'Tain't by turnin' out to hack folks
You're agoin' to git your rights,
Nor by lookin' down on black folks
Coz you're put upon by wite;
Slavery ain't o' nary color,

'Tain't the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer is a feller

'S jest to make him fill his pus.

Want to tackle me in, du ye?

I expect you'll hev to wait;
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye
You'll begin to kal'late;

S'pose 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 Nancy
Wether I'd be sech a goose
Ez to jine ye-guess you'd fancy
The 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 they be so blasted bold;

Ain't they a prime lot o' fellers?

'Fore they think on't they will sprout (Like a peach that'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 that call your people
Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew?

Massachusetts, God forgive her,
She's a-kneelin' with the rest,
She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever
In her grand old eagle-nest;
She thet ough' to stand so fearless

Wile the wracks are round her hurled,

Holdin' up a beacon peerless

To the oppressed of all the world!

Hain't they sold your colored seamen ?
Hain't 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 disown
The tradoocers of our people,
The enslavers o' their own;
Let our dear old Bay State proudly
Put the trumpet to her mouth,
Let her ring this messidge loudly
In the ears of all the South-

"I'll return ye good fer evil

Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cuss o' man; Call me coward, call me traiter, Jest ez suits your mean ideesHere I stand a tyrant-hater,

An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"

Ef I'd my way I hed ruther

We should go to work an' part—
They take one way, we take t'other-
Guess it wouldn't break my heart;

Man hed ought to put asunder
Them thet God has noways jined;

An' I shouldn't gretly wonder
Ef there's thousands o' my mind.

-"Biglow Papers."

The Yankee Recruit

MISTER BUCKINUM, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe a-trottin' 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 yu may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin' bad on him let Alone his havin' what Parson Wilbur cals a pongshong for cocktales, and ses it wuz a soshiashun 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 says it oughter Bee printed. send it to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, ses he, I du like 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 bandan

ners,

An' sen the insines skootin' to the barroom with their ban

ners

(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter, Ef he fired away his ramrod artur tu much rum an' water.

Recollect wut fun we hed, you'n I on' Ezry Hollis,

Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis? This sort o' thing ain't jest like thet-I wished thet I wuz furder

Ninepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low for murder. (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas

Billins,

An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers teched 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 to bein' killed-I tell ye I felt streaked
The 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!" "Ain't
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 scenoreetas;
My folks to hum hir 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 me
An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I was an in'my.
Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in old Funnel
Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle
(It's Mister Secondary Bolles, thet writ the prize peace

essay;

Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay).

An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put his foot in it, Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin' it—