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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
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
Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster;
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—
Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin'
How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceam
I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage;
I act❜ally thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin',
An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin';
Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state
An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico was hisn.
This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver
(Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Salt river).
You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat
Is round your throat an' you a copse, 'fore you can say, “Wut
air ye at?"
You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To say I've seen a scarabæus pilularius' big ez a year old elephant),
The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug
From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright-'twuz jest a common cimex lectularius.
One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin,
I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin,
My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't,
But wen I jined I won't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby,
An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions,
1it waz "tumblebug' as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. i said tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how, idnow as tha wood and idnow as tha wood.-H. B.
Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes and
Wal, it does seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!
An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' to;
Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez ain't
He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly
I know thet "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican;
This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur,
I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state
Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Bay State;
Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're midd❜lin' well now, be ye?
Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye";
But now it's, "Ware's my eppylet? Here, Sawin, step an' fetch it!
An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or damn ye, you shall ketch it!"
Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty,
But I must close my letter here for one on 'em 's a hollerin',
What Mr. Robinson Thinks
GUVENER B. is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
Sez he wun't vote fer Guvener B.
My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can't never choose him o' course-thet's flat;