The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 25

Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into n.o.body's tater-patch pokes; But John P.

Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P.

Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- He's ben true to one party,--an' thet is himself;-- So John P.

Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally princerple more'n an old cud; Wut did G.o.d make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?

So John P.

Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P.

Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country, An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P.

Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum; But John P.

Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life That th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P.

Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-- G.o.d sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P.

Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT Sot To A Nursery Rhyme

"Here we stan' on the Const.i.tution, by thunder!

It's a fact o' wich ther's bushils o' proofs; Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Human rights haint no more Right to come on this floor, No more'n the man in the moon," sez he.

"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin', An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We're used to layin' the string on our slaves,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Foote, "I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he.

"Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet's--wha'd'ye call it?--divine,-- An' the slaves thet we ollers make the most out on Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, "'T would be better to hang 'em An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he.

"The ma.s.s ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Thet's ez plain," sez Ca.s.s, "Ez thet some one's an a.s.s, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.

"Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression) To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., "The perfection o' bliss Is in skinnin' that same old c.o.o.n," sez he.

"Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's G.o.d's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he.

"Gen'nle Ca.s.s, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees; At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color: You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he.

"The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance, No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he.

"It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ex we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, "Ef we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he.

"Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin'

In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France They're beginnin' to dance Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.

"The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida, "Wut treason is horrider Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.

"It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth sha'n't be spiled,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS A Song With A Stolen Burden

Off with your hat! along the street His Lordship's carriage rolls; Respect to greatness--when it shines To cheer our darkened souls.

Get off the step, you ragged boys!

Policeman, where's your staff?

This is a sight to check with awe The most irreverent laugh.

Chapeau bas!

Chapeau bas!

Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Stand further back! we'll see him well; Wait till they lift him out: It takes some time; his Lordship's old, And suffers from the gout.

Now look! he owns a castled park For every finger thin; He has more sterling pounds a day Than wrinkles in his skin.

The founder of his race was son To a king's cousin, rich; (The mother was an oyster wench-- She perished in a ditch).

His patriot worth embalmed has been In poets' loud applause: He made twelve thousand pounds a year By aiding France's cause.

The second marquis, of the stole Was groom to the second James; He all but caught that recreant king When flying o'er the Thames.

Devotion rare! by Orange Will With a Scotch county paid; He gained one more--in Ireland--when Charles Edward he betrayed.

He lived to see his son grow up A general famed and bold, Who fought his country's fights--and one, For half a million, sold.

His son (alas! the house's shame) Frittered the name away: Diced, wenched and drank--at last got shot, Through cheating in his play!