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A martyr to the princerples o' libbaty an' lor : RESOLVED, Thet other nations all, ef sot 'longside

o us,

For vartoo, larnin', chivverlry, ain't noways wuth a


They gut up a subscription, tu, but no gret come o’

thet ; I ’xpect in cairin' of it roun' they took a leaky hat; Though Southun genelmun ain't slow at puttin'

down their name, (When they can write,) fer in the eend it comes to

jes' the same, Because, ye see, 't 's the fashion here to sign an'

not to think A critter'd be so sordid ez to ax 'em for the

chink: I did n't call but jest on one, an' he drawed tooth

pick on me, An' reckoned he warn't goin' to stan' no sech dog

gauned econ’my; So nothin' more wuz realized, 'ceptin' the good-will

shown, Than ef’t had ben from fust to last a reg'lar Cotton

Loan. It 's a good way, though, come to think, coz ye enjy

the sense O’ lendin' lib’rally to the Lord, an' nary red o'

’xpense: Sence then I've gut my name up for a gin'rous

hearted man By jes' subscribin' right an' left on this high

minded plan;

I've gin away my thousans so to every Southun

sort O’ missions, colleges, an' sech, ner ain't no poorer

for 't.

I warn't so bad off, arter all; I need n't hardly

mention That Guv'ment owed me quite a pile for my ar

rears o' pension, I mean the poor, weak thing we hed: we run a new

one now, Thet strings a feller with a claim up ta the nighes'

bough, An' prectises the rights o' man, purtects down-trod

den debtors, Ner wun't hev creditors about ascrougin' o' their

betters: Jeff's gut the last idees ther' is, poscrip’, fourteenth

edition, He knows it takes some enterprise to run an opper

sition; Ourn 's the fust thru-by-daylight train, with all

ou'doors for deepot; Yourn goes so slow you 'd think’t wuz drawed by

a las' cent'ry teapot; Wal, I gut all on 't paid in gold afore our State

seceded, An' done wal, for Confed’rit bonds warn’t jest the

cheese I needed : Nut but wut they ’re ez good ez gold, but then it 's

hard a-breakin' on 'em, An' ignorant folks is ollers sot an’ wun't git used

to takin' on 'em;

They ’re wuth ez much ez wut they wuz afore ole

Mem'nger signed 'em, An' go off middlin' wal for drinks, when ther''s a

knife behind 'em ; We du miss silver, jes' fer thet an' ridin' in a bus, Now we've shook off the desputs thet wuz suckin'

at our pus ; An' it's because the South 's so rich; 't wuz nat'

ral to expec' Supplies o' change wuz jes' the things we should

n't recollec'; We'd ough' to ha' thought aforehan', though, o'

thet good rule o' Crockett's, For 't 's tiresome cairin' cotton-bales an' niggers in

your pockets, Ner 't ain't quite hendy to pass off one o' your six

foot Guineas An' git your halves an' quarters back in gals an'

pickaninnies : Wal, 't ain't quite all a feller 'd ax, but then

ther's this to say, It's on'y jest among ourselves thet we expec' to

pay; Our system would ha' caird us thru in any Bible

cent'ry, 'fore this onscripterl plan come up o' books by

double entry; We

go the patriarkle here out o' all sight an' hear


For Jacob warn’t a suckemstance to Jeff at finan

cierin'; He never 'd thought o' borryin' from Esau like all An' then cornfiscatin' all debts to sech a small per


tater; There's p'litickle econ’my, now, combined 'ith

morril beauty Thet saycrifices privit eends (your in'my's, tu) to

dooty! Wy, Jeff ’d ba' gin him five an’ won his eye-teeth

'fore he knowed it, An', stid o' wastin' pottage, he'd ha' eat it up an'

owed it. But I wuz goin' on to say how I come here to

dwall; ’Nough said, thet, arter lookin' roun', I liked the

place so wal, Where niggers doos a double good, with us atop to

stiddy 'em, By bein' proofs o'prophecy an' suckleatin' medium, Where a man's sunthin'coz he's white, an' whis

key 's cheap ez fleas, An' the financial pollercy jes' sooted my idees, Thet I friz down right where I wuz, merried the

Widder Shennon, (Her thirds wuz part in cotton-land, part in the

curse o' Canaan,) An' here I be ez lively ez a chipmunk on a wall, With nothin' to feel riled about much later 'n

Eddam's fall.

Ez fur ez human foresight goes, we made an even

trade: She gut an overseer, an' I a fem'ly ready-made, The youngest on 'em ’s ’mos' growed up, rugged an'

spry ez weazles,

So's 't ther' 's no resk o' doctors' bills fer hoopin'

cough an' measles. Our farm 's at Turkey-Buzzard Roost, Little Big

Boosy River, Wal located in all respex, — fer 't ain't the chills

'n' fever Thet makes my writin' seem to squirm ; a South

uner 'd allow I'd Some call to shake, for I've jest hed to meller a

new cowhide. Miss S. is all 'f a lady; th' ain't no better on Big

Boosy Ner one with more accomplishmunts 'twixt here an'

Tuscaloosy; She's an F. F., the tallest kind, an' prouder ’n the

Gran' Turk, An' never hed a relative thet done a stroke o'


Hern ain't a scrimpin' fem'ly sech ez you git up

Down East, Th' ain't a growed member on 't but owes his

thousuns et the least : She is some old ; but then agin ther''s drawbacks


sheer : Wut's left o' me ain't more 'n enough to make a

Brigadier : Wust is, thet she hez tantrums; she's like Seth

Moody's gun (Him thet wuz nicknamed frum his limp Ole Dot

an' Kerry One); He'd left her loaded up a spell, an' hed to git her


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