Ther''s critters yit thet talk an' act

Fer wut they call Conciliation ; They 'd hand a buff'lo-drove a tract

When they wuz madder than all Bashan. Conciliate? it jest means be kicked,

No metter how they phrase an' tone it; It means thet we 're to set down licked, Thet we 're poor shotes an' glad to own it!

A war on tick 's ez dear 'z the deuce,

But it wun't leave no lastin' traces,
Ez 't would to make a sneakin' truce
Without no moral specie-basis:
Ef greenbacks ain't nut jest the cheese,
I guess ther''s evils thet 's extremer, —
Fer instance, shinplaster idees

Like them put out by Gov'nor Seymour.

Last year, the Nation, at a word,

When tremblin' Freedom cried to shield her, Flamed weldin' into one keen sword Waitin' an' longin' fer a wielder: A splendid flash! - but how'd the grasp With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally? Ther' warn't no meanin' in our clasp, Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally.

More men?

More Man! It's there we fail; Weak plans grow weaker yit by lengthenin': Wut use in addin' to the tail,

When it's the head 's in need o' strengthen

in'?

We wanted one thet felt all Chief

From roots o' hair to sole o' stockin', Square-sot with thousan'-ton belief

In him an' us, ef earth went rockin'!

Ole Hick'ry would n't ha' stood see-saw 'Bout doin' things till they wuz done with, He'd smashed the tables o' the Law

In time o' need to load his gun with;

He could n't see but jest one side,

Ef his, 't wuz God's, an' thet wuz plenty An' so his "Forrards!" multiplied

An army's fightin' weight by twenty.

But this 'ere histin', creak, creak, creak,
Your cappen's heart up with a derrick,
This tryin' to coax a lightnin'-streak
Out of a half-discouraged hay-rick,
This hangin' on mont' arter mont'

Fer one sharp purpose 'mongst the twitter, ye, it doos kind o' stunt

I tell

The peth and sperit of a critter.

In six months where 'll the People be,

Ef leaders look on revolution

Ez though it wuz a cup o' tea,

Jest social el'ments in solution?

This weighin' things doos wal enough

When war cools down, an' comes to writin';

But while it's makin', the true stuff

Is pison-mad, pig-headed fightin'.

Democ'acy gives every man

The right to be his own oppressor;
But a loose Gov'ment ain't the plan,
Helpless ez spilled beans on a dresser:
I tell ye one thing we might larn

From them smart critters, the Seceders, -
Ef bein' right's the fust consarn,

The 'fore-the-fust 's cast-iron leaders.

But 'pears to me I see some signs

Thet we 're a-goin' to use our senses: Jeff druv us into these hard lines,

An' ough' to bear his half th' expenses ; Slavery's Secession's heart an' will,

South, North, East, West, where'er you find it, An' ef it drors into War's mill,

D'ye say them thunder-stones sha' n't grind it?

D'ye s'pose, ef Jeff giv him a lick,

Ole Hick'ry 'd tried his head to sof'n
So 's 't would n't hurt thet ebony stick
Thet 's made our side see stars so of'n?
"No!" he 'd ha' thundered, "on your knees,
An' own one flag, one road to glory!
Soft-heartedness, in times like these,
Shows sof'ness in the upper story!"

An' why should we kick up a muss
About the Pres'dunt's proclamation?
It ain't a-goin' to lib'rate us,

Ef we don't like emancipation:

The right to be a cussed fool

Is safe from all devices human,
It's common (ez a gin'l rule)
To every critter born o' woman.

So we 're all right, an' I, fer one,
Don't think our cause 'll lose in vally
By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun,
An' gittin' Natur' fer an ally :
Thank God, say I, fer even a plan
To lift one human bein's level,
Give one more chance to make a man,
Or, anyhow, to spile a devil!

Not thet I'm one thet much expec'
Millennium by express to-morrer;
They will miscarry, I rec'lec'

Tu many on 'em, to my sorrer : Men ain't made angels in a day,

No matter how you mould an' labor 'em, «

Nor 'riginal ones, I guess, don't stay
With Abe so of'n ez with Abraham.

The'ry thinks Fact a pooty thing,

An' wants the banns read right ensuin'; But fact wun't noways wear the ring, "Thout years o' settin' up an' wooin': Though, arter all, Time's dial-plate Marks cent'ries with the minute-finger, An' Good can't never come tu late,

Though it doos seem to try an' linger.

An' come wut will, I think it's grand
Abe's gut his will et last bloom-furnaced
In trial-flames till it 'll stand

The strain o' bein' in deadly earnest:
Thet 's wut we want, we want to know
The folks on our side hez the bravery
To b'lieve ez hard, come weal, come woe,
In Freedom ez Jeff doos in Slavery.

Set the two forces foot to foot,

An' every man knows who 'll be winner,
Whose faith in God hez ary root

Thet goes down deeper than his dinner:
Then 't will be felt from pole to pole,
Without no need o' proclamation,
Earth's biggest Country 's gut her soul
An' risen up Earth's Greatest Nation!

No. VIII.

KETTELOPOTOMACHIA

PRELIMINARY NOTE

In the month of February, 1866, the editors of the "Atlantic Monthly" received from the Rev. Mr. Hitchcock of Jaalam a letter enclosing the macaronic verses which follow, and promising to send more, if more should be communicated. 66 They were rapped out on the evening of Thursday last past," he says, "by what claimed to be the spirit of my late predecessor in the ministry here, the Rev. Dr. Wilbur, through the medium of a young