SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



Nor he the man from duty to shirk ; 

 So he goes on finishing up his work. 



Boom ! Boom ! Again the cannon's clamor 

 Plays base to the tenor of his hammer, 

 As he works away with his stubborn will, 

 To get through so as to go on the hill. 

 But now his senses seemed spell-bound, 

 When a change came o'er all things around. 



He saw himself an avenging knight. 



Predestined to set the wrong things right. 



His garments changed from their cut so queer 



To the courtly dress of a cavalier. 



From its peg on the side of the dingy room 



His napless white hat seemed to bloom 



To a Highland bonnet with nodding plume. 



His shoe-knife grew to a bright claymore, 



As heavy as Bruce or Wallace bore. 



While his hammer changed to the sledge of Thor, 



Pounding the brazen gong of war. 



His awls to hilted daggers grew. 



Seeking the hearts of Treason's crew. 



The shoe-pegs, ranged in their little stalls, 



Grew and hardened to Minnie balls. 



While his ink — in a horn — seemed like a flood 



Of bubbling, seething, traitor's blood. 



Each coil from his ball of thread let loose 



Twisted and curled to a hangman's noose, 



Ready to give the rebs their dues. 



While the muffled stroke on the leathered stone 



Seemed " sickening thuds " for traitors gone. 



And each dubious bill on his little slate, 



A repudiated Southern debt ! 



But this last gave such a twinge of pain. 



He aroused and went to work again. 



