Jaalam, April 5, 1866.
MY DEAR SIR,—
(an’ noticin’ by your kiver thet you ’re some dearer than wut you wuz, I enclose the diffrenee) I dunno ez I know jest how to interdroce this las’ perduction of my mews, ez Parson Willber allus called ’em, which is goin’ to be the last an’ stay the last onless sunthin’ pertikler sh’d interfear which I don’t expec’ ner I wun’t yield tu ef it wuz ez pressin’ ez a deppity Shiriff. Sence Mr Wilbur’s disease I hevn’t hed no one thet could dror out my talons. He ust to kind o’ wine me up an’ set the penderlum agoin’ an’ then somehow I seemed to go on tick as it wear tell I run down, but the noo minister ain’t of the same brewin’ nor I can’t seem to git ahold of no kine of huming nater in him but sort of slide rite off as you du on the eedge of a mow. Minnysteeril natur is wal enough an’ a site better ’n most other kines I know on,’but the other sort sech as Welbor hed wuz of the Lord’s makin’ an’ naterally more wonderfle an’ sweet tastin’ leastways to me so fur as heerd from, lie used to interdooce ’em smooth ez ile athout sayin’ nothin’ in pertickler an’ I misdoubt he didn’t set so much by the sec’nd Ceres as wut he done by the Fust, fact, he let on onct thet his mine misgive him of a sort of failin’ off in spots. He wuz as outspoken as a norwester he wuz, but I tole him I hoped the fall wuz from so high up thet a feller could ketch a good many times fust afore comin’ bunt onto the ground as I see Jethro C. Swett from the meetin’ house steeple up to th’ old perrisli, an’ took up for dead but he’s alive now an’ spry as wut you be. Turnin’ of it over I recelectcd how they ust to put wut they called Argymunce onto the frunts of poyrans, like poorches afore housen whare you could rest ye a spell whilst you wuz concludin’ whether you’d go in or nut espeshully ware tha wuz darters, though I most allus found it the best plen to go in fust an’ think afterwards an’ the gals likes it best tu. I dno as speechis ever hez any argimunts to ’em, I never see none thet hed an’ I guess they never du but tha must allus be a B’ginnin’ to everythin’ athout it is Etarnity so I ’ll begin rite away an’ any body may put it afore any of his speeches ef it soots an’ welcome. I don’t claim no paytent.
Interducshin, w’ich may be skipt. Begins by talkin’ about himself: thet’s jest natur an’ most gin’ally alius pleasin’, I b'leeve I’ve notist, to one of the cumpany, an’ thet’s more than wut you can say of most speshes of talkin’. Nex’ comes the gittin’ the goodwill of the orjunce by lettin’ ’em gether from wut you kind of ex’dentally let drop thet they air about East, A one, an’ no mistaik, skare ’em up an’ take ’em as they rise. Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach finally begins witch nobuddy need n’t feel obolygated to read as I never read ’em an’ never shell this one ag’in. Subjick staited; expanded ; delayted ; extended. Pump lively. Subjick staited ag’in so ’s to avide all mistaiks. Ginnle remarks ; continooed ; kerried on ; pushed furder ; kind o’ gin out. Subjick restaited ; dielooted ; stirred up permiscoous. Pump ag’in. Gits back to where he sot out. Can’t seem to stay thair. Ketches into Mr. Seaward’s hair. Breaks loose ag’in an’ staits his subjick; stretches it ; turns it; folds it; onfolds it ; folds it ag’in so’s’t no one can’t find it. Argoos with an imedginary bean thet ain’t aloud to say nothin’ in repleye. Gives him a real good dressin’ an’ is settysfide he ’s rite. Gits into Johnson’s hair. No use tryin’ to git into his head. Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick ag’in ; doos it back’ards, sideways, eendways, criss-cross, bevellin’, noways. Gits finally red on it. Concloods. Concloods more. Reads sum xtrax. Sees his subjick a-nosin’ round arter him ag’in. Tries to avide it. Wun’t du. Misstates it. Can’t conjectur’ no other plawsable way of staytin’ on it. Tries pump. No fx. Yeels the flore.
You kin spall an’ punctooate thet as you please, I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin’ doos an’ takes ’em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of ’em it’s the main thing, an’ wut they wuz made for ; wut’s left’s jest pummis.
Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, “ Hosee,” sez he, “ in litterytoor the only good thing is Natur. It’s amazin’ hard to come at,” sez he, “but onct git it an’ you’ve gut everythin’. Wut’s the sweetest small on airth ? ” sez he. “ Noomone hay,” sez I, pooty bresk, for he wuz alius hankerin’ round in hayin’. “ Nawthin’ of the kine,” sez he. “ My leetle Huldy’s breath,” sez I ag’in. “ You ’re a good lad,” sez he, his eyes sort of ripplin’ like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her age, — “ You ’re a good lad ; but’t ain’t thet nuther,” sez he. “ Ef you want to know,” sez he, “open your winder of a mornin’ et ary season, and you ’ll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, fresh air,” sez he, emphysizin’, “ atlmut no mixtur. Thet’s wut / call natur in writin’, and it bathes my lungs and washes ’em sweet whenever I git a whiff on’t,” sez he. I often think o’ thet when I set down to write, but the winders air so ept to git stuck, and breakin’ a pane costs sunthin’.
Yourn for the last time,
Nut to be continooed,
I could git boosted into th’ House or Sennit,—
Nut while the twolegged gab-machine's so plenty,
’Nablin’ one man to du the talk o’ twenty ;
I ’m one o’ them thet finds it rutlier hard
To mannyfactur’ wisdom by the yard,
An’ maysure off, acordin’ to demand,
The piece-goods el’kence that I keep on hand,
The same ole pattern runnin’ thru an’ thru,
An’ nothin’ but the customer thet’s new.
I sometimes think, the furder on I go,
Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know,
An’ when I ’ve settled my idees, I find
’T war n’t I sheered most in makin’ up my mind ;
’T wuz this an’ thet an’ t’ other thing thet done it,
Sunthin’ in th’ air, I could n’ seek nor shun it.
All th’ ole flint locks seems altered to percussion,
Whilst I in agin’ sometimes git a hint
Thet I ’m percussion changin’ back to flint;
Wal, ef it’s so, I ain’t agoin’ to werrit,
For th’ ole Queen’s-arm hez this pertickler merit, —
It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o’ margin
To kin' o’ make its will afore dischargin’:
I can’t make out but jest one ginnle rule, —
No man need go an’ make himself a fool,
Nor jedgment ain’t like mutton, thet can’t bear
Cookin’ tu long, nor be took up tu rare.
So’s’t all the country dreads me onct a week,
But I ’ve consid’ble o’ thet sort o’ head
Thet sets to home an’ thinks wut might be said,
The sense thet grows an’ worrits underneath,
Comin’ belated like your wisdom-teeth,
An’ git so el’kent, sometimes, to my gardin
Thet I don’ vally public life a fardin’.
Our Parson Wilbur (blessin’s on his head !)
’Mongst other stories of ole times he hed,
Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreads
Beforelian’ to his rows o’ kebbige-heads,
(Ef ’twarn’t Demossenes, I guess ’twuz Sisro,)
Appealin’ fust to thet an’ then to this row,
Accordin’ ez he thought thet his idees
Their diff’runt ev’riges o’ brains ’ould please ;
An’,” sez the Parson, “ to hit right, you must
Git used to maysurin’ your hearers fust;
For, take my word for ’t when all ’s come an’ past,
The kebbige-heads ’ll cair the day et last ;
Th’ ain’t ben a meetin’ sense the worl’ begun
But they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one.”
About ez good for talkin’ to ez men ;
They ’ll take edvice, like other folks, to keep,
(To use it ’ould be holdin’ on’t tu cheap.)
They listen wal, don’ kick up when you scold ’em,
An el they’ve tongues, hev sense enough to hold ’em ;
Though th’ ain’t no denger we shall loose the breed,
I gin’lly keep a score or so for seed,
An’ when my sappiness gits spry in spring
So’s’t my tongue itches to run on full swing,
I fin’ ’em ready-planted in March-meetin’,
Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their greetin’,
An’ pleased to hear my spoutin’ frum the fence, —
Comin’, ez t doos, entirely free ’f expense.
This year I made the follerin’ observations
Extrump’ry, like most other tri’ls 0’ patience,
An’, no reporters bein’ sent express
To work their abstracts up into a mess
Ez like th' oridg’nal ez a woodcut pictur’
Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor,
I've writ ’em out, an’ so avide all jeal’sies
’Twixt nonsense o’ my own an’ some one’s else’s.
I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreen
The world of all its hearers but jest you,
’T would leave ’bout all tha’ is wuth talkin’ to,
An’ you, my venerable frien’s, thet show
Upon your crowns a sprinklin’ o’ March snow,
Ez ef mild Time had christened every sense
For wisdom’s church o’ second innocence,
Nut Age’s winter, no, no sech a thing,
But jest a kin’ o’ slippin’-back o’ spring, —
We’ve gathered here, ez ushle, to decide
Which is the Lord’s an’ which is Satan’s side,
Coz all the good or evil thet can heppen
Is ’long o’ which on ’em you choose for Cappen.
Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke ;
The brooks are loose an’, singing to be seen,
(Like gals,) make all the hollers soft an’ green;
The birds are here, for all the season’s late ;
They take the sun's height an’ don’ never wait ;
Soon ’z he officially declares it’s spring
Their light hearts lift ’em on a north’ard wing,
An’ th’ain’t an acre, fur ez you can hear,
Can’t by the music tell the time o’ year ;
But thet white dove Carliny scared away,
Five year ago, jes’ sech an Aprul day ;
Peace, that we hoped ’ould come an’ build last year
An’ coo by every housedoor, is n’t here, —
No, nor won’t never be, for all our jaw,
Till we ’re ez brave in pol'tics ez in war !
O Lord, ef folks wuz made so ’s ’t they could see
The bagnet-pint there is to an idee !
Ten times the danger in ’em th’ is in steel ;
They run your soul thru an’ you never feel,
But crawl about an’ seem to think you ‘re livin’,
Poor shells o’ men, nut wuth the Lord’s forgivin’,
Till you come bunt agin a real live fact,
An’ go to pieces when you ’d ough’ to act !
Thet kin’ o’ begnet’s wut we ’re crossin’ now,
An’ no man, fit to nevvigate a scow,
’Quid stan’ expectin’ help from Kingdom Come
While t’ other side druv their cold iron home.
No, nut one word ag’in the South ez South,
Nor th’ ain’t a livin’ man, white, brown, nor black,
Gladder ’n wut I should be to take ’em back ;
But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust
To write up on his door, “No goods on trust ”;
Give us cash down in ekle laws tor all.
An’ they ’ll be snug inside afore nex’ tall.
Give wut they ask, an’ we shell hev Jamaker, Wuth minus some consid’able an acre ;
Give wut they need, an’ we shell git ’fore long
A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong ;
Make ’em Amerikin, an’ they ’ll begin
To love their country ez they loved their sin;
Let ’em stay Southun, an’ you’ve kep' a sore
Ready to fester ez it done afore.
No mortle man can boast of perfic’ vision,
But the one moleblin’ thing is Indecision,
An’ th’ ain’t no futur’ for the man nor state
Thet out of j-u-s-t can’t spell great.
Some folks ’ould call thet reddikle ; do you ?
’T wuz commonsense atore the war wuz thru ;
Thet loaded all our guns an’ made ’em speak
So ’s’t Europe heared ’em clearn acrost the creek ;
“ They ’re drivin’ o’ their spiles down now,” sez she,
To the hard grennit o’ God’s fust idee ;
Ef they reach thet, Democ’cy need n’t fear
The tallest airthquakes we can git up here.”
An’ say ’t will only set their teeth on edge,
But folks you’ve jest licked, fur ’z I ever see,
Are ’bout ez mad ez they know how to be ;
It’s better than the Rebs themselves expected
’Fore they see Uncle Sana wilt down henpectcd ;
Be kind ’z you please, but fustly make things fast,
For plain Truth ’s all the kindness thet ’ll last;
Ef treason is a crime, ez some folks say,
How could we punish it a milder way
Than sayin’ to ’em, “ Brethren, lookee here,
We ’ll jes’ divide things with ye, sheer an’ sheer,
An’ sence both come o’ pooty strongbacked daddies,
You take the Darkies, ez we’ve took the Paddies ;
Ign’ant an’ poor we took ’em by the hand,
An’ the ’re the bones an’ sinners o’ the land.”
I ain’t o’ those thet fancy there’s a loss on
Every inves’ment thet don’t start from Bos’on ;
But I know this : our money’s safest trusted
In sunthin’, come wut will, thet can't be busted,
An’ thet’s the old Amerikin idee,
To make a man a Man an’ let him be.
But I do’ want to block their only road to ’t
By lettin’ ’em believe thet they can git
More ’n wut they lost, out of our little wit:
I tell ye wut, I ’m ’fraid we ’ll drif’ to leeward
’Thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward;
He seems to think Columby’d better act
Like a scared widder with a boy stiff-necked
Thet stomps an’ swears he wun’t come in to supper;
She mus’ set up for him, ez -weak ez Tupper,
Keepin’ the Constitoolion on to warm,
Till he ’ll accept her 'pologies in form :
The neighbors tell her he ’s a cross-grained cuss
Thet needs a hidin’ ’fore he comes to wus ;
“No,” sez Ma Seward, “he's ez good ’z the best,
All he wants now is sugar-plums an’ rest ” ;
“ He sarsed my Pa,” sez one ; “ He stoned my son,”
Another edds. “ O, wal, ’t wuz jest his fun.”
“ He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.”
“ ’T wuz only tryin’ a noo gun he hed.”
“ Wal, all we ask’s to hev it understood
You ’ll take his gun away from him for good ;
We don't, wal, nut exac’ly, like his play,
Seein’ be allus kin’ o’ shoots our way.
You kill your fatted calves to no good eend,
’Thout his fust sayin’, ‘Mother, I hev’ sinned!’”
’Ould be t’ allow thet he’s our only man,
An’ thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war
Jes’ for his private glory an’ eclor;
“Nobody ain’t a Union man,” sez he,
“’Thout he agrees, thru thick an’ thin, with me;
War n’t Andrew Jackson’s ’nitials jes’ like mine ?
An’ ain’t thet sunthin’ like a right divine
To cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please,
An’ treat your Congress like a nest o’ fleas ? ”
Wal, I expec’ the People would n’ care, if
The question now wuz techin’ bank or tariff,
But I conclude they’ve ’bout made up their mind
This ain't the fittest time to go it blind,
Nor these ain't metters thet with pol’tics swings,
But goes ’way down amongst the roots o’ things ;
Coz Sumner talked o’ whitewashin’ one day
They wun’t let four years’ war be throwed away.
“ Let the South hev her rights ? ” They say, “ Thet’s you !
But nut greb hold of other folks’s tu.”
Who owns this country, is it they or Andy ?
Leastways it ough’ to be the People and he;
Let him be senior pardner, ef he’s so,
But let them kin’ o’ smuggle in ez Co ;
Did lie diskiver it? Consid’ble numbers
Think thet the job wuz taken by Columbus.
Did he set tu an’ make it wut it is ?
Ef so, I guess the One-Man-power hes riz.
Did he put thru’ the rebbles, clear the docket,
An’ pay th’ expenses out of his own pocket ?
Ef thet !s the case, then everythin’ I exes
Is t’ hev him come an’ pay my ennooal texes.
Was ’t he thet shou’dered all them million guns ?
Did he lose all the fathers, brothers, sons ?
Is this ere pop’lar gov’ment thet we run
A kin’ o’ sulky, made to kerry one ?
An’ is the country goin’ to knuckle down
To hev Smith sort their letters ’stid o’ Brown ?
Who wuz the ’Nited States ’fore Richmon’ fell ? Wuz the South needfle their full name to spell ?
An’ can't we spell it in thet short-han’ way
Till th’ underpinnin’ ’s settled so’s to stay ?
Who cares for the Resolves of ’61,
Thet tried to coax an airthquake with a bun ?
Hez act’ly nothin’ taken place sence then
To l’arn folks they must hendle facts like men ?
Ain’t this the true p'int ? Did the Rebs accep’ ’em ?
Ef nut, whose fault is’t thet we hev n’t kep’ ’em ?
War n’t there two sides ? an’ don’t it stend to reason
Thet this week’s ’Nited States ain’t las’ week’s treason?
When all these sums is done, with nothin’ missed,
An’ nut afore, this school ’ll be dismissed.
Thet when the war wuz over copper’d rise,
An’ thet we’d hev a rile-up in our kettle
’T would need Leviathan’s whole skin to settle ;
I thought ’t would take about a generation
’Fore we could wal begin to be a nation,
But I allow I never did imegine
’T would be our Bres’dunt thet ’ould drive a wedge in
To keep the split from closin’ ef it could,
An’ healin’ over with new wholesome wood ;
For th’ ain’t no chance o’ healin’ while they think
Thet law an’ gov’ment’s only printer's ink ;
I mus’ confess I thank him for discoverin’
The curus way in which the States are sovereign ;
They ain’t nut quite enough so to rebel,
But, when they fin’ it’s costly to raise h—,
Why, then, for jes’ the same superl’tive reason,
They ’re most too much so to be tetched for treason ;
They can't go out, but ef they somehow du,
Their sovereignty don’t noways go out tu ;
The State goes out, the sovereignty don’t stir,
But stays to keep the door ajar for her.
He thinks secession never took ’em out,
An’ mebby he’s correc’, but I misdoubt;
Ef they war n’t out, then why, ’n the name o’ sin,
Make all this row ’bout lettin’ of ’em in ?
In law, p’r’aps nut; but there’s a difference, ruther,
Betwixt your brother-’n-law an’ real brother,
An’ I, for one, shall wish they’d all ben som'eres,
Long ’z U. S. Texes are sech reg’lar comers.
But, O my patience! must we wriggle back
Into th’ ole crooked, pettyfoggin’ track,
When our artil’ry-wheels a road hev cut
Stret to our purpose ef we keep the rut ?
War’s jes’ dead waste excep’ to wipe the slate
Clean for the cyph’rin’ of some nobler fate.
’T wun’t bind ’em more ’n the ribbin roun’ my het;
I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns,
Thet pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns :
Once on a time the wolves bed certing rights
Inside the fold; they used to sleep there nights,
An’, bein’ cousins o’ the dogs, they took
Their turns et watchin’, reg’lar ez a book ;
But somehow, when the dogs bed gut asleep,
Their love o’ mutton beat their love o’ sheep,
Till gradilly the shepherds come to see
Things war n’t agoin’ ez they’d ough’ to be ;
So they sent off a deacon to remonstrate
Along 'th the wolves an’ urge ’em to go on straight;
They did n’ seem to set much by the deacon,
Nor preachin’ did n’ cow ’em, nut to speak on ;
Fin’ly they swore thet they’d go out an’ stay,
An’ hev their fill o’ mutton every day:
Then dogs an’ shepherds, arter much hard dammin’,
Turned tu an’ give ’em a tormented lammin’,
An’ sez, “Ye sha’ n’t go out, the murrain rot ye,
To keep us wastin’ half our time to watch ye!”
But then the question come, How live together
’Thout losin’ sleep, nor nary yew nor wether ?
Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep)
Thet sheered their cousins’ tastes an’ sheered the sheep ;
They sez, “ Be gin’rous, let ’em swear right in,
An’, ef they backslide, let ’em swear ag'in ;
Jes’ let ’em put on sheep-skins whilst they ’re swearin’ ;
To ask for more ’ould be beyond all bearin’.”
“ Be gin’rous for yourselves, where you ’re to pay,
Thet’s the best prectice,” sez a shepherd gray;
“Ez for their oaths they wun’t be wuth a button,
Long ’z you don't cure ’em o’ their taste for mutton ;
Th’ ain’t but one solid way, howe’er you puzzle ;
Till they ’re convarted, let ’em wear a muzzle.”
Are in the hebbit o’ producin’ letters
Writ by all sorts o’ never-heared-on fellers,
’Bout ez oridge’nal ez the wind in bellers ;
I ’ve noticed, tu, it’s the quack med’eines gits
(An’ needs) the grettest heaps o’ stiffykits ;
Now, sence I lef’ off creepin on all fours,
I ha’ n't ast no man to endorse my course ;
It’s full ez cheap to be your own endorser,
An’ ef I ’ve made a cup, I ’ll fin’ the saucer ;
But I ’ve some letters here from t’ other side,
An’ them’s the sort thet helps me to decide ;
Tell me for wut the copper-comp’nies hanker,
An’ I ’ll tell you jest where it’s sate to anchor.
Fus.’ly the Hon’ble B. OSawin writes
Thet for a spell he could n’ sleep o’ nights,
Puzzlin’ which side wuz preudentest to pin to,
Which wuz th’ ole homestead, which the temp’ry leanto ;
Et fust he jedged ’t would right-side-up his pan
To come out ez a ’ridge’nal Union man,
“ But now,” he sez, “ I ain’t nut quite so fresh ;
The winnin’ horse is goin’ to be Secesh ;
You might, las’ spring, hev eas’ly walked the course,
’Fore we contrived to doctor th’ Union horse ;
Now we ’re the ones to walk aroun’ the nex' track :
Jest you take hold an’ read the follerin’ extrac’,
Out of a letter I received last week
From an ole frien’ thet never sprung a leak,
A Nothun Dem’crat o’ th’ ole Jarsey blue,
Born coppersheathed an’ copperlastened tu.”
To say which side a feller went for ;
Guideposts all gone, roads muddy ’n’ rough,
An’ nothin’ duin’ wut ’t wuz meant for;
Pickets afirin’ left an’ right,
Both sides a lettin’ rip et sight, —
Life war n’t wuth hardly payin’ rent for.
It war n’t no use a tryin’ to stop her,—
War’s emptin’s riled her very dough
An’ made it rise an’ act improper ;
’T wuz full ez much ez I could du
To jes’ lay low an’ worry thru’,
’Thout hevin’ to sell out my copper.
Could set an’ sun ’em on the fences,
Cyph'rin’ the chances up, an’ then
jump off which way bes’ paid expenses;
Sence, ’t wuz so resky ary way,
I did n’t hardly darst to say
I ’greed with Paley’s Evidences.
War n’t like bein’ rid upon a rail on ’t,
Headin’ your party with a sense
O’ bein’ tipjint in the tail on ’t,
And try-in’ to think thet, on the whole,
You kin’ o’ quasi own your soul
When Belmont’s gut a bill o’ sale on ’t ?
Their pol’tics done ag’in by proxy,
Give their noo loves the bag an’ strike
A fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy;
But the drag ’s broke, now slavery ’s gone,
An’ there ’s gret resk they ’ll blunder on,
Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ’cy.
In this ’ere job o’ reconstructin’;
Folks dunno skurce which way to go,
Where th’ ain’t some boghole to be ducked in ;
But one thing ’s clear; there is a crack,
Ef we pry hard, ’twixt white an’ black,
Where the old makebate can be tucked in.
Thet I ain’t willin’ t’ own az brother,
An’ ef he ’s heppened to strike ile,
I dunno, fin’ly, but I ’d ruther;
An’ Paddies, long ’z they vote all right,
Though they ain’t jest a nat’ral white,
I hold one on ’em good ’z another.
Ef’t ain’t the difference o’ color,
To keep up self-respec’ an’ show
The human natur’ of a fullah ?
Wut good in bein’ white, onless
It ’s fixed by law, nut lef to guess,
Thet we are smarter an’ they duller?
’T wunt du to ’low no competition ;
Th’ ole debt doo us for bein’ whites
Ain’t safe onless we stop th’ emission
O’ these noo notes, whose specie base
Is human natur’, ’thout no trace
O’ shape, nor color, nor condition.
Aboard wut boat I ’d best take pessige,
My brains all mincemeat, ’thout no edge
Upon ’em more than tu a sessige,
But now it seems ez though I see
Sunthin’ resemblin’ an idee,
Sence Johnson’s speech an’ veto message.
The logic, preudence, an’ good taste on t,
An’ it ’s so mad, I ruther guess
There ’s some dependence to be placed on ’t ;
It ’s narrer, but ’twixt you an’ me,
Out o’ the allies o’ J. D.
A temp’ry party can be based on 't.
An’ dug his Presidential grave is,
An’ then!—who knows but we could slew
The country roun’ to put in -?
Wun’t some folks rare up when we pull
Out o’ their eyes our Union wool
An’ larn ’em wut a p’lit’cle shave is !
Could ever send a second Tyler ?
To see the South all back to once,
Reapin’ the spiles o’ the Freesiler,
Is cute ez though an engineer
Should claim th’ old iron for his sheer
Because ’t wuz him that bust the biler! ”
By tryin’ squirtguns on the burnin’ Pit;
For the day never comes when it ’ll du
To kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe.
I seem to hear a whisperin’ in the air,
A sighin’ like, of unconsoled despair, Thet comes from nowhere an’ from everywhere,
An’ seems to say, “ Why died we ? war n’t it, then,
To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men ?
O, airth’s sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted,
The grave’s real chill is feelin’ life wuz wasted !
O, you we lef, long-lingerin’ et the door,
Lovin’ you best, coz we loved Her the more,
Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feel
Ef she upon our memory turned her heel,
An’ unregretful throwed us all away
To flaunt it in a Blind Man’s Holiday ! ”
I hain’t no call to bore ye coz ye ’re tough ;
My lungs are sound, an’ our own v’ice delights
Our ears, but even kebbigeheads hez rights.
It ’s the las’ time thet I shell e’er address ye,
But you ’ll soon fin’ some new tormentor: bless ye !