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| HA! bully for me again, when my turn for picket is over, | |
| And now for a smoke as I lie, with the moonlight, out in the clover. | |
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| My pipe, it ’s only a knot from the root of a brier-wood tree, | |
| But it turns my heart to the Northward—Harry gave it to me. | |
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| And I ’m but a rough at best, bred up to the row and the riot; | 5 |
| But a softness comes over my heart, when all are asleep and quiet. | |
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| For, many a time, in the night, strange things appear to my eye, | |
| As the breath from my brier-wood pipe curls up between me and the sky. | |
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| Last night a beautiful spirit arose with the wisping smoke; | |
| O, I shook, but my heart felt good, as it spread out its hands and spoke; | 10 |
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| Saying, “I am the soul of the brier; we grew at the root of a tree | |
| Where lovers would come in the twilight, two ever, for company. | |
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| “Where lovers would come in the morning—ever but two, together; | |
| When the flowers were full in their blow; the birds, in their song and feather. | |
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| “Where lovers would come in the noontide, loitering—never but two, | 15 |
| Looking in each other’s eyes, like pigeons that kiss and coo. | |
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| “And O, the honeyed words that came when the lips were parted, | |
| And the passion that glowed in the eyes, and the lightning looks that darted! | |
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| “Enough: Love dwells in the pipe—so ever it glows with fire! | |
| I am the soul of the bush, and the spirits call me Sweet Brier.” | 20 |
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| That ’s what the brier-wood said, as nigh as my tongue can tell, | |
| And the words went straight to my heart, like the stroke of the fire-bell. | |
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| To-night I lie in the clover, watching the blossomy smoke; | |
| I ’m glad the boys are asleep, for I ain’t in the humor to joke. | |
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| I lie in the hefty clover: up between me and the moon | 25 |
| The smoke of my pipe arises; my heart will be quiet, soon. | |
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| My thoughts are back in the city, I ’m everything I ’ve been; | |
| I hear the bell from the tower, I run with the swift machine, | |
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| I see the red shirts crowding around the engine-house door, | |
| The foreman’s hail through the trumpet comes with a hollow roar. | 30 |
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| The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the row in the beer-saloon, | |
| Where I put in my licks at Big Paul, come between me and the moon. | |
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| I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp of the cow-skin boots, | |
| We are marching on our muscle, the Fire-Zouave recruits! | |
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| White handkerchiefs wave before me—O, but the sight is pretty | 35 |
| On the white marble steps, as we march through the heart of the city. | |
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| Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips that bade us good hap; | |
| And the splendid lady who gave me the havelock for my cap. | |
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| O, up from my pipe-cloud rises, there between me and the moon, | |
| A beautiful white-robed lady; my heart will be quiet, soon. | 40 |
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| The lovely golden-haired lady ever in dreams I see, | |
| Who gave me the snow-white havelock—but what does she care for me? | |
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| Look at my grimy features; mountains between us stand: | |
| I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she with her jewelled hand! | |
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| What care I?—the day that ’s dawning may see me, when all is over, | 45 |
| With the red stream of my life-blood staining the hefty clover. | |
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| Hark! the reveille sounding out on the morning air; | |
| Devils are we for the battle— Will there be angels there? | |
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| Kiss me again, Sweet Brier, the touch of your lip to mine | |
| Brings back the white-robed lady with hair like the golden wine! | 50 |
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