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From “The Biglow Papers,” No. III.
GUVENER B. 1 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. | 5 |
| Robinson he | |
| Sez he wunt vote for Guvener B. | |
| |
| My! ain’t 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?) | 10 |
| An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all that; | |
| Fer John P. | |
| Robinson he | |
| Sez he wunt vote for 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 for Gineral C. | |
| |
| Gineral C. has gone 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? | 25 |
| So John P. | |
| Robinson he | |
| Sez he shall vote for Gineral C. | |
| |
| We were gittin’ on nicely up here to our village, | |
| With good old idees o’ wut ’s right an’ wut ain’t, | 30 |
| We kind o’ thought Christ went agin war an’ pillage, | |
| An’ thet eppylets worn’t the best mark of a saint; | |
| But John P. | |
| Robinson he | |
| Sez this kind o’ thing ’s an exploded idee. | 35 |
| |
| The side of our country must ollers be took, | |
| An’ President 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: | |
| And thet all this big talk of our destinies | 45 |
| Is half ov it ign’ance, an’ t’ other half rum; | |
| But John P. | |
| Robinson he | |
| Sez it ain’t 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 didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee. | |
| |
| Wal, it ’s a 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 drive the world’s team wen it gits in a slough; | 60 |
| Fer John P. | |
| Robinson he | |
| Sez the world ’ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! | |
