THE BIGLOW PAPERS.

No. I.

A LETTER

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW.

JAYLEM, june 1846.

MISTER EDDYTER :-Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he'd jest com down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.

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wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin another ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as I hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit. Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the

Aut insanit, aut versos fucit.-II. W.

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kind 'o slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didnt want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tatur digging, and thar aint nowheres a kitting spryer'n I be.

If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

THRASH away, you'll hev to rattie
On them kittle-drums o' yourn,—
'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle

Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,

Let folk see how spry you be,-
Guess you'll toot till you are yeller
'Fore you git ahold o' me!

Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,

Hope it aint your Sunday's best ;-
Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton
To stuff out a soger's chest:
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer't,

Ef you must wear humps like these,
Sposin' you should try salt hay fer't,
It would du ez slick ez grease.

"Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,
They're a dreffle graspin' set,
We must ollers blow the bellers
Wen they want their irons het;
May be it's all right ez preachin',
But my narves it kind o' gratcs,
Wen I see the overreachin'

O' them nigger-drivin' States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth, (Helped by Yankee renegaders,)

Thru the vartu o' the North!
We begin to think it's nater

To take sarse an' not be riled;-
Who'd expect to see a tater
All on eend at bein' biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,-
There you hev it plain an' flat;
I don't want to go no furder

Than my Testyment fer that;
God hez said 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:

'Spose 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 an' 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 after folks o' gumption,
You've a darned long row ta 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 they will 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 fer ever
In her grand old eagle-nest;
She thet ough' to stand so fearless

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

To the oppressed of all the world!

Haint they sold your colored seamen?
Haint they made your env'ys wiz?
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 :-

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