The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862

A CURE FOR STEALING

Far back among the days of yore
There's many a pleasing tale in store,
Rich with the humor of the time,
That sometimes jingle well in rhyme.
Of these, the following may possess
A claim on 'hours of idleness.'
When Governor Gurdon Saltonstall,
Like Abram Lincoln, straight and tall,
Presided o'er the Nutmeg State,
A loved and honored magistrate,
His quiet humor was portrayed
In Yankee tricks he sometimes played.
The Governor had a serious air,
'Twas solemn as a funeral prayer,
But when he spoke the mirth was stirred,—
A joke leaped out at every word.
One morn, a man, alarmed and pale,
Came to him with a frightful tale;
The substance was, that Jerry Style
Had stolen wood from off his pile.
The Governor started in surprise,
And on the accuser fixed his eyes.
'He steal my wood! to his regret,
Before this blessed sun shall set,
I'll put a final end to that.'
Then, putting on his stately hat,
All nicely cocked and trimmed with lace,
He issued forth with lofty grace,
Bade the accuser; duty mind,'
And follow him 'five steps behind.'
Ere they a furlong's space complete,
They meet the culprit in the street;
The Governor took him by the hand—
That lowly man! that Governor grand!—
Kindly inquired of his condition,
His present prospects and position.
The man a tale of sorrow told—
That food was dear, the winter cold,
That work was scarce, and times were hard,
And very ill at home they fared,—
And, more than this, a bounteous Heaven
To them a little babe had given,
Whose brief existence could attest
This world's a wintry world at best.
A silver crown, whose shining face
King William's head and Mary's grace,
Dropped in his hand. The Governor spoke,—
His voice was cracked—it almost broke,—'If
work is scarce, and times are hard,
There's a large wood-pile in my yard;
Of that you may most freely use,
So go and get it when you choose.'
Then on he walked, serenely feeling
That there he'd put an end to stealing.
The accuser's sense of duty grew
The space 'twixt him and Governor too.

'The Anaconda is tightening its folds,' and at every fold the South cries aloud. The following bit of merry nonsense, which has the merit of being 'good to sing,' may possibly enliven more than one camp-fire, ere the last fold of the 'big sarpent' has given the final stifle to the un-fed-eralists.

THE 'ANACONDA.'

Won't it make them stop and ponder?
Yes! 't will make them stop and ponder!
What?—The fearful Anaconda!
(All.) Yes! The fearful Anaconda!
(Chorus.) Stop and ponder!—Anaconda!
Big and fearful; big and fearful,
Big and fearful Anaconda!

Is not that the Rebel South?
Yes! that is the Rebel South.
Arn't they rather down in month?
(All.) Yes! they're rather down in mouth!
(Chorus.) Rebel South, down in mouth,
Stop and ponder!—Anaconda!
Big and fearful, &c, &c.

Is not that the traitor DAVIS?
Yes! that is the traitor DAVIS!
Don't he wish he could enslave us?
(All.) Yes! he wanted to enslave us!
(Chorus.) Traitor DAVIS, can't enslave us.
Rebel South, down in mouth,
Stop and ponder!—Anaconda!
Big and fearful, &c. &c.

Isn't that the gallows high there?
Yes! that is the gallows high there!
And JEFF DAVIS that I spy there?
(All.) 'Tis JEFF DAVIS that you spy there.
(Chorus.) Hanging high there, DAVIS spy there.
Traitor DAVIS, you enslave us!
Rebel South, down in mouth,
Stop and ponder!—Anaconda!
Big and fearful, big and fearful,
BIG AND FEARFUL ANACONDA!

Our ever-welcome New Haven friend re-appears this month, with the following jest:—