Ez fer war, I call it murder,

There you hev it plain an' filat; I don't want to go no furder

Than my Testyment fer that; God hez sed so plump an' fairly,

It 's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've gut to git up airly

Ef you want to take in God.

'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers

Make the thing a grain more right; 'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers

Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it,

An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it,

God 'll send the bill to you.

Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'

Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it's right to go amowin' Feller

men like oats an' rye? I dunno but wut it's pooty

Trainin' round in bobtail coats, – But it's curus Christian dooty

This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.

They may talk o’ Freedom's airy

Tell they 're pupple in the face, It's a grand gret cemetary

Fer the barthrights of our race ; They jest want this Californy

So's to lug new slave-states in

To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,

An' to plunder ye like sin.

Aint 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 figgers,

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'y thin' thet 's done inhuman

Injers all on 'em the same.

'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks

You ’re agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks

Coz you 're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary color,

'Taint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller

'S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tackle me in, du ye?

I expect you 'll hev to wait ;

Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye

You 'll begin to kal'late ;
S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'

All the carkiss from your bones,
Coz you helped to give a lickin'

To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home and ask our Nancy

Wether I'd be sech a goose
Ez to jine ye, - guess you 'd fancy

The etarnal bung wuz loose !
She wants me fer home consumption,

Let alone the hay 's to mow,
Ef you ’re arter folks o' gumption,

You ’ve a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet 's crowin'

Like a cockerel three months old, Don't ketch any on 'em goin',

Though they be so blasted bold; Aint they a prime lot o’ fellers ?

Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout (Like a peach thet '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 thet call your people

Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!

Massachusetts, God forgive her,

She's akneelin' with the rest,
She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever

In her grand old eagle-nest ;
She thet ough' to stand so fearless

W'ile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless

To the oppressed of all the world!

Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen ?

Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz? Wut'll make ye act like freemen?

Wut 'll git your dander riz?
Come, I 'll tell ye wut I'm thinkin'

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
The tradoocers of our people,

The enslavers o' their own;
Let our dear old Bay State proudly

Put the trumpet to her mouth,
Let her ring this messidge loudly

In the ears of all the South :

“I'll return ye good fer evil

Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil

Makin' man the cus o' man; Call me coward, call me traiter,

Jest ez suits your mean idees,

Here 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'other,

Guess it would n't break my heart;
Man hed ough' to put asunder

Them thet God has noways jined ;
An' I should n't gretly wonder

Ef there's thousands o' my mind.

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job as going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, that it was impossible for men to serve Mars and Christ at the same time. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to be kar égoxhv that of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Königsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr. Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper classes, and that “God would consider a gentleman and deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in"? It may be said of us all, Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus. H. W.]