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 toothpick on me,

An' reckoned he warn't goin' to stan' no sech doggauned 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'roushearted man

By jes' subscribin' right an' left on this highminded 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 arrears 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-trodden 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 sixfoot 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

in',

For Jacob warn't a suckemstance to Jeff at finan

cierin';

He never'd thought o' borryin' from Esau like all

nater

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 ha' 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' whiskey'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 Southuner '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'

work;

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 in my 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

clear,