Brave Porter deals in hard dry pokes,
He's also good at a clever hoax;
Of all his deeds, in fight or fun,
That queer old scow is "Number One."
Abandoned by the river's marge,
She had served her time as coaling barge;
Of refuse planks he shaped her roof
Like iron-clads, quite cannon-proof.
Pork barrels old, with ne'er a head,
As twin stacks rose, in chimnies' stead;
These vomited, to aid the joke,
From hearths of mud, a dreadful smoke.
In place of turret, on this raft,
(Oh, was not she the drollest craft!)
He rigged, from some plantation stript,
A small outbuilding, non-descript.
Two guns of log, of frightful size,
Frowned from her ports in grisly guise;
To fit this monster of the stream
To scare the rebels' guilty dream.
The moon was neither bright nor dim,
When Porter loosed this flat-boat trim,
And let her drift, her course to steer,
With pilot none, nor engineer.
On Mississippi's eastern side,
The sentries soon her coming spied,
They raised alarm at dead of night—
All Vicksburg waked in deadly fright.
Drummers and generals, boy and man,
And gunners too, to quarters ran;
Oh, how they feared the awful ark
That loomed so large through midnight dark!
As fast as she in range drew near,
Their batteries roared with rage and fear;
Brimful when she began to float,
No balls could sink this mystic boat.
They marvelled much she did not sink;
"She's shot-proof, sure!" the rebels think;
Who ever heard of Yankee trick
That worked than this more 'cute and slick?
The Butternuts waste shell and shot,
Their cannonade gets loud and hot,
They burn their powder, burst their guns,
And shake the shores with deafening stuns.
Louder than powder, on our side,
Our soldiers laughed until they cried;
Some held their ribs, some rolled on grass,
To think Secesh was such an ass.
Nor was this din of langh and gun,
The choicest part of Porter's fun.
The Queen of the West, that captive ram,
Escaped by flight a dreaded jam.
Away she went, we know not where!
But her's was not the biggest scare,—
For down the stream, their valued prey,
The captured Indianola lay.
They thought to fit this costly prize,
To run and 'blast the Yankees' eyes;'
But blew her up, as the scow drew near—
Blew her to shivers, in their fear.
And so let all their projects burst,
And blow to atoms Treason curst!
But long live all our jolly tars,
The UNION too, with the Stripes and Stars!