Janet Hamilton

The Civil War in America

Ah, bannered stars and stripes! your glory
Hath paled, the blazoned folds all gory
With kindred blood hang sadly drooping;
The eagle and the vulture swooping
Scream o'er the Run, that field inglorious
Whence legs, not arms, returned victorious,
Whipped back like beaten fillibusters
To fresh discipline, drills, and musters.


Ah, Uncle Sam! think what you're doing;
Your case is hopeless on reviewing.
You want the Anglo-Saxon pluck,
Your forte is just to run a muck
With pistol ball or bowie knife,
And use your heels to save your life.
And then your Budgets' awful figures,
An income tax with all its rigours
To pay the piper, you must bear it,
But that you will, or can, I fear it;
And if from this unhallowed strife
You part not but with parting life,
You must attain the dire conclusion
Through seas of blood, debt, and confusion.
You guess the Britishers are laughing
At your disasters—that your chaffing
Has raised the British lion's dander.
That noble beast disdains to pander
To your o'erweening pride and bluster;
He calmly eyes your martial muster,
And watchful, couching on his rock,
Fearless abides the coming shock.
Sammy, your case is very shocking,
Too serious to admit of joking—
By joint consent, or arbitration,
Get an immediate separation—
And statesmen choose of mark and mettle
Your plaguey boundary lines to settle.
Your horrid war is ought but civil,
And soon will breed all sorts of evil
To name and credit, trade and dollar,
To whites and blacks, in chain and collar.
Adieu! be civil to your mammy—
Britain, you know, good Master Sammy.