Your thoughts I know will wander
Sometimes to where I lie--
How dark it grows! True comrade
And faithful friend, good-by!"

A moment, and he lay there
A statue, pale and calm.
His youthful head reclining
Upon his comrade's arm.
His limbs upon the greensward
Were stretched in careless grace,
And by the fitful moon was seen
A smile upon his face.


SONG OF THE CROAKER. *

* Written by request for the Philadelphia Sanitary Fair.

An old frog lived in a dismal swamp,
In a dismal kind of way;
And all that he did, whatever befell,
Was to croak the livelong day.
Croak, croak, croak,
When darkness filled the air,
And croak, croak, croak,
When the skies were bright and fair.

"Good Master Frog, a battle is fought,
And the foeman's power is broke."