I rove through the city
Or prowl on the plain,
And boast of the innocent
Victims I've slain;
Of my widows and orphans,
The tears they have shed;
Of desolate hovels,
And hearts that have bled;
Of minds once enlightened,
In the ranks of the brave;
Of the fate of the monarch,
Or the death of the slave.
When I ride on the ocean
Or sail on the lake,
I mark down the millions
That follow my wake.
To the mother that weeps
O'er the fate of her son,
I boast of the chivalrous
Deeds I have done—
The oceans of blood
And tears I have spilt,
And witnessed cruelty,
Sorrow and guilt.
At a breath or a touch
Of my magical wand,
The mighty are fallen—
Their wealth I command.
The home of the happy
Is wrecked at my name;
The spoils of the wealthy
Is the height of my fame;
The brow of the beautiful,
Lovely and gay,
I have mantled with shame
And stamped with dismay.
The maid on her lover
Looks down with disdain
For the ties that had bound them
I had severed in twain.
The pride of man's heart,
Her music and song,
Is turned into wailing
As I entered the throng.
The voice of his children,
As they sport in the dale,
At the sound of the revel
Is swept from the vale.
But I felt my influence
Begin to decay,
When the cold water army
Was set in array.
But her ranks are so broken
Her chieftains are fled,
That I've taken fresh courage
And hold up my head.
My health is improving,
I feel no alarms,
Since the cold water army
Have laid down their arms.
E. M.
Oregon City, December 20, 1849.
Oregon Spectator, December 27, 1849.