-kettle they hurried;
For Tom had lost ten dollars, and was broke,
In the cock-pit where Confed was buried.

"They cooked him slowly in the middle of the day,
As the frying-pan they were solemnly turning;
The hungry fellows looking at him as he lay,
With one side raw, the other burning.

"Some surplus feathers covered his breast,
Not in a shroud, but in a tiara they soused him;
He lay like a 'picked chicken' taking his rest,
While the Rebel boys danced and cursed around him.

"Not a few or short were the cuss words they said,
Yet, they spoke many words of sorrow;
As they steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And thought 'what'll we do for chicken tomorrow?'

"Lightly they'll talk of the Southern Confed. that's gone,
And o'er his empty carcass upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the place where they have laid him.

"Sadly and slowly they laid him down,
From the field of fame fresh and gory;
They ate off his flesh, and threw away his bones,
And then left them alone in their glory."

When, cut, slash, bang, debang, and here comes a dash of Yankee cavalry,
right in the midst of the camp, under whip and spur, yelling like a band
of wild Comanches, and bearing right down on the few mourners around the
dead body of Confed. After making this bold dash, they about faced,
and were soon out of sight. There was no harm done, but, alas! that
cooked chicken was gone. Poor Confed! To what a sad end you have come.
Just to think, that but a few short hours ago, you was a proud rooster--
was "cock of the walk," and was considered invincible. But, alas! you
have sunk so low as to become food for Federals! _Requiescat in pace_
you can crow no more.

OLD JOE BROWN'S PETS

By way of grim jest,