FAMILY HISTORY: POETRY Collection written by Elsie Strawn ARMSTRONG
  
  File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by: Les Howard Strawn
  
  Copyright 2006.  All rights reserved.
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/pa/somerset/
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  This trifling, lying Tribune
      Is doing all it can,
  To make this war continue
      While there is a living man.
  
  Encouraging the South
      And making them believe,
  The North is so divided,
      Great help from there they'll receive.
  
  They know they are a lying
      When they print such poison stuff,
  To get up an insurrection,
         They've tried it long enough.
  
  The patience of the Democrats
      Enrages them the more,
  But now they fret and fume
      Worse than they did before.
  
  Like vicious, spiteful children,
      When they have no argument,
  Then they take to calling names,
      That way their spite to vent.
  
  And since this latest call
      For more volunteers,
  Not a "Union League" steps out
      To say that I am here.
  
  But the Democrats are going
      From this neighborhood around,
  But not the first abolitionist
      That will go is to be found.
  
  Now most part of our arms
      Are Democrat men,
  As brave and daring soldiers
      As every yet have been.
  
  Although they were deceived
      And decoyed into the field,
  But since they've taken up arms
      Resolved they'll never yield.
  
  But faithful at their post
      While life and limb endure,
  Until this war is ended
      And terms of peace are sure.
  
  Our very nearest neighbor
      A good Democratic man,
  Although he hates the policy,
      Shuns Negroes when he can.
  
  Says, "I have made up my mind
      That I will volunteer,
  For if the draft should take me
      I'd be ashamed to appear."
  
  He is trying to get ready
      He's a considerate man,
  For the comfort of his family
      He's doing what he can.
  
  His interesting family,
      Good wife and children too,
  To leave those dear helpless ones
      'Tis hard for him to do.
  
  But he's hauling off his corn
      And getting up the wood,
  He's not got three hundred dollars,
      The price of poor man's blood.
  
  Oh! The new unheard of policy
      In this free and equal land,
  The rich and poor were drafted,
      Must go or lend a hand.
  
  But these new politicians
      Have not money quite enough,
  The money and the Negro
      For them are just the stuff.