The Gallant Colonel
The Gallant Colonel.
There lived a man in Brooklin town,
An Abolition Teacher,
He lived not quite upon the beach,
But still he was a Beecher.
Of soldiers mob’d in Baltimore,
He heard a dreadful pother,
And vengeance piously he swore,
In one way or another.
The man for this was not a myth,
The story is no fable,
But veritable Colonel Smith,
A hero fully Abel.
The Hero came to Baltimore,
And reconnoitred round it,
But all was tranquil as of yore,
All peaceable he found it.
“This will not do,” the Colonel quoth,
“We must kick up a fracas,
And carry out the Parson’s oath,
The police dare not take us.”
So out he sallied one bright day,
T’ inspect the town and fixtures,
When lo! an urchin in his way,
Selling secession pictures.
“Young rebel! I’ll soon spoil your sport,”
The boy and pictures seizing,
“I’ll take you over to the Fort,
And have you tried for treason.”
The badges torn, boy thrust aside,
Sternly the urchin eyeing,
“Take that,” then moved in lofty pride,
And left the poor boy crying.
Next, “Here’s Jeff. Davis for a cent,”
His patriotic feelings waken,
“Of this, my lad, you shall repent,”
And every picture ‘s taken.
Vengeance is satisfied I hope,
The Brooklin conscience quiet,
Or must our urchins stretch a rope,
T’ atone for April’s riot?
Now let the Colonel be,
And Henry Ward be sainted,
Our town from treason they reset free,
With which it bad been tainted.