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The light of love is breaking From the red and reeking sod,
And man is new-created In the image of his God.
BY T. B. ALDRICH.
THE shades of night were falling fast, As through a Southern village passed A chap who bore, not over-nice A banner with the odd device,
His hair was red ; his toes beneath Peeped, like an acorn from its sheath, While with a frightened voice he sung A burden strange to Yankee tongue, Skedaddle!
He saw no household fire, where he Might warm his tod or hominy : Beyond the Cordilleras shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Skedaddle !