FOOTNOTES:

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW.

Jaylem, june 1846.

Mister Eddyter:—Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he'd jest com down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I d gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery[4]ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be.

If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks knowwho hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

Thrash away, you 'llhevto rattleOn them kittle drums o' yourn,—'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattleThet is ketched with mouldy corn;Put in stiff, you fifer feller,Let folks see how spry you be,—Guess you 'll toot till you are yeller'Fore you git ahold o' me!Thet air flag 's a leetle rotten,Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—Fact! it takes a sight o' cottonTo stuff out a soger's chest:Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,Ef you must wear humps like these,Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't,It would du ez slick ez grease.'T would n't suit them Southern fellers,They 're a dreffle graspin' set,We must ollers blow the bellersWen they want their irons het;May be it 's all right ez preachin',Butmynarves it kind o' grates,Wen I see the overreachin'O' them nigger-drivin' States.Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth(Helped by Yankee renegaders),Thru the vartu o' the North!We begin to think it 's naterTo take sarse an' not be riled;—Who 'd expect to see a taterAll on eend at bein' biled?Ez fer war, I call it murder,—There you hev it plain an' flat;I don't want to go no furderThan my Testyment fer that;God hez sed so plump an' fairly,It 's ez long ez it is broad,An' you 've gut to git up airlyEf you want to take in God.'Taint your eppyletts an' feathersMake the thing a grain more right;Taint afollerin' your bell-wethersWill excuse ye in His sight;Ef you take a sword an' dror it,An' go stick a feller thru,Guv'ment aint to answer for it,God 'll send the bill to you.Wut 's the use o' meetin-goin'Every Sabbath, wet or dry,Ef it 's right to go amowin'Feller-men like oats an' rye?I dunno but wut it's pootyTrainin' round in bobtail coats,—But it 's curus Christian dootyThis ere cuttin' folks's throats.They may talk o' Freedom's airyTell they 're pupple in the face,—It 's a grand gret cemetaryFer the barthrights of our race;They jest want this CalifornySo 's to lug new slave-states inTo abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,An' to plunder ye like sin.Aint it cute to see a YankeeTake sech everlastin' painsAll to git the Devil's thankee,Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez figgers,Clear ez one an' one make two,Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggersWant to make wite slaves o' you.Tell ye jest the eend I've come toArter cipherin' plaguy smart,An' it makes a handy sum, tu,Any gump could larn by heart;Laborin' man an' laborin' womanHev one glory an' one shame,Ev'y thin' thet 's done inhumanInjers all on 'em the same.'Taint by turnin' out to hack folksYou 're agoin' to git your right,Nor by lookin' down on black folksCoz you 're put upon by wite;Slavery aint o' nary colour,'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,All it keers fer in a feller'S jest to make him fill its pus.Want to tacklemein, du ye?I expect you 'll hev to wait;Wen cold lead puts daylight thru yeYou 'll begin to kal'late;'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin'All the carkiss from your bones,Coz you helped to give a lickin'To them poor half-Spanish drones?Jest go home an' ask our NancyWether I'd be sech a gooseEz to jine ye,—guess you'd fancyThe etarnal bung wuz loose!She wants me fer home consumption,Let alone the hay 's to mow,—Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption,You've a darned long row to hoe.Take them editors thet 's crowin'Like a cockerel three months old,—Don't ketch any on 'em goin',Though theybeso blasted bold;Aintthey a prime set o' fellers?'Fore they think on 't they will sprout(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),With the meanness bustin' out.Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'Bigger pens to cram with slaves,Help the men thet 's ollers dealin'Insults on your fathers' graves;Help the strong to grind the feeble,Help the many agin the few,Help the men thet call your peopleWitewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!Massachusetts, God forgive her,She's akneelin' with the rest,She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer everIn her grand old eagle-nest;She thet ough' to stand so fearlessWile the wracks are round her hurled,Holdin' up a beacon peerlessTo the oppressed of all the world!Haint they sold your coloured seamen?Haint they made your env'ys wiz?Wut'll make ye act like freemen?Wut'll git your dander riz?Come, I'll tell ye wut I 'm thinkin'Is our dooty in this fix,They 'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'In the days o' seventy-six.Clang the bells in every steeple,Call all true men to disownThe tradoocers of our people,The enslavers o' their own;Let our dear old Bay State proudlyPut the trumpet to her mouth,Let her ring this messidge loudlyIn the ears of all the South:—"I 'll return ye good fer evilMuch ez we frail mortils can,But I wun't go help the DevilMakin' man the cus o' man;Call me coward, call me traiter,Jest ez suits your mean idees,—Here I stand a tyrant-hater,An' the friend o' God an Peace!"Ef I'dmyway I hed rutherWe should go to work an' part,—They take one way, we take t'other,—Guess it would n't break my heart;Men hed ough' to put asunderThem thet God has noways jined;An' I should n't gretly wonderEf there 's thousands o' my mind.

Thet air flag 's a leetle rotten,Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—Fact! it takes a sight o' cottonTo stuff out a soger's chest:Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,Ef you must wear humps like these,Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't,It would du ez slick ez grease.

'T would n't suit them Southern fellers,They 're a dreffle graspin' set,We must ollers blow the bellersWen they want their irons het;May be it 's all right ez preachin',Butmynarves it kind o' grates,Wen I see the overreachin'O' them nigger-drivin' States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth(Helped by Yankee renegaders),Thru the vartu o' the North!We begin to think it 's naterTo take sarse an' not be riled;—Who 'd expect to see a taterAll on eend at bein' biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,—There you hev it plain an' flat;I don't want to go no furderThan my Testyment fer that;God hez sed so plump an' fairly,It 's ez long ez it is broad,An' you 've gut to git up airlyEf you want to take in God.

'Taint your eppyletts an' feathersMake the thing a grain more right;Taint afollerin' your bell-wethersWill excuse ye in His sight;Ef you take a sword an' dror it,An' go stick a feller thru,Guv'ment aint to answer for it,God 'll send the bill to you.

Wut 's the use o' meetin-goin'Every Sabbath, wet or dry,Ef it 's right to go amowin'Feller-men like oats an' rye?I dunno but wut it's pootyTrainin' round in bobtail coats,—But it 's curus Christian dootyThis ere cuttin' folks's throats.

They may talk o' Freedom's airyTell they 're pupple in the face,—It 's a grand gret cemetaryFer the barthrights of our race;They jest want this CalifornySo 's to lug new slave-states inTo abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,An' to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a YankeeTake sech everlastin' painsAll to git the Devil's thankee,Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez figgers,Clear ez one an' one make two,Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggersWant to make wite slaves o' you.

Tell ye jest the eend I've come toArter cipherin' plaguy smart,An' it makes a handy sum, tu,Any gump could larn by heart;Laborin' man an' laborin' womanHev one glory an' one shame,Ev'y thin' thet 's done inhumanInjers all on 'em the same.

'Taint by turnin' out to hack folksYou 're agoin' to git your right,Nor by lookin' down on black folksCoz you 're put upon by wite;Slavery aint o' nary colour,'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,All it keers fer in a feller'S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tacklemein, du ye?I expect you 'll hev to wait;Wen cold lead puts daylight thru yeYou 'll begin to kal'late;'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin'All the carkiss from your bones,Coz you helped to give a lickin'To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an' ask our NancyWether I'd be sech a gooseEz to jine ye,—guess you'd fancyThe etarnal bung wuz loose!She wants me fer home consumption,Let alone the hay 's to mow,—Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption,You've a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet 's crowin'Like a cockerel three months old,—Don't ketch any on 'em goin',Though theybeso blasted bold;Aintthey a prime set o' fellers?'Fore they think on 't they will sprout(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),With the meanness bustin' out.

Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'Bigger pens to cram with slaves,Help the men thet 's ollers dealin'Insults on your fathers' graves;Help the strong to grind the feeble,Help the many agin the few,Help the men thet call your peopleWitewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!

Massachusetts, God forgive her,She's akneelin' with the rest,She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer everIn her grand old eagle-nest;She thet ough' to stand so fearlessWile the wracks are round her hurled,Holdin' up a beacon peerlessTo the oppressed of all the world!

Haint they sold your coloured seamen?Haint they made your env'ys wiz?Wut'll make ye act like freemen?Wut'll git your dander riz?Come, I'll tell ye wut I 'm thinkin'Is our dooty in this fix,They 'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'In the days o' seventy-six.

Clang the bells in every steeple,Call all true men to disownThe tradoocers of our people,The enslavers o' their own;Let our dear old Bay State proudlyPut the trumpet to her mouth,Let her ring this messidge loudlyIn the ears of all the South:—

"I 'll return ye good fer evilMuch ez we frail mortils can,But I wun't go help the DevilMakin' man the cus o' man;Call me coward, call me traiter,Jest ez suits your mean idees,—Here I stand a tyrant-hater,An' the friend o' God an Peace!"

Ef I'dmyway I hed rutherWe should go to work an' part,—They take one way, we take t'other,—Guess it would n't break my heart;Men hed ough' to put asunderThem thet God has noways jined;An' I should n't gretly wonderEf there 's thousands o' my mind.

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job asgoing to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, thatit was impossible for men to serve Mars and Christ at the same time. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to beκατ' ἐξοχήνthat of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Königsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. Thynne, that the scheme of salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and that "God would considera gentleman, and deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in"? It may be said of us all,Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus.—H. W.]

FOOTNOTES:[4]Aut insanit, aut versus facit.—H. W.

[4]Aut insanit, aut versus facit.—H. W.

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT.

[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to the human race. If leisure from other and more important avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prattlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in these remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammiticus to have been in favour of a dialect of the Phrygian.But, beside the chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are backward to undergo the hardships ofdefensivewarfare. They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto deathpro aris et focis, accoutred with the spade, the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips, and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect organization.—H. W.]

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' Voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur calls apongshongfor cocktales, and he ses it wuz asoshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.

his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed. send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time,[5]ses he, Idulike a feller that ain't a Feared.

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' prest with Hayin.

Ewers respecfly,HOSEA BIGLOW.

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin'.An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners,An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarterEf he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis,Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis?[6]This sort o' thing aintjestlike thet,—I wish thet I wuz furder,—[7]Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder(Wy I 've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins,An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins),There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller,It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar;It 's glory,—but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous,I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus.But wen it comes tobein'killed,—I tell ye I felt streakedThe fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked;Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango,The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet 's furder 'an you can go.""None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster?"Sez I, "I 'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster;I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us;Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenoreetas;My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!"An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would folly,The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in meAn' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my.Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole FunnelWen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle(It 's Mister Secondary Bolles,[8]thet writ the prize peace essay;Thet 's wy he did n't list himself along o us, I dessay),An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't puthisfoot in it,Coz human life 's so sacred thet he 's principled agin' it,—Though I myself can 't rightly see it 's any wus achokin' on 'emThan puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em;How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceumAhaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em),About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handyTo du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy),About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner,Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner,An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky,—I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilegeAtrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage;I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin',An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin'Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison)An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.[9]This 'ere 's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver(Saltillo 's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver).The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater,I 'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater;The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin'Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'.He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all,The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal;You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariatIs round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut air ye at?"[10]You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevantTo say I 've seen ascarabæus pilularius[11]big ez a year old elephant),The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bugFrom runnin' off with Cunnle Wright,—'t wuz jest a commoncimex lectularius.One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin,I heern a horn, thinks I it 's Sol the fisherman hez come agin,Hisbellowses is sound enough,—ez I 'm a livin' creeter,I felt a thing go thru my leg,—'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter!Then there 's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito,—(Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le'gomy toe!My gracious! it 's a scorpion thet 's took a shine to play with 't,I dars n't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he 'd run away with 't.)Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasionThet Mexicans worn't human beans,[12]—an ourang outang nation,A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on 't arter,No more 'n a feller 'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter;I 'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion all,An' kickin' coloured folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national;But wen I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby,Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be,An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions,Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions,Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsisAn' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses;Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!It must be right, fer Caleb sez it 's reg'lar Anglosaxon.The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water,An' du amazin' lots o' things thet is n't wut they ough' to;Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copperAn' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez aint proper;He sez they 'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly(Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he 'll hev to git up airly),Thet our nation 's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger,An' thet it 's all to make 'em free thet we air pullin' trigger,Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee 's abreakin' 'em to pieces,An' thet idee 's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases;Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can,I know thet "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican;An' there 's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs,Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison feeturs,Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout on 't,The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on 't.This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur,An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I 'd home agin short meter;O, would n't I be off, quick time, ef 't worn't thet I wuz sartinThey 'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin!I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may stateOur ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Bay-state;Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you 're middlin' well now, be ye?Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I 'm dreffle glad to see ye;"But now it 's "Ware 's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an' fetch it!An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!"Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty,Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I 'd give 'em linkum vity,I 'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other music follerin'——But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em 's ahollerin',These Anglosaxon ossifers,—wal, taint no use ajawin',I 'm safe enlisted fer the war,

Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis,Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis?[6]This sort o' thing aintjestlike thet,—I wish thet I wuz furder,—[7]Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder(Wy I 've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins,An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins),There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller,It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar;It 's glory,—but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous,I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus.But wen it comes tobein'killed,—I tell ye I felt streakedThe fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked;Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango,The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet 's furder 'an you can go.""None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster?"Sez I, "I 'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster;I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us;Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenoreetas;My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!"An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would folly,The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in meAn' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my.Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole FunnelWen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle(It 's Mister Secondary Bolles,[8]thet writ the prize peace essay;Thet 's wy he did n't list himself along o us, I dessay),An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't puthisfoot in it,Coz human life 's so sacred thet he 's principled agin' it,—Though I myself can 't rightly see it 's any wus achokin' on 'emThan puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em;How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceumAhaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em),About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handyTo du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy),About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner,Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner,An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky,—I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilegeAtrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage;I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin',An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin'Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison)An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.[9]

This 'ere 's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver(Saltillo 's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver).The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater,I 'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater;The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin'Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'.He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all,The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal;You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariatIs round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut air ye at?"[10]You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevantTo say I 've seen ascarabæus pilularius[11]big ez a year old elephant),The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bugFrom runnin' off with Cunnle Wright,—'t wuz jest a commoncimex lectularius.One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin,I heern a horn, thinks I it 's Sol the fisherman hez come agin,Hisbellowses is sound enough,—ez I 'm a livin' creeter,I felt a thing go thru my leg,—'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter!Then there 's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito,—(Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le'gomy toe!My gracious! it 's a scorpion thet 's took a shine to play with 't,I dars n't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he 'd run away with 't.)Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasionThet Mexicans worn't human beans,[12]—an ourang outang nation,A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on 't arter,No more 'n a feller 'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter;I 'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion all,An' kickin' coloured folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national;But wen I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby,Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be,An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions,Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions,Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsisAn' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses;Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!It must be right, fer Caleb sez it 's reg'lar Anglosaxon.The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water,An' du amazin' lots o' things thet is n't wut they ough' to;Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copperAn' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez aint proper;He sez they 'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly(Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he 'll hev to git up airly),Thet our nation 's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger,An' thet it 's all to make 'em free thet we air pullin' trigger,Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee 's abreakin' 'em to pieces,An' thet idee 's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases;Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can,I know thet "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican;An' there 's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs,Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison feeturs,Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout on 't,The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on 't.

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur,An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I 'd home agin short meter;O, would n't I be off, quick time, ef 't worn't thet I wuz sartinThey 'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin!I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may stateOur ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Bay-state;Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you 're middlin' well now, be ye?Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I 'm dreffle glad to see ye;"But now it 's "Ware 's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an' fetch it!An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!"Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty,Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I 'd give 'em linkum vity,I 'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other music follerin'——But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em 's ahollerin',These Anglosaxon ossifers,—wal, taint no use ajawin',I 'm safe enlisted fer the war,

Yourn,BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN.

[Those have not been wanting (as, indeed, when hath Satan been to seek for attorneys?) who have maintained that our late inroad upon Mexico was undertaken, not so much for the avenging of any national quarrel, as for the spreading of free institutions and of Protestantism.Capita vix duabus Anticyris medenda!Verily I admire that no pious sergeant among these new Crusaders beheld Martin Luther riding at the front of the host upon a tamed pontifical bull, as, in that former invasion of Mexico, the zealous Diaz (spawn though he were of the Scarlet Woman) was favoured with a vision of St. James of Compostella, skewering the infidels upon his apostolicallance. We read, also, that Richard of the lion heart, having gone to Palestine on a similar errand of mercy, was divinely encouraged to cut the throats of such Paynims as refused to swallow the bread of life (doubtless that they might be thereafter incapacitated for swallowing the filthy gobbets of Mahound) by angels of heaven, who cried to the king and his knights,—Seigneurs, tuez! tuez!providentially using the French tongue, as being the only one understood by their auditors. This would argue for the pantoglottism of these celestial intelligences, while, on the other hand, the Devil,testeCotton Mather, is unversed in certain of the Indian dialects. Yet must he be a semeiologist the most expert, making himself intelligible to every people and kindred by signs; no other discourse, indeed, being needful, than such as the mackerel-fisher holds with his finned quarry, who, if other bait be wanting, can by a bare bit of white rag at the end of a string captivate those foolish fishes. Such piscatorial oratory is Satan cunning in. Before one he trails a hat and feather, or a bare feather without a hat; before another, a Presidential chair, or a tidewaiter's stool, or a pulpit in the city, no matter what. To us, dangling there over our heads, they seem junkets dropped out of the seventh heaven, sops dipped in nectar, but, once in our mouths, they are all one, bits of fuzzy cotton.This, however, by the way. It is time nowrevocare gradum. While so many miracles of this sort, vouched by eye-witnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists, not to speak of thoseDioscuri(whom we must conclude imps of the pit) who sundry times captained the pagan Roman soldiery, it is strange that our first American crusade was not in some such wise also signalized. Yet it is said that the Lord hath manifestly prospered our armies. This opens the question, whether, when our hands are strengthened to make great slaughter of ourenemies, it be absolutely and demonstratively certain that this might is added to us from above, or whether some Potentate from an opposite quarter may not have a finger in it, as there are few pies into which his meddling digits are not thrust. Would the Sanctifier and Setter-apart of the seventh day have assisted in a victory gained on the Sabbath, as was one in the late war? Or has that day become less an object of his especial care since the year 1697, when so manifest a providence occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in answer to whose prayers, when he and all on shipboard with him were starving, a dolphin was sent daily, "which was enough to serve 'em; only onSaturdaysthey still catched a couple, and on theLord's Daysthey could catch none at all"? Haply they might have been permitted, by way of mortification, to take some few sculpins (those banes of the salt-water angler), which unseemly fish would, moreover, have conveyed to them a symbolical reproof for their breach of the day, being known in the rude dialect of our mariners asCape Cod Clergymen.It has been a refreshment to many nice consciences to know that our Chief Magistrate would not regard with eyes of approval the (by many esteemed) sinful pastime of dancing, and I own myself to be so far of that mind, that I could not but set my face against this Mexican Polka, though danced to the Presidential piping with a Gubernatorial second. If ever the country should be seized with another such maniade propagandâ fide, I think it would be wise to fill our bombshells with alternate copies of the Cambridge Platform and the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a mixture of the highest explosive power, and to wrap every one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Testament, the reading of which is denied to those who sit in the darkness of Popery. Those iron evangelists would thus be able to disseminate vital religion and Gospel truth in quarters inaccessible to the ordinary missionary.I have seen lads, unimpregnate with the more sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure pickerel, taking their unwarysiestabeneath the lily-pads too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot. Why not, then, since gunpowder was unknown to the apostles (not to enter here upon the question whether it were discovered before that period by the Chinese), suit our metaphor to the age in which we live, and sayshootersas well asfishersof men?I do much fear that we shall be seized now and then with a Protestant fervour, as long as we have neighbour Naboths whose wallowings in Papistical mire excite our horror in exact proportion to the size and desirableness of their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some earnest Protestants have been made by this war,—I mean those who protested against it. Fewer they were than I could wish, for one might imagine America to have been colonized by a tribe of those nondescript African animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word isNoto us all. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal organs, which either prevents our uttering it at all, or gives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible. A mouth filled with the national pudding, or watering in expectation thereof, is wholly incompetent to this refractory monosyllable. An abject and herpetic Public Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us to protest againste corde cordium. And by what College of Cardinals is this our God's-vicar, our binder and looser, elected? Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, the gracious atmosphere of the grog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must all be puppets. This thumps the pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor's pen, this wags the senator's tongue. This decides what Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles Christ away into the Apocrypha. According to that sentence fathered upon Solon,Οὕτω δημόσιον κακὸν ἔρχεται οἴκαδ' ἑκάστῳ. This unclean spirit is skilful to assumevarious shapes. I have known it to enter my own study and nudge my elbow of a Saturday, under the semblance of a wealthy member of my congregation. It were a great blessing, if every particular of what in the sum we call popular sentiment could carry about the name of its manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a stab under the fifth rib to that pestilent fallacy,—"Our country, right or wrong,"—by tracing its original to a speech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Bungtown Fencibles.—H. W.]

This, however, by the way. It is time nowrevocare gradum. While so many miracles of this sort, vouched by eye-witnesses, have encouraged the arms of Papists, not to speak of thoseDioscuri(whom we must conclude imps of the pit) who sundry times captained the pagan Roman soldiery, it is strange that our first American crusade was not in some such wise also signalized. Yet it is said that the Lord hath manifestly prospered our armies. This opens the question, whether, when our hands are strengthened to make great slaughter of ourenemies, it be absolutely and demonstratively certain that this might is added to us from above, or whether some Potentate from an opposite quarter may not have a finger in it, as there are few pies into which his meddling digits are not thrust. Would the Sanctifier and Setter-apart of the seventh day have assisted in a victory gained on the Sabbath, as was one in the late war? Or has that day become less an object of his especial care since the year 1697, when so manifest a providence occurred to Mr. William Trowbridge, in answer to whose prayers, when he and all on shipboard with him were starving, a dolphin was sent daily, "which was enough to serve 'em; only onSaturdaysthey still catched a couple, and on theLord's Daysthey could catch none at all"? Haply they might have been permitted, by way of mortification, to take some few sculpins (those banes of the salt-water angler), which unseemly fish would, moreover, have conveyed to them a symbolical reproof for their breach of the day, being known in the rude dialect of our mariners asCape Cod Clergymen.

It has been a refreshment to many nice consciences to know that our Chief Magistrate would not regard with eyes of approval the (by many esteemed) sinful pastime of dancing, and I own myself to be so far of that mind, that I could not but set my face against this Mexican Polka, though danced to the Presidential piping with a Gubernatorial second. If ever the country should be seized with another such maniade propagandâ fide, I think it would be wise to fill our bombshells with alternate copies of the Cambridge Platform and the Thirty-nine Articles, which would produce a mixture of the highest explosive power, and to wrap every one of our cannon-balls in a leaf of the New Testament, the reading of which is denied to those who sit in the darkness of Popery. Those iron evangelists would thus be able to disseminate vital religion and Gospel truth in quarters inaccessible to the ordinary missionary.I have seen lads, unimpregnate with the more sublimated punctiliousness of Walton, secure pickerel, taking their unwarysiestabeneath the lily-pads too nigh the surface, with a gun and small shot. Why not, then, since gunpowder was unknown to the apostles (not to enter here upon the question whether it were discovered before that period by the Chinese), suit our metaphor to the age in which we live, and sayshootersas well asfishersof men?

I do much fear that we shall be seized now and then with a Protestant fervour, as long as we have neighbour Naboths whose wallowings in Papistical mire excite our horror in exact proportion to the size and desirableness of their vineyards. Yet I rejoice that some earnest Protestants have been made by this war,—I mean those who protested against it. Fewer they were than I could wish, for one might imagine America to have been colonized by a tribe of those nondescript African animals the Aye-Ayes, so difficult a word isNoto us all. There is some malformation or defect of the vocal organs, which either prevents our uttering it at all, or gives it so thick a pronunciation as to be unintelligible. A mouth filled with the national pudding, or watering in expectation thereof, is wholly incompetent to this refractory monosyllable. An abject and herpetic Public Opinion is the Pope, the Anti-Christ, for us to protest againste corde cordium. And by what College of Cardinals is this our God's-vicar, our binder and looser, elected? Very like, by the sacred conclave of Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, the gracious atmosphere of the grog-shop. Yet it is of this that we must all be puppets. This thumps the pulpit-cushion, this guides the editor's pen, this wags the senator's tongue. This decides what Scriptures are canonical, and shuffles Christ away into the Apocrypha. According to that sentence fathered upon Solon,Οὕτω δημόσιον κακὸν ἔρχεται οἴκαδ' ἑκάστῳ. This unclean spirit is skilful to assumevarious shapes. I have known it to enter my own study and nudge my elbow of a Saturday, under the semblance of a wealthy member of my congregation. It were a great blessing, if every particular of what in the sum we call popular sentiment could carry about the name of its manufacturer stamped legibly upon it. I gave a stab under the fifth rib to that pestilent fallacy,—"Our country, right or wrong,"—by tracing its original to a speech of Ensign Cilley at a dinner of the Bungtown Fencibles.—H. W.]

FOOTNOTES:[5]In relation to this expression, I cannot but think that Mr. Biglow has been too hasty in attributing it to me. Though Time be a comparatively innocent personage to swear by, and though Longinus in his discourseΠερι Ὕψουςhas commended timely oaths as not only a useful but sublime figure of speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from that abomination.Odi profanum vulgus, I hate your swearing and hectoring fellows.—H. W.[6]i hait the Site of a feller with a muskit as I du pizn But theirisfun to a cornwallis I aint agoin' to deny it.—H. B.[7]he means Not quite so fur i guess.—H. B.[8]the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.—H. B.[9]it must be aloud that thare 's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is 1 of the curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. Ef any thin 's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.—H. B.[10]these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.—H. B.[11]it wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. i sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha would n't stan' it no how. idnow as thawoodand idnowastha wood.—H. B.[12]he means human beins, that 's wut he means. i spose he kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes from.—H. B.

[5]In relation to this expression, I cannot but think that Mr. Biglow has been too hasty in attributing it to me. Though Time be a comparatively innocent personage to swear by, and though Longinus in his discourseΠερι Ὕψουςhas commended timely oaths as not only a useful but sublime figure of speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from that abomination.Odi profanum vulgus, I hate your swearing and hectoring fellows.—H. W.

[6]i hait the Site of a feller with a muskit as I du pizn But theirisfun to a cornwallis I aint agoin' to deny it.—H. B.

[7]he means Not quite so fur i guess.—H. B.

[8]the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.—H. B.

[9]it must be aloud that thare 's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is 1 of the curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. Ef any thin 's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.—H. B.

[10]these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.—H. B.

[11]it wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. i sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha would n't stan' it no how. idnow as thawoodand idnowastha wood.—H. B.

[12]he means human beins, that 's wut he means. i spose he kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes from.—H. B.

[A few remarks on the following verses will not be out of place. The satire in them was not meant to have any personal, but only a general, application. Of the gentleman upon whose letter they were intended as a commentary Mr. Biglow had never heard, till he saw the letter itself. The position of the satirist is oftentimes one which he would not have chosen had the election been left to himself. In attacking bad principles, he is obliged to select some individual who has made himself their exponent, and in whom they are impersonate, to the end that what he says may not, through ambiguity, be dissipatedtenues in auras. For what says Seneca?Longum iter per præcepta, breve et efficace per exempla.A bad principle is comparatively harmless while it continues to be an abstraction, nor can the general mind comprehend it fully till it is printed in that large type which all men can read at sight, namely, the life and character, the sayings and doings, of particular persons. It is one of the cunningest fetches of Satan, that he never exposes himself directly to our arrows, but, still dodging behind this neighbour or that acquaintance, compels us to wound him through them, if at all. He holds our affections as hostages, the while he patches up a truce with our conscience.Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon falsehood: and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the same point, and sometimes even go along together for a little way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyondthe reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than he knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his boxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters through that dust of the ring which obscures Truth's wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a monitory hand laid on his arm,—aliquid sufflaminandus erat. I have never thought it good husbandry to water the tender plants of reform withaqua fortis, yet, where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry gardener who should wage a whole day's war with an iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden-walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt will wither them up.Est ars etiam maledicendi, says Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. Fuller, that "one may be a lamb in private wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are asses which are not lions."—H. W.]

Meanwhile, let us not forget that the aim of the true satirist is not to be severe upon persons, but only upon falsehood: and, as Truth and Falsehood start from the same point, and sometimes even go along together for a little way, his business is to follow the path of the latter after it diverges, and to show her floundering in the bog at the end of it. Truth is quite beyondthe reach of satire. There is so brave a simplicity in her, that she can no more be made ridiculous than an oak or a pine. The danger of the satirist is, that continual use may deaden his sensibility to the force of language. He becomes more and more liable to strike harder than he knows or intends. He may be careful to put on his boxing-gloves, and yet forget, that, the older they grow, the more plainly may the knuckles inside be felt. Moreover, in the heat of contest, the eye is insensibly drawn to the crown of victory, whose tawdry tinsel glitters through that dust of the ring which obscures Truth's wreath of simple leaves. I have sometimes thought that my young friend, Mr. Biglow, needed a monitory hand laid on his arm,—aliquid sufflaminandus erat. I have never thought it good husbandry to water the tender plants of reform withaqua fortis, yet, where so much is to do in the beds, he were a sorry gardener who should wage a whole day's war with an iron scuffle on those ill weeds that make the garden-walks of life unsightly, when a sprinkle of Attic salt will wither them up.Est ars etiam maledicendi, says Scaliger, and truly it is a hard thing to say where the graceful gentleness of the lamb merges in downright sheepishness. We may conclude with worthy and wise Dr. Fuller, that "one may be a lamb in private wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to goodness they are asses which are not lions."—H. W.]

Guvener B. is a sensible man;He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;—But John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?We can't never choose him, o' course,—thet 's flat;Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;Fer John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:He 's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—He 's ben true tooneparty,—an' thet is himself;—So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud;Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,With good old idees o' wut 's right an' wut aint,We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;But John P.Robinson heSez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee.The side of our country must ollers be took,An' Presidunt Polk, you know,heis our country;An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a bookPuts thedebitto him, an' to us theper contry;An' John P.Robinson heSez this is his view o' the thing to a T.Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jestfee, faw, fum;An' thet all this big talk of our destiniesIs half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum;But John P.Robinson heSez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.Parson Wilbur sezhenever heerd in his lifeThet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coatsAn' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;But John P.Robinson heSez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee.Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell usThe rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;Fer John P.Robinson heSez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?We can't never choose him, o' course,—thet 's flat;Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;Fer John P.Robinson heSez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:He 's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—He 's ben true tooneparty,—an' thet is himself;—So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud;Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?So John P.Robinson heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,With good old idees o' wut 's right an' wut aint,We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;But John P.Robinson heSez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,An' Presidunt Polk, you know,heis our country;An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a bookPuts thedebitto him, an' to us theper contry;An' John P.Robinson heSez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jestfee, faw, fum;An' thet all this big talk of our destiniesIs half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum;But John P.Robinson heSez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sezhenever heerd in his lifeThet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coatsAn' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;But John P.Robinson heSez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell usThe rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;Fer John P.Robinson heSez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

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