Well, actually -
Abraham Lincoln neither wrote, nor attempted to write, much verse. What little he did write was perhaps the product of a sort of mental exercise—to gratify an impulse to see what he could do. . . . - The Atlantic archives, Via THE DISH.
THE BEAR HUNT
by - A. Lincoln
Then hast thou lived in vain—
Thy richest bump of glorious glee
Lies desert in they brain.
When first my father settled here,
’T was then the frontier line;
The panther’s scream filled night with fear
And bears preyed on the swine.
But woe for bruin’s short-lived fun
When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun
For vengeance at him fly.
A sound of danger strikes his ear;
He gives the breeze a snuff;
Away he bounds, with little fear,
And seeks the tangled rough.
On press his foes, and reach the ground
Where’s left his half-munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around
And find his fresh made trail.
With instant cry, away they dash,
And me at fast pursue;
O’er logs they leap, through water splash
And shout the brisk halloo.
Now to elude the eager pack
Bear shuns the open ground,
Through matted vines he shapes his track,
And runs it, round and round.
The tall, fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice
Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice¹
Are yelping far behind.
And fresh recruits are dropping in
To join the merry corps;
With yelp and yell, a mingled din—
The woods are in a roar—
And round, and round the chase now goes,
The world ’s alive with fun;
Nick Carter’s horse his rider throws,
And Mose Hill drops his gun.
Now, sorely pressed, bear glances back,
And lolls his tired tongue,
When as, to force him from his track
An ambush on him sprung.
Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
And fully is in view—
The dogs, new fired by the sight
Their cry and speed renew.
The foremost ones now reach his rear;
He turns, they dash away,
And circling now the wrathful bear
They have him full at bay.
At top of speed the horsemen come,
All screaming in a row—
‘Whoop!’ ‘Take him, Tiger!’ ‘Seize him, Drum!’
Bang—Bang! the rifles go!
And furious now, the dogs he tears,
And crushes in his ire—
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
With eyes of burning fire.
But leaden death is at his heart—
Vain all the strength he plies,
And, spouting blood from every part,
He reels, and sinks, and dies!
And now a dinsome clamor rose,—
‘But who should have his skin?’
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows
This prize must always win.
But, who did this, and how to trace
What ’s true from what ’s a lie,—
Like lawyers in a murder case
They stoutly argufy.
Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood,
Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood
Arrives upon the spot.
With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair
Brim full of spunk and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear
And shakes for life and death—
And swells, as if his skin would tear,
And growls, and shakes again,
And swears, as plain as dog can swear
That he has won the skin!
Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee,
Nor mind that not a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be
Conceited quite as you.
A small dog of nondescript breed. Local, U. S. A. — The Editor
