|
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS 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 nobodys tater-patch pokes; | |
But John P. | 5 |
Robinson he | |
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. | |
|
My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? | |
We cant never choose him o course,thets flat; | |
Guess we shall hev to come round, (dont you?) | 10 |
An go in fer thunder an guns, an all that; | |
Fer John P. | |
Robinson he | |
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. | |
|
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: | 15 |
He s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; | |
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, | |
He s ben true to one party,an thet is himself; | |
So John P. | |
Robinson he | 20 |
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. | |
|
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; | |
He dont vally princerple mornn an old cud; | |
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, | |
But glory an gunpowder, plunder an blood? | 25 |
So John P. | |
Robinson he | |
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. | |
|
We were gittin on nicely up here to our village, | |
With good old idees o wuts right an wut aint, | 30 |
We kind o thought Christ went agin war an pillage, | |
An thet eppyletts wornt the best mark of a saint; | |
But John P. | |
Robinson he | |
Sez this kind o things an exploded idee. | 35 |
|
The side of our country must ollers be took, | |
An Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country. | |
An the angel thet writes all our sins in a book | |
Puts the debit to him, an to us the per contry; | |
An John P. | 40 |
Robinson he | |
Sez 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 jest fee, faw, fum; | |
An thet all this big talk of our destinies | 45 |
Is half on it ignance, an tother half rum; | |
But John P. | |
Robinson he | |
Sez it aint no sech thing;an, of course, so must we. | |
|
Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life | 50 |
Thet th Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, | |
An 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 he | 55 |
Sez they didnt know everythin down in Judee. | |
|
Wal, it sa marcy we ve gut folks to tell us | |
The rights an the wrongs o these matters, I vow, | |
God sends country lawyers, an other wise fellers, | |
To start the worlds team wen it gits in a slough; | 60 |
Fer John P. | |
Robinson he | |
Sez the world ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! | |
|
THE CANDIDATES LETTER DEAR SIR,You wish to know my notions | |
On sartin pints thet rile the land; | 65 |
There s nothin thet my natur so shuns | |
Ez bein mum or underhand; | |
I m a straight-spoken kind o creetur | |
Thet blurts right out wuts in his head, | |
An ef I ve one pecooler feetur, | 70 |
It is a nose thet wunt be led. | |
|
So, to begin at the beginnin | |
An come direcly to the pint, | |
I think the countrys underpinnin | |
Is some considble out ojint; | 75 |
I aint agoin to try your patience | |
By tellin who done this or thet, | |
I dont make no insinooations, | |
I jest let on I smell a rat. | |
|
Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, | 80 |
But, ef the public think I m wrong, | |
I wunt deny but wut I be so, | |
An, fact, it dont smell very strong; | |
My minds tu fair to lose its balance | |
An say wich party hez most sense; | 85 |
There may be folks o greater talence | |
Thet cant set stiddier on the fence. | |
|
I m an eclectic; ez to choosin | |
Twixt this an thet, I m plaguy lawth; | |
I leave a side thet looks like losin, | 90 |
But (wile there s doubt) I stick to both; | |
I stan upon the Constitution, | |
Ez preudunt statesmun say, who ve planned | |
A way to git the most profusion | |
O chances ez to ware they ll stand. | 95 |
|
Ez fer the war, I go agin it, | |
I mean to say I kind o du, | |
Thet is, I mean thet, bein in it, | |
The best way wuz to fight it thru; | |
Not but wut abstract war is horrid, | 100 |
I sign to thet with all my heart, | |
But civlyzation doos git forrid | |
Sometimes upon a powder-cart. | |
|
About thet darned Proviso matter | |
I never hed a grain o doubt, | 105 |
Nor I aint one my sense to scatter | |
So st no one could nt pick it out; | |
My love fer North an South is equil, | |
So I ll jest answer plump an frank, | |
No matter wut may be the sequil, | 110 |
Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. | |
|
Ez to the answerin o questions, | |
I m an off ox at bein druv, | |
Though I aint one thet ary test shuns | |
I ll give our folks a helpin shove; | 115 |
Kind o permiscoous I go it | |
Fer the holl country, an the ground | |
I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, | |
Is pooty genally all round. | |
|
I dont appruve o givin pledges; | 120 |
Youd ough to leave a feller free, | |
An not fo knockin out the wedges | |
To ketch his fingers in the tree; | |
Pledges air awfle breachy cattle | |
Thet preudunt farmers dont turn out, | 125 |
Ez longz the people git their rattle, | |
Wut is there ferm to grout about? | |
|
Ez to the slaves, there s no confusion | |
In my idees consarnin them, | |
I think they air an Institution, | 130 |
A sort ofyes, jest so,ahem: | |
Do I own any? Of my merit | |
On thet pint you yourself may jedge; | |
All is, I never drink no sperit, | |
Nor I haint never signed no pledge. | 135 |
|
Ez to my princerples, I glory | |
In hevin nothin o the sort; | |
I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, | |
I m jest a canderdate, in short; | |
Thets fair an square an parpendicler | 140 |
But, ef the Public cares a fig | |
To hev me anthin in particler, | |
Wy, I m a kind o peri-Wig. | |
|
P. S. EZ were a sort o privateerin, | |
O course, you know, it ssheer an sheer, | 145 |
An there is suthin wuth your hearin | |
I ll mention in your privit ear; | |
Ef you git me inside the White House, | |
Your head with ile I ll kin o nint | |
By gittin you inside the Light-house | 150 |
Down to the eend o Jaalam Pint. | |
|
An ez the North hez took to brustlin | |
At beinscrouged frum off the roost, | |
I ll tell ye wut ll save all tusslin | |
An give our side a harnsome boost, | 155 |
Tell em thet on the Slavery question | |
I m RIGHT, although to speak I m lawth; | |
This gives you a safe pint to rest on, | |
An leaves me frontin South by North. | |
|
THE COURTIN GOD makes sech nights, all white an still | 160 |
Fur z you can look or listen, | |
Moonshine an snow on field an hill, | |
All silence an all glisten. | |
|
Zekle crep up quite unbeknown | |
An peeked in thru the winder, | 165 |
An there sot Huldy all alone, | |
ith no one nigh to hender. | |
|
A fireplace filled the rooms one side | |
With half a cord o wood in | |
There warnt no stoves (tell comfort died) | 170 |
To bake ye to a puddin. | |
|
The wanut logs shot sparkles out | |
Towards the pootiest, bless her, | |
An leetle flames danced all about | |
The chiny on the dresser. | 175 |
|
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, | |
An in amongst em rusted | |
The ole queens-arm thet granther Young | |
Fetched back fom Concord busted. | |
|
The very room, coz she was in, | 180 |
Seemed warm fom floor to ceilin, | |
An she looked full ez rosy agin | |
Ez the apples she was peelin. | |
|
T was kin o kingdom-come to look | |
On sech a blessed cretur; | 185 |
A dogrose blushin to a brook | |
Aint modester nor sweeter. | |
|
He was six foot o man, A 1, | |
Clear grit an human natur; | |
None could nt quicker pitch a ton | 190 |
Nor dror a furrer straighter. | |
|
He d sparked it with full twenty gals, | |
He d squired em, danced em, druv em, | |
Fust this one, an then thet, by spells | |
All is, he could nt love em. | 195 |
|
But long o her his veins ould run | |
All crinkly like curled maple; | |
The side she breshed felt full osun | |
Ez a south slope in Apil. | |
|
She thought no vice hed sech a swing | 200 |
Ez hisn in the choir; | |
My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, | |
She Knowed the Lord was nigher. | |
|
An she d blush scarlit, right in prayer, | |
When her new meetin-bunnet | 205 |
Felt somehow thru its crown a pair | |
Oblue eyes sot upun it. | |
|
Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! | |
She seemed to ve gut a new soul, | |
For she felt sartin-sure he d come, | 210 |
Down to her very shoe-sole. | |
|
She heered a foot, an knowed it tu, | |
A-raspin on the scraper, | |
All ways to once her feelins flew | |
Like sparks in burnt-up paper. | 215 |
|
He kinolitered on the mat, | |
Some doubtfle o the sekle; | |
His heart kep goin pity-pat, | |
But hern went pity Zekle. | |
|
An yit she gin her cheer a jerk | 220 |
Ez though she wished him furder, | |
An on her apples kep to work, | |
Parin away like murder. | |
|
You want to see my Pa, I spose? | |
Wal
no
I come dasignin | 225 |
To see my Ma? She s sprinklin cloes | |
Agin to-morrers inin. | |
|
To say why gals acts so or so, | |
Or dont, ould be presumin; | |
Mebby to mean yes an say no | 230 |
Comes nateral to women. | |
|
He stood a spell on one foot fust, | |
Then stood a spell on tother, | |
An on which one he felt the wust | |
He couldnt ha told ye nuther. | 235 |
|
Says he, I d better call agin; | |
Says she, Think likely, Mister; | |
Thet last word pricked him like a pin, | |
An
Wal, he up an kist her. | |
|
When Ma bimeby upon em slips, | 240 |
Huldy sot pale ez ashes, | |
All kino smily roun the lips | |
An teary roun the lashes. | |
|
For she was jes the quiet kind | |
Whose naturs never vary, | 245 |
Like streams that keep a summer mind | |
Snowhid in Jenooary. | |
|
The blood clost roun her heart felt glued | |
Too tight for all expressin, | |
Tell mother see how metters stood, | 250 |
An ginem both her blessin. | |
|
Then her red come back like the tide | |
Down to the Bay oFundy, | |
Anall I know is they was cried | |
In meetin come nex Sunday. | 255 |
|
MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY WHERE S Peace? I start, some clear-blown night, | |
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an number, | |
An creakin cross the snow-crus white, | |
Walk the col starlight into summer; | |
Up grows the moon, an swell by swell | 260 |
Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer | |
Than the last smile thet strives to tell | |
O love gone heavenward in its shimmer. | |
|
I hev ben gladder o sech things | |
Than cocks ospring or bees oclover, | 265 |
They filled my heart with livin springs, | |
But now they seem to freeze em over; | |
Sights innercent ez babes on knee, | |
Peaceful ez eyes o pasturd cattle, | |
Jes coz they be so, seem to me | 270 |
To rile me more with thoughts o battle. | |
|
Indoors an out by spells I try; | |
Maam Natur keeps her spin-wheel goin, | |
But leaves my natur stiff and dry | |
Ez fiels o clover arter mowin; | 275 |
An her jes keepin on the same, | |
Calmer n a clock, an never carin, | |
An findin nary thing to blame, | |
Is wus than ef she took to swearin. | |
|
Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street | 280 |
I hear the drummers makin riot, | |
An I set thinkin o the feet | |
Thet follered once an now are quiet, | |
White feet ez snowdrops innercent, | |
Thet never knowed the paths o Satan, | 285 |
Whose comin step thers ears thet wont, | |
No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin. | |
|
Why, haint I held em on my knee? | |
Didnt I love to see em growin, | |
Three likely lads ez wal could be, | 290 |
Hahnsome an brave an not tu knowin? | |
I set anlook into the blaze | |
Whose natur, jes like theirn, keeps climbin, | |
Ez long z it lives, in shinin ways, | |
An half despise myself for rhymin. | 295 |
|
Wut s words to them whose faith an truth | |
On Wars red techstone rang true metal, | |
Who ventered life an love an youth | |
For the gret prize o death in battle? | |
To him who, deadly hurt, agen | 300 |
Flashed on afore the charges thunder, | |
Tippin with fire the bolt of men | |
Thet rived the Rebel line asunder? | |
|
Taint right to hev the young go fust, | |
All throbbin full o gifts an graces, | 305 |
Leavin lifes paupers dry ez dust | |
To try an make blieve fill their places: | |
Nothin but tells us wut we miss, | |
Thers gaps our lives cant never fay in, | |
An thet world seems so fur from this | 310 |
Lef for us loafers to grow gray in! | |
|
My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth | |
Will take to twitchin roun the corners; | |
I pity mothers, tu, down South, | |
For all they sot among the scorners: | 315 |
I d sooner take my chance to stan | |
At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, | |
Than at Gods bar hol up a han | |
Ez drippin red ez yourn, Jeff Davis! | |
|
Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed | 320 |
For honor lost an dear ones wasted, | |
But proud, to meet a people proud, | |
With eyes thet tell o triumph tasted! | |
Come, with han grippin on the hilt, | |
An step thet proves ye Victorys daughter! | 325 |
Longin for you, our sperits wilt | |
Like shipwrecked mens on rafs for water. | |
|
Come, while our country feels the lift | |
Of a gret instinct shoutin Forwards! | |
An knows thet freedom aint a gift | 330 |
Thet tarries long in hans ocowards! | |
Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when | |
They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, | |
An bring fair wages for brave men, | |
A nation saved, a race delivered! | 335 |
|