Слике страница
PDF
ePub

а

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 riglit; "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 lome consumption,

Let alone the hay's to mow,-
Ef you're after folks o'gumption,

You’ve a darned long row ta hoe.

a

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? Wuť ll make ye act like freemen?

Wuťll 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 :

[ocr errors]

“I'll return ye good fer evil

Much ez we frail mortils can,
But I won'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 wouldn't break my heart;
Man had ough' to put asunder

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

Ef there's thousands o' my mind.

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that indi. vidual 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' poxņu 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 Königs. mark'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.1

No. II.

A LETTER

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM,

EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER
FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS
REGIMENT.

[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to the human race. If leisure from other and more important avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prat. tlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, assonance, and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in these remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the acquire. ment of that sacred tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammeticus to have been in favour of a dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are backward to undergo the hardships of defensive warfare. They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto death pro aris et focis, accoutred with the spade, the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and unthrift. I have taught them (under God) to esteem our human institutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect organization.-H. W.]

MISTER BUCKINUM, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his

a

« ПретходнаНастави »