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shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.
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 anuther 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 Saul the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.
Hossa ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson 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 tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be.
* Aut insanit, aut versos facit.-H. W.
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.
THRASH away, you'll hev to rattle
On them kittle-drums o' yourn,
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Let folks see how spry you be,-
Fore you git ahold o'me!
Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,
Hope it aint your Sunday's best ;
To stuff out a soger's chest:
Ef you must wear humps like these,
It would du ez slick ez grease.
'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,
They’re a dreffle graspin' set,
Wen they want their irons het;
But my narves it kind o' grates,
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 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;
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 onary 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 the poor half-Spanish drones?
Jest go home an' ask our Nancy
Wether I'd be sech a goose
The etarnal bung wuz loose !
Let alone the hay's to mow,
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 prirne 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,