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A martyr to the princerples o' libbaty an' lor : RESOLVED, Thet other nations all, ef sot 'longside
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
I've gin away my thousans so to every Southun
sort O’ missions, colleges, an' sech, ner ain't no poorer
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
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