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James Russell Lowell - A Letter
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From Mr. Hosea Biglow To The Hon. J.T. Buckingham, Editor Of The Boston Courier, Covering A Letter From Mr. B. Sawin, Private In The Massachusetts Regiment

This kind o` sogerin` aint a mite like our October trainin`,
A chap could clear right out from there ef `t only looked like rainin`,
An` th` Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners,
An` send the insines skootin` to the bar-room with their banners
(Fear o` gittin` on `em spotted), an` a feller could cry quarter
Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an` water.
Recollect wut fun we hed, you `n` I an` Ezry Hollis,
Up there to Waltham plain last fall, along o` the Cornwallis?

This sort o` thing aint _jest_ like thet,--I wish thet I wuz furder,--
Ninepunce a day fer killin` folks comes kind o` low fer murder,     
(Wy I`ve worked out to slarterin` some fer Deacon Cephas Billins,
An` in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins.)
There`s sutthin` gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller,
It comes so naturel to think about a hempen collar;
It`s glory,--but, in spite o` all my tryin` to git callous,
I feel a kind o` in a cart, aridin` to the gallus.
But wen it comes to _bein`_ killed,--I tell ye I felt streaked
The fust time `t ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked;
Here`s how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango,
The sentinul he ups an` sez, `Thet`s furder `an you can go.`      
`None o` your sarse,` sez I; sez he, `Stan` back!` `Aint you a buster?`
Sez I, `I`m up to all thet air, I guess I`ve ben to muster;
I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin` to eat us;
Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenorcetas;
My folks to hum air full ez good ez his`n be, by golly!`
An` so ez I wuz goin` by, not thinkin` wut would folly,
The everlastin` cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me
An` made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in`my.

Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin` in ole Funnel
Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle,     
(It`s Mister Secondary Bolles, thet writ the prize peace essay.
Thet`s wy he didn`t list himself along o` us, I dessay,)
An` Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don`t put _his_ foot in it,
Coz human life`s so sacred thet he`s principled agin it,--
Though I myself can`t rightly see it`s any wus achokin` on `em;
Than puttin` bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin` on `em;
How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceum
Ahaulin` ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see `em),
About the Anglo-Saxon race (an` saxons would be handy
To du the buryin` down here upon the Rio Grandy),         
About our patriotic pas an` our star-spangled banner,
Our country`s bird alookin` on an` singin` out hosanner,
An` how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky,--
I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.
I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o` privilege
Atrampin` round thru Boston streets among the gutter`s drivelage;
I act`lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin`,
An` it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin`
Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison)
An` every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.       
This `ere`s about the meanest place a skunk could wal dlskiver
(Saltillo`s Mexican, I b`lieve, fer wut we call Salt-river);
The sort o` trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater,
I`d give a year`s pay fer a smell o` one good blue-nose tater,
The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin`
Throughout is swarmin` with the most alarmin` kind o` varmin.
He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all,
The holl on `t `s mud an` prickly pears, with here an` there a chapparal;
You see a feller peekin` out, an`, fust you know, a lariat
Is round your throat an` you a copse, `fore you can say, `Wut air ye at?`     
You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant
To say I`ve seen a _scarabaeus pilularius_ big ez a year old elephant),
The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug
From runnin off with Cunnle Wright,--`twuz jest a common _cimex
  lectularius._

One night I started up on eend an` thought I wuz to hum agin,
I heern a horn, thinks I it`s Sol the fisherman hez come agin,
_His_ bellowses is sound enough,--ez I`m a livin` creeter,
I felt a thing go thru my leg--`twuz nothin` more `n a skeeter!
Then there`s the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito,--
(Come, thet wun`t du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le` _go_ my toe!     
My gracious! it`s a scorpion thet`s took a shine to play with `t,
I darsn`t skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he`d run away with `t,)
Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion
Thet Mexicans worn`t human beans,--an ourang outang nation,
A sort o` folks a chap could kill an` never dream on `t arter,
No more `n a feller`d dream o` pigs thet he hed hed to slarter;
I`d an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion all,
An` kickin` colored folks about, you know `s a kind o` national;
But wen I jined I worn`t so wise ez thet air queen o` Sheby,
Fer, come to look at `em, they aint much diff`rent from wut we be,      
An` here we air ascrougin` `em out o` thir own dominions,
Ashelterin` `em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle`s pinions,
Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o` `s trowsis
An` walk him Spanish clean right out o` all his homes an` houses;
Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!
It must be right, fer Caleb sez it`s reg`lar Anglo-Saxon,
The Mex`cans don`t fight fair, they say, they piz`n all the water,
An` du amazin` lots o` things thet isn`t wut they ough` to;
Bein` they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o` copper
An` shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez ain proper;        
He sez they`d ough` to stan` right up an` let us pop `em fairly
(Guess wen he ketches `em at thet he`ll hev to git up airly),
Thet our nation`s bigger `n theirn an` so its rights air bigger,
An` thet it`s all to make `em free thet we air pullin` trigger,
Thet Anglo Saxondom`s idee`s abreakin` `em to pieces,
An` thet idee`s thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases;
Ef I don`t make his meanin` clear, perhaps in some respex I can,
I know thet `every man` don`t mean a nigger or a Mexican;
An` there`s another thing I know, an` thet is, ef these creeters,
Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison feeturs,       
Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an` spout on `t,
The gals `ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on `t.

This goin` ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur,
An` ef it worn`t fer wakin` snakes, I`d home agin short meter;
O, wouldn`t I be off, quick time, ef `t worn`t thet I wuz sartin
They`d let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin!
I don`t approve o` tellin` tales, but jest to you I may state
Our ossifers aiut wut they wuz afore they left the Bay-state;
Then it wuz `Mister Sawin, sir, you`re middlin` well now, be ye?
Step up an` take a nipper, sir; I`m dreffle glad to see ye:`          
But now it`s `Ware`s my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an` fetch it!
An` mind your eye, be thund`rin` spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!`
Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty,
Ef I hed some on `em to hum, I`d give `em linkum vity,
I`d play the rogue`s march on their hides an` other music follerin`--
But I must close my letter here, fer one on `em `s ahollerin`,
These Anglosaxon ossifers,--wal, taint no use ajawin`,
I`m safe enlisted fer the war,
                              Yourn,
                                 BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN.
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