The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 97, November, 1865

'Tisn't so bad a day,
Although it's a little cloudy,—
Or rather, as one might say,
Smoky, perhaps,—
A little hazy, a little dubious,
A little too sulphury to be salubrious.
D' ye mind those thunder-claps?
Do you feel now and then the least little bit
Of an incipient earthquake fit,
Accompanied with awful raps?
But give 'em gowdy, give 'em gowdy,
And it'll soon clear away!

Old Boss ain't to be balked.—
All this, you know,
Was only the way (or nearly so)
The boys talked,
And felt and thought,
(And acted, too,)
The harder they fought
And the hotter it grew.—

But there was a Hand at the reel
That nobody saw,—
Old Hickory there at every keel,
In every timber, from stem to stern,—
A something in every crank and wheel,
That made 'em answer their turn;
And everywhere,
On earth and water, in fire and air,
As it were to see it all well done,
The Wraith of the murdered Law,—
Old John Brown at every gun!

But the Fort was all in a roar:
No use to talk, they had the range,—
Which wasn't strange,
Guess they'd tried it before,—
And the pounding was not soft,
But might well appall
The boldest heart.
Cool and calm,
Trumpet in hand,
Up in the cock-loft,
Where 'twas the hottest of all,
Our brave old Commodore
Took his stand,
And played his part,
Humming over some old psalm!

Tut! did ye hear the hiss and scream
Of that hot steam?
It's the Essex that's struck,—
She never had any luck:
Ah, 'twas a wicked shot,
And, whether they know it or not,
It doesn't give us joy!

Thorough an open port it flew,
As with some special permit to destroy;
And first, for sport,
Struck the soul from that beautiful boy;
Then through the bulkhead lunged,
And into the boiler plunged,
Scalding the whole crew!

We know that the brave must fall,—
But that was a sight to see:
Twenty-three,
All in an instant scalded and scathed,
All at once in the white shroud swathed!
A low moan came from the deck
Of the drifting wreck,—
And that was all.

How the traitors'll boast,
As soon as they come to see her
All adrift and aghast!—
Hark! d' ye hear? d' ye hear?
D' ye hear 'em shout?
They see it already, no doubt.
We shall have to count her out,—
That white breath was her last,—
She has given up the ghost!

What does the old Boss think?
Will he shrink?
Will he waver or falter now?—
A little shadow flits over his brow,
For the sharp pang in his heart,—
Flits over—and is gone,—
And a light looms up in his old gray eye,
Whether you see it or not,
That is like a sudden dawn
In a stormy sky!

What does he think?
What will he do?—
Well! he don't say!
But I'll tell you what,