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WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS
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 nobody’s tater-patch pokes; | |
| But John P. | 5 |
| 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?) | 10 |
| 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: | 15 |
| He ’s ben on all sides thet 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 | 20 |
| Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. | |
| |
| Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; | |
| He don’t vally princerple morn’n an old cud; | |
| Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, | |
| But glory an’ gunpowder, plunder an’ blood? | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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. | 35 |
| |
| 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. | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| 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 | 50 |
| Thet 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 | 55 |
| Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee. | |
| |
| Wal, it ’sa marcy we ’ve gut folks to tell us | |
| The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters, I vow,— | |
| God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise fellers, | |
| To start the world’s team wen it gits in a slough; | 60 |
| Fer John P. | |
| Robinson he | |
| Sez the world ’ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! | |
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THE CANDIDATE’S LETTER
DEAR SIR,—You wish to know my notions | |
| On sartin pints thet rile the land; | 65 |
| There ’s nothin’ thet my natur so shuns | |
| Ez bein’ mum or underhand; | |
| I ’m a straight-spoken kind o’ creetur | |
| Thet blurts right out wut’s in his head, | |
| An’ ef I ’ve one pecooler feetur, | 70 |
| It is a nose thet wunt be led. | |
| |
| So, to begin at the beginnin’ | |
| An’ come direcly to the pint, | |
| I think the country’s underpinnin’ | |
| Is some consid’ble out o’jint; | 75 |
| I aint agoin’ to try your patience | |
| By tellin’ who done this or thet, | |
| I don’t make no insinooations, | |
| I jest let on I smell a rat. | |
| |
| Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, | 80 |
| But, ef the public think I ’m wrong, | |
| I wunt deny but wut I be so,— | |
| An’, fact, it don’t smell very strong; | |
| My mind’s tu fair to lose its balance | |
| An’ say wich party hez most sense; | 85 |
| There may be folks o’ greater talence | |
| Thet can’t set stiddier on the fence. | |
| |
| I ’m an eclectic; ez to choosin’ | |
| ’Twixt this an’ thet, I ’m plaguy lawth; | |
| I leave a side thet looks like losin’, | 90 |
| But (wile there ’s doubt) I stick to both; | |
| I stan’ upon the Constitution, | |
| Ez preudunt statesmun say, who ’ve planned | |
| A way to git the most profusion | |
| O’ chances ez to ware they ’ll stand. | 95 |
| |
| Ez fer the war, I go agin it,— | |
| I mean to say I kind o’ du,— | |
| Thet is, I mean thet, bein’ in it, | |
| The best way wuz to fight it thru; | |
| Not but wut abstract war is horrid, | 100 |
| I sign to thet with all my heart,— | |
| But civlyzation doos git forrid | |
| Sometimes upon a powder-cart. | |
| |
| About thet darned Proviso matter | |
| I never hed a grain o’ doubt, | 105 |
| Nor I aint one my sense to scatter | |
| So ’st no one could n’t pick it out; | |
| My love fer North an’ South is equil, | |
| So I ’ll jest answer plump an’ frank, | |
| No matter wut may be the sequil,— | 110 |
| Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank. | |
| |
| Ez to the answerin’ o’ questions, | |
| I ’m an off ox at bein’ druv, | |
| Though I aint one thet ary test shuns | |
| I ’ll give our folks a helpin’ shove; | 115 |
| Kind o’ permiscoous I go it | |
| Fer the holl country, an’ the ground | |
| I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, | |
| Is pooty gen’ally all round. | |
| |
| I don’t appruve o’ givin’ pledges; | 120 |
| You’d ough’ to leave a feller free, | |
| An’ not fo knockin’ out the wedges | |
| To ketch his fingers in the tree; | |
| Pledges air awfle breachy cattle | |
| Thet preudunt farmers don’t turn out,— | 125 |
| Ez long’z the people git their rattle, | |
| Wut is there fer’m to grout about? | |
| |
| Ez to the slaves, there ’s no confusion | |
| In my idees consarnin’ them,— | |
| I think they air an Institution, | 130 |
| A sort of—yes, jest so,—ahem: | |
| Do I own any? Of my merit | |
| On thet pint you yourself may jedge; | |
| All is, I never drink no sperit, | |
| Nor I haint never signed no pledge. | 135 |
| |
| Ez to my princerples, I glory | |
| In hevin’ nothin’ o’ the sort; | |
| I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, | |
| I ’m jest a canderdate, in short; | |
| Thet’s fair an’ square an’ parpendicler | 140 |
| But, ef the Public cares a fig | |
| To hev me an’thin’ in particler, | |
| Wy, I ’m a kind o’ peri-Wig. | |
| |
P. S.
EZ we’re a sort o’ privateerin’, | |
| O’ course, you know, it ’ssheer an’ sheer, | 145 |
| An’ there is suthin’ wuth your hearin’ | |
| I ’ll mention in your privit ear; | |
| Ef you git me inside the White House, | |
| Your head with ile I ’ll kin’ o’ ’nint | |
| By gittin’ you inside the Light-house | 150 |
| Down to the eend o’ Jaalam Pint. | |
| |
| An’ ez the North hez took to brustlin’ | |
| At bein’scrouged frum off the roost, | |
| I ’ll tell ye wut ’ll save all tusslin’ | |
| An’ give our side a harnsome boost,— | 155 |
| Tell ’em thet on the Slavery question | |
| I ’m RIGHT, although to speak I ’m lawth; | |
| This gives you a safe pint to rest on, | |
| An’ leaves me frontin’ South by North. | |
| |
THE COURTIN’
GOD makes sech nights, all white an’ still | 160 |
| Fur ’z you can look or listen, | |
| Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, | |
| All silence an’ all glisten. | |
| |
| Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown | |
| An’ peeked in thru the winder, | 165 |
| An’ there sot Huldy all alone, | |
| ’ith no one nigh to hender. | |
| |
| A fireplace filled the room’s one side | |
| With half a cord o’ wood in— | |
| There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died) | 170 |
| To bake ye to a puddin’. | |
| |
| The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out | |
| Towards the pootiest, bless her, | |
| An’ leetle flames danced all about | |
| The chiny on the dresser. | 175 |
| |
| Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, | |
| An’ in amongst ’em rusted | |
| The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young | |
| Fetched back f’om Concord busted. | |
| |
| The very room, coz she was in, | 180 |
| Seemed warm f’om floor to ceilin’, | |
| An’ she looked full ez rosy agin | |
| Ez the apples she was peelin’. | |
| |
| ’T was kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look | |
| On sech a blessed cretur; | 185 |
| A dogrose blushin’ to a brook | |
| Ain’t modester nor sweeter. | |
| |
| He was six foot o’ man, A 1, | |
| Clear grit an’ human natur’; | |
| None could n’t quicker pitch a ton | 190 |
| Nor dror a furrer straighter. | |
| |
| He ’d sparked it with full twenty gals, | |
| He ’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em, | |
| Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells— | |
| All is, he could n’t love ’em. | 195 |
| |
| But long o’ her his veins ’ould run | |
| All crinkly like curled maple; | |
| The side she breshed felt full o’sun | |
| Ez a south slope in Ap’il. | |
| |
| She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing | 200 |
| Ez hisn in the choir; | |
| My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, | |
| She Knowed the Lord was nigher. | |
| |
| An’ she ’d blush scarlit, right in prayer, | |
| When her new meetin’-bunnet | 205 |
| Felt somehow thru its crown a pair | |
| O’blue eyes sot upun it. | |
| |
| Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! | |
| She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul, | |
| For she felt sartin-sure he ’d come, | 210 |
| Down to her very shoe-sole. | |
| |
| She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu, | |
| A-raspin’ on the scraper,— | |
| All ways to once her feelins flew | |
| Like sparks in burnt-up paper. | 215 |
| |
| He kin’o’l’itered on the mat, | |
| Some doubtfle o’ the sekle; | |
| His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat, | |
| But hern went pity Zekle. | |
| |
| An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk | 220 |
| Ez though she wished him furder, | |
| An’ on her apples kep’ to work, | |
| Parin’ away like murder. | |
| |
| “You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?” | |
| “Wal … no … I come dasignin’”— | 225 |
| “To see my Ma? She ’s sprinklin’ clo’es | |
| Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” | |
| |
| To say why gals acts so or so, | |
| Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’; | |
| Mebby to mean yes an’ say no | 230 |
| Comes nateral to women. | |
| |
| He stood a spell on one foot fust, | |
| Then stood a spell on t’other, | |
| An’ on which one he felt the wust | |
| He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther. | 235 |
| |
| Says he, “I ’d better call agin”; | |
| Says she, “Think likely, Mister”; | |
| Thet last word pricked him like a pin, | |
| An’ … Wal, he up an’ kist her. | |
| |
| When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips, | 240 |
| Huldy sot pale ez ashes, | |
| All kin’o’ smily roun’ the lips | |
| An’ teary roun’ the lashes. | |
| |
| For she was jes’ the quiet kind | |
| Whose naturs never vary, | 245 |
| Like streams that keep a summer mind | |
| Snowhid in Jenooary. | |
| |
| The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued | |
| Too tight for all expressin’, | |
| Tell mother see how metters stood, | 250 |
| An’ gin’em both her blessin’. | |
| |
| Then her red come back like the tide | |
| Down to the Bay o’Fundy, | |
| An’all I know is they was cried | |
| In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday. | 255 |
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MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF “THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY”
WHERE ’S Peace? I start, some clear-blown night, | |
| When gaunt stone walls grow numb an’ number, | |
| An’ creakin’ ’cross the snow-crus’ white, | |
| Walk the col’ starlight into summer; | |
| Up grows the moon, an’ swell by swell | 260 |
| Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer | |
| Than the last smile thet strives to tell | |
| O’ love gone heavenward in its shimmer. | |
| |
| I hev ben gladder o’ sech things | |
| Than cocks o’spring or bees o’clover, | 265 |
| They filled my heart with livin’ springs, | |
| But now they seem to freeze ’em over; | |
| Sights innercent ez babes on knee, | |
| Peaceful ez eyes o’ pastur’d cattle, | |
| Jes’ coz they be so, seem to me | 270 |
| To rile me more with thoughts o’ battle. | |
| |
| Indoors an’ out by spells I try; | |
| Ma’am Natur’ keeps her spin-wheel goin’, | |
| But leaves my natur’ stiff and dry | |
| Ez fiel’s o’ clover arter mowin’; | 275 |
| An’ her jes’ keepin’ on the same, | |
| Calmer ’n a clock, an’ never carin’, | |
| An’ findin’ nary thing to blame, | |
| Is wus than ef she took to swearin’. | |
| |
| Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street | 280 |
| I hear the drummers makin’ riot, | |
| An’ I set thinkin’ o’ the feet | |
| Thet follered once an’ now are quiet,— | |
| White feet ez snowdrops innercent, | |
| Thet never knowed the paths o’ Satan, | 285 |
| Whose comin’ step ther’s ears thet won’t, | |
| No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin’. | |
| |
| Why, hain’t I held ’em on my knee? | |
| Didn’t I love to see ’em growin’, | |
| Three likely lads ez wal could be, | 290 |
| Hahnsome an’ brave an’ not tu knowin’? | |
| I set an’look into the blaze | |
| Whose natur’, jes’ like theirn, keeps climbin’, | |
| Ez long ’z it lives, in shinin’ ways, | |
| An’ half despise myself for rhymin’. | 295 |
| |
| Wut ’s words to them whose faith an’ truth | |
| On War’s red techstone rang true metal, | |
| Who ventered life an’ love an’ youth | |
| For the gret prize o’ death in battle? | |
| To him who, deadly hurt, agen | 300 |
| Flashed on afore the charge’s thunder, | |
| Tippin’ with fire the bolt of men | |
| Thet rived the Rebel line asunder? | |
| |
| ’Tain’t right to hev the young go fust, | |
| All throbbin’ full o’ gifts an’ graces, | 305 |
| Leavin’ life’s paupers dry ez dust | |
| To try an’ make b’lieve fill their places: | |
| 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 | 310 |
| 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: | 315 |
| 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 | 320 |
| 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! | 325 |
| 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 | 330 |
| 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! | 335 |
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