Nothin' but tells us wut we miss,

Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay
in,

An' thet world seems so fur from this
Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in!

My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners;

I pity mothers, tu, down South,
For all they sot among the scorners:
I'd sooner take my chance to stan'
At Jedgment where your meanest
slave is,

Than at God's bar hol' up a han'

Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis !

Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed

For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people proud,

With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted!
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt,
An' step thet proves ye Victory's
daughter!

Longin' for you, our sperits wilt
Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for

water.

Come, while our country feels the lift

Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards, An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift

Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards! Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered,

An' bring fair wages for brave men,
A nation saved, a race delivered!

No. XI.

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN
MARCH MEETING.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC
MONTHLY.

MY DEAR SIR,

JAALAM, April 5, 1866.

(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you 're some dearer than wut you wuz, I enclose the deffrence) I dunno ez I know jest how to interdroce this las' perduction of my mews, ez Parson Willber allus called 'em, which is goin' to be the last an' stay the last onless sunthin' pertikler sh'd interfear which I don't expec' ner I wun't yield tu