The Battle of the Stoves-pipes.

The Battle of the Stoves-pipes.

On Munson’s heights the Rebel banners wave,
Their hungry hosts our louyal legions brave,
Black muzzled guns from ramparts gloomy frown,
And threatning silence all preasage a storm.

The new commander, youthful, modest, bold,
From Custis-house surveys the bristling wold,
“Here aer my countrymen, and there my foes,
“On codfish these were reared, and corn-fed those.”

The Press and Bankers urge me to advance—
Two Hundred Thousand rebels at a glance—
Strange that all efforts to dislodge them fail—
“Annihilator of Three armies” quail?

Numbers are mine, munitions, horses, guns,
Vast stores, great love of Union, and the funds,
Two Bourbons on my staff with brains of lead,
Our Teamsters steady, fat lieutenant dead.

No fear of panic can be argued now,
All further need of drill they disavow—
News-paper foolscap shall my brow adorn,
Or, fuss and feathers from great Scott be torn.

What more is needed to secure success.
To free the slave, his dreadful wrong redress?
Some new idea we want, some lofty thought;
For “Hearth and Home” the vulgar foe have fought.

Union, no longer serves to steel the heart,
Nerve the strong arm, and animate each part
Of this great multitude, they smell the rat,
Obstinate, stupid fanatics, killed that.

Ah! happy thought, sent at the nick of time,
Watch-word euphonious, apothegm sublime,
With that to fight on, din of arms won’t stun,
Thanks! Thanks! Great Jove—”I’ll have no more Bulls-run.”

“No more Bulls-run” another such would stop
The loan from being ta’en, our only prop,
And Dr.Russell’s thunder in the Times,
Would be almost as bad as want of Dimes.

But should we fail—what woeful fate is mine,
Rough hands would tear, not gentle ones entwine
The victor’s garland, which with blush I wear,
A brand of shame, for unearned laurels, there.

Great at reviews, our hero orders out
His motley numbers, and with promise stout
His motley numbers, and with promise stout
To “stand by them if they’ll but stand by him.”
Gives them the war-cry—points to Munson grim.

“Shall treason thus dare raise its brzen front,
And flaunt its banners in our “loyal” face,
Shall these starved legions, ragged, mutinous, wild,
Hold longer in base fear, our “Army grand?”

“No! burst the bands, peal forth the anthem loud
Give them the rescued airs, the envied flag,
By force of numbers we shall win the day,
Crush, blot, wipe, squelch the traitors quite away.”

“No more Bull-runs” the bullet hits the mark,
The troops delighted shouted it till dark;
And Echo taking up the novel strain,
Sent it from Munson’s back to them again.

Onward they march, with bated breath, all quiet,
Not fearful, no, “We’re soldiers and must try it,”
Some had seen Bethel, and the recollection
Gave food for sober, serious reflection.

“The’re two miles off, the fight commenced already!
Hark! Horror! Help! they’re on us—steady—steady—
Oh pumpkins, codfish, apple-sauce and chowder,
We’ll eat no more, we’ll all be food for powder.”

“Only a panic, very trifling matter,
A very slight mistake caused all that clatter,
A stupid biped, thought a fly a gun,
Discharged his piece, and made our horses run.”

“No great harm done, but Fifty Dutch went down—
Crimean blunders wrought a great renown:
From rebel presses we’ve pressed out the starch,
Bennet will make it bumptious—forward! March!”

Not roused by what was greatly feared would make them,
All hopes ran high that by surprise they’d take them,
No sings of life, no sentry’s step is heard,
Crawl, creep, squirm, wriggle, pounce upon the bird.

Up the steep hillside,over ditch and mound,
The summit gained, they breathe, and look around,
Decamped—sold,—humbug’d,—worse than a Bull-run,
STRAW, STOVE-PIPE CANNON, AND A QUAKER GUN.

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