XXI — ROMANCE

‘ Talk of pluck!’ pursued the Sailor,

Set at euchre on his elbow,

‘ I was on the wharf at Charleston,

Just ashore from off the runner.

‘ It was grey and dirty weather,

And I heard a drum go rolling,

Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,

Awful dour-like and defiant.

‘ In and out among the cotton,

Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,

Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows -

Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!

‘ Some had shoes, but all had rifles,

Them that was n't bald was beardless,

And the drum was rolling Dixie,

And they stepped to it like men, sir!

‘ Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,

On they swung, the drum a-rolling,

Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,

And they meant it too, by thunder!’