« 上一页继续 »
I dunno but wut it's pooty
They may talk o' Freedom's airy
Fer the barthrights of our race;
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.
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 ?
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
"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'otherGuess 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'.
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
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.