On Saturday, I went to a bad poetry party -- not a poetry party that was bad, but a party celebrating bad poetry. It was in honor of the life and work of Julia A. Moore, "The Sweet Singer of Michigan," a spectacularly bad 19th century poet in the grand tradition of bad 19th century poetry. Mrs. Moore is said to have been the inspiration for Emmeline Grangerford, the overwrought, melancholy, romantic poetess in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Party attendees were asked to bring an original bad poem, and to read it in front of the group. It's the kind of party you'd expect to be dreamed up by a bunch of former English grad students, which in fact it was.
So, in recognition of the fact that most bad poetry from the South in the 19th century concerns dead Confederate heroes, I came up with the following, based on a true story. I realize that my meager effort cannot hope to reach the heights of Miss Grangerford's "Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots." Plus, it's kind of long. For the full effect, imagine the plaintive violin theme from "The Civil War" in the background.
The Ballad of Bennett Young
O, have you heard the story
Of Old Kaintuck's bravest son?
No avenue may bear his name
And of statues he has none.
Yet none deeper than he
Into the Yankees' black heart stung
Hear the tale of this bold Southron
By the name of Bennett Young.
He was but a Nicholasville lad
When he heard his country's cry
And was captured in Ohio in '63
On a hot day in July.
Yet from that dreaded Yankee jail
He soon adroitly sprung
"I'll make post-haste for Canada!"
Said Lieutenant Bennett Young.
In the frozen north he soon found
Other brave Sons of the Gray
They planned that soon Vermont-ward
They would lief be on their way.
"The Vermonters will be startled
By the chaos we have brung!
In St. Albans land, we'll make our stand!"
Vowed Lieutenant Bennett Young.
October 10 of '64
Was chosen as the day
When Young and his two cohorts
Would southward make their way.
On arriving in St. Albans,
To a hotel they soon swung.
(Prob'ly signed in with an alias --
Not "Lieutenant Bennett Young.")
Over the next week or so,
More soldiers rendezvoused
And when they were all gathered,
Twenty-one in all accrued.
When arrived the fatal moment,
To this cry he gave full lung:
"Y'all Yanks are now the prisoners
Of Lieutenant Bennett Young!"
"I hereby claim this chilly town
Is conqueréd this day!
And all of wee Vermont is now
Part of the C.S.A.!
Your maple syrup may be nice
And sweet upon the tongue,
But sweeter still the victory
Of me! I'm Bennett Young!"
Then to three local banks
Went those most valiant men of ours.
Made the tellers pledge allegiance
To the grand old Stars and Bars.
Alas, most of the money
They won got lost among
The confusion of escaping
By the men of Bennett Young.
With fiery rage they planned
To turn St. Albans into Hell.
But the Greek Fire bombs they had, alack,
Just did not work too well.
Although one shed was caught ablaze
So at least that much was flung
In the face of the hated Yankees
By the stalwart Bennett Young!
But in their newly conquer'd land
They knew they could not stay.
They fled back north to Canada
And were arrested right away.
But Canada could not hold them,
Since neutrality they sung.
"You'll have to give the cash back, though,"
They said to Bennett Young.
And while the war was waging,
In cold Canada he stayed.
And when the war was over,
He was once more waylaid.
"No amnesty," said Johnson,
"But at least you won't be hung."
So off to Ireland's emerald shores
Went Mr. Bennett Young.
When to Kentucky he returned
In 1868
He went to Louisville, and soon
Became a lawyer great.
So pure of heart until he died
At 76 years young
No alcohol e'er passed the lips
Of saintly Bennett Young.
Many folks may never know
That such a man there was.
Most books do not remember him
(Though St. Albans prob'ly does.)
How rich the soil of Southern lands,
How fertile be the dung
That brought forth the flow'r of manhood
That we knew as Bennett Young!
(Note to anybody finding this page through a Google search for the subject: I'm not really interested in discussions about the righteousness or despicability of the Lost Cause -- please be aware that the poem above is intended as a parody of bad Southern heroic poetry, and not an attack on Lieut. Young, his descendants, or his admirers. I will say this: Whatever you think about the Confederacy and the men who fought for it -- of whom there were several in my family on my father's side -- Bennett Young was a pretty ballsy guy.)
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