I dunno but wut it's pooty
Trainin' round in bobtail coats-
But it's curus Christian dooty

This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.

They may talk o' Freedom's airy
Tell they're pupple in the face-
It's a grand gret cemetary

Fer the barthrights of our race;
They jest want this Californy
So's to lug new slave States in
To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,
An' to plunder ye like sin.

Ain't it cute to see a Yankee
Take sech everlastin' pains,
All to git the Devil's thankee
Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?
Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figures,

Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers Want to make wite slaves o' you.

Tell ye jest the eend I've come to
Arter cipherin' plaguy smart,
An' it makes a handy sum, tu,

Any gump could larn by heart;
Laborin' man an' laborin' woman

Hev one glory an' one shame. Ev'ythin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.

'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 go 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.