The scorching August rays fell fast,
As through a Western village passed
A youth, who bore, through sun and flame,
A banner bearing high the name,
'Centennial.'

The love that lit his lifted eye
Revenge and malice might defy,
And whether met by young or old,
His answer followed, firm and bold,
'Centennial.'

'Trust not Republicans, my son,'
An aged Copperhead begun ;
'They lurk along the mountain-side.'
But, jubilant, his voice replied,
'Centennial!'

' Beware of ' Rebs,' ' old Croaker cries ;
' Beware of trakors in disguise !'
But opening wide his arms for all,
He shouts aloud the magic call,
'Centennial!'

And later, when, his goal attained,
He paused where sunset's glory waned,
His whisper floated to the stars
That hid behind those crimson bars,
'Centennial.'

The young moon, too, too coy to speak,
Dropped golden kisses on his cheek;
Then, as he slept, she veiled her light
And murmured, with her soft ' Good-night,'
'Centennial.'

And thus, by Heaven's own touch caressed,
In dreams our hero's footfalls pressed
The golden streets, where patriots heard,
And softly breathed our Union-word,
'Centennial.'