SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



Instead of giving him votes of thanks, 

 As they would have done in the elder Rome, 

 They vote him a crusty king of cranks. 

 They call him a bug of the genus hum ; 

 And this is the local fame one earns 

 Who does his duty like old John Burns. 



One day in his ears these words were lipped, 



" The battle is over, the rebs are whipped ! " 



His wandering mind to the words caught on, 



The fever quick from his brain was gone ; 



The bullets which had so stubborn proved 



To the probing steel like magnets moved ; 



And getting one of his cranky turns. 



He soon got well, did old John Burns, 



In spite of all the doctor's rules. 



And hobbled back to his bench and tools, 



And stitched and pegged and hammered away 



As he did of old, until one day 



Death came along with his manner rough — 



As he handles his victims tender or tough — 



Gathered him in and bore him off 



With the neighbors' help, and laid him away 



By the bones of his old wife, Barbara, 



On the hill o'erlooking his house of frame. 



And the field where he won his deathless fame. 



Now this is the last of old John Burns, 

 Gashed by bullets and rhymes by turns ; 

 The rebels commenced, and Bret and I 

 Have finished their work successfully. 

 And laid him to rest on the hills that frown 

 On the peaceful homes of Gettysburg town. 



