“But, General,” cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow,
  “The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now;
  They’ve torn the flag of Lundy’s Lane, our old red, white and blue,
  And while a drop of blood is left, I’ll show that drop is true.”

  “I’m not so weak but I can strike, and I’ve a good old gun,
  To get the range of traitors’ hearts, and prick them one by one. 
  Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain’t worth while to try;
  I couldn’t get the hang o’ them, but I’ll keep my powder dry”

  “God bless you, comrade!” said the Chief,—­“God bless your loyal
       heart! 
  But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part;
  They’ll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious town,
  And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!”

  “But, General!”—­still persisting, the weeping veteran cried,
  “I’m young enough to follow, so long as you’re my guide;
  And some you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least can I;
  So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!”

  “If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command
  Put me upon the ramparts with the flag-staff in my hand: 
  No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shell may fly,
  I’ll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!”

  “I’m ready, General; so you let a post to me be given,
  Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from Heaven,
  And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,—­
  ‘There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at Lundy’s Lane!’”

  “And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly,
  When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky,
  If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on my face,
  My soul would go to Washington’s, and not to Arnold’s place!”

SANTA CLAUS.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

      The bells were ringing their cheerful chimes
        In the old grey belfry tow’r,
      The choir were singing their carols betimes
        In the wintry midnight hour,
      The waits were playing with eerie drawl
      “The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,”
      And the old policeman was stomping his feet
      As he quiver’d and shiver’d along on his beat;

      The snow was falling as fast as it could
      O’er city and hamlet, forest and wood,
      And Jack Frost, busy with might and main,
      Was sketching away at each window-pane;

      Father Christinas was travelling fast,
      Mid the fall of the snow and the howl of the blast,
      With millions of turkeys for millions to taste,
      And millions of puddings all tied to his waist,
      And millions of mince-pies that scented the air,
      To cover the country with Christmas fare,—­