The red line of danger grows deadly and large,

Loud from the hills rings the rifleman's rattle,

But Custer is ready, so forward and charge!

Firing with left hand, and fencing with right,

The reins in his teeth, like a handless young Hun,

What is his fate in the terrible fight?

The thousands hath slain him, yet Custer hath won.

His foemen still seek him in terror and wonder,

Alive in the tempest that darkens the vale;

His charge they still fear in the echoing thunder,

His sword in the lightning, his voice in the gale.

THE AMERICAN GIRL.

The maid for man to love,

All other forms above,

Is she whose home adorns the loam of this fair land of mine:

American in sire,

She's born of love and fire,

And dominates the heart of man as by a right divine.

By rhyming swain pursued,

She meets the puling dude,

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