The "Nondescript," or "Yankee Devil," for clearing the harbor, was washed
ashore on yesterday at Morris Island, and is now in our possession. It is
described as an old scow-like vessel, painted red, with a long protruding
beak, and jutting iron prongs and claws, intended for the removal of
torpedoes. It was attached to the Passaic, and managed by her during the
engagement.--_Charleston Courier._
The enemy are waiting for a new machine ("Devil") to remove the torpedoes
in the harbor, and to have everything in readiness before the
attack.--_Same paper._
Hurrah! hurrah! good news and true,
Our woes will soon be past;
To Charleston, boys, all praise be due,
The devil's caught at last.
He's caught, he's dead, and met his fate
On Morris Island's sands;
His carcass lies in solemn state,
The spoil of Rebel hands.
Hurrah! hurrah! let Dixie cheer!
What may not Charleston do!
The devil's caught at last, we hear;
A Yankee devil, too!
The blackest, bluest from below,
The prince of all is he,
Who leads the Yankees where they go,
On land, or on the sea.
The news is true, all doubt dispel,
All grief and fears be o'er!
The chiefest from perdition's well
Lies on a Southern shore.
On South Carolina's beach he lies--
His majesty ashore!
Ah! well we know that devil dies
Who enters at that door.
His name and hue, and shape and size,
Identify the beast;
'Tis he--the father of all lies,
Of devils not the least.
Scow-like across the deep he came,
Blood-red his iron sides;
With beak, and claws, and fins of flame
To plow the vernal tides.
Like serpents which Minerva sent
To crush the Trojan sire,
So Northern devils come to vent
On Charleston blood and fire.
But Neptune ne'er decreed the fate
Of Laocoon's dear sons,
To gratify the Yankees' hate
On Charleston's dearer ones.
They'll never bear one fatal hour
The Northern serpent's coil,
Nor feel the Yankee devil's power
Who come to crush and spoil.
The "Nondescript," name chosen well;
The "Northern Devil," aye!
A fiend, a ghoul, a spirit fell!
Who may describe it--say?
Foul, artful, bloody, false, insane,
This Northern ghote[18] of sin;
The heathen hells could ne'er contain
A darker power within.
But now, hurrah, the devil's dead!
High, dry upon the shore!
Rebellion still may rear its head,
The war will soon be o'er.
Hold, not so fast, abate your cheer,
The battle is not won;
Another devil comes, we hear,
Before the work is done.
Alas! when will this warfare end?
Not till all Yankee foes are dead;
For nondescript is each--or fiend--
His soul with murder red.
CAVE SPRINGS, GA., _April 11, 1863_.