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I dunno but wut it's pooty
Trainin' round in bobtail coatsBut it's curus Christian dooty
This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.
They may talk o' Freedom's airy
Fer the barthrights of our race;
Ain't it cute to see a Yankee
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
Hev one glory an' one shame.
'Tain't by turnin' out to hack folks
'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;
S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'
Jest go home an' ask our Nancy
Take them editors thet's crowin'
Like a cockerel three months old—
Don't ketch any on 'em goin',
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'
Massachusetts, God forgive her,
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 ?
They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'
Clang the bells in every steeple,
"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-
Man hed ought to put asunder
An' I shouldn't gretly wonder
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'.
This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',
An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandan
An' sen the insines skootin' to the barroom with their ban
(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter, Ef he fired away his ramrod artur tu much rum an' water.