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James Russell Lowell - A Letter from a Candidate for the Presidency
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Dear Sir—You wish to know my notions
On sartin pints thet rile the land;
There`s nothin` thet my natur so shuns
Es 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,
It is a nose thet wunt be led.

So, to begin at the beginnin`;
An` come directly to the pint,
I think the country`s underpinnin`
Is some consid`ble out o` jint;
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,
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;
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`,
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.

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,
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,
Nor I aint one my sense to scatter
So`s no one couldn`t pick it out;
My love fer North an` South is equil,
So I`ll just answer plump an` frank,
No matter wut may be the sequil—
Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin` o` questions,
I `am an off ox at bein` druv,
Though I aint one thet ary test shuns
I`ll give our folks a helpin` shove;
Kind o` promiscoous 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;
You`d ough` to leave a feller free,
An` not go knockin` out the wedges
To ketch his fingers in the tree;
Pledges air awfle breachy cattle
Thet preudent farmers don`t turn out—
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,
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.

Ez to my principles, I glory
In hevin` nothin` o` the sort;
I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory,
I`m jest a candidate, in short;
Thet`s fair an` square an` parpendicler,
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`s sheer an` sheer
An` there is sutthin` wuth your hearin`
I`ll mention in YOUR privit ear;
Ef you git ME inside the White House,
Your head with ile I`ll kio` o` `nint
By gitt`n` YOU inside the Light-house
Down to the eend o` Jaalam Pint

An` ez the North hez took to brustlin`
At bein` scrouged from off the roost,
I`ll tell ye wut`ll save all tusslin`
An` give our side a harnsome boost—
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.
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