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James Russell Lowell - The Biglow Papers
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Thrash away, you`ll _hev_ to rattle
  On them kittle-drums o` yourn,--
`Taint a knowin` kind o` cattle
  Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
  Let folks see how spry you be,--
Guess you`ll toot till you are yeller
  `Fore you git ahold o` me!

Thet air flag`s a leetle rotten,
  Hope it aint your Sunday`s best;--    
Fact! it takes a sight o` cotton
  To stuff out a soger`s chest:
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer`t,
  Ef you must wear humps like these,
S`posin` you should try salt hay fer`t,
  It would du ez slick ez grease.

`Twouldn`t suit them Southun fellers,
  They`re a dreffle graspin` set,
We must ollers blow the bellers
  Wen they want their irons het;         
May be it`s all right ez preachin`,
  But _my_ narves it kind o` grates,
Wen I see the overreachin`
  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;
Ef you take a sword an` dror it,
  An` go 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 get 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 turnln` 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 o` nary 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;
S`pose the crows wun`t fall to pickin`
  All the carkiss from your bones,
Coz you helped to give a lickin`
  To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an` ask our Nancy
  Wether I`d be sech a goose
Ez to jine ye,--guess you`d fancy
  The etarnal bung wuz loose!     
She wants me fer home consumption,
  Let alone the hay`s to mow,--
Ef you`re arter folks o` gumption,
  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 prime lot o` fellers?
  `Fore they think on `t guess they`ll 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,
She, thet ough` to ha` clung ferever
  In her grand old eagle-nest;
She thet ough` to stand so fearless
  W`ile the wracks are round her hurled,
Holdin` up a beacon peerless
  To the oppressed of all the world!

Ha`n`t they sold your colored seamen?
  Ha`n`t they made your env`ys w`iz?     
_Wut_`ll make ye act like freemen?
  _Wut_`ll git your dander riz?
Come, I`ll tell ye wut I`m thinkin`
  Is our dooty in this fix.
They`d ha` done `t ez quick ez winkin`
  In the days o` seventy-six.

Clang the bells in every steeple,
  Call all true men to disown
The tradoocers of our people,
  The enslavers o` their own;     
Let our dear old Bay State proudly
  Put the trumpet to her mouth,
Let her ring this messidge loudly
  In the ears of all the South:--

`I`ll return ye good fer evil
  Much ez we frail mortils can,
But I wun`t go help the Devil
  Makin` man the cuss o` man;
Call me coward, call me traiter,
  Jest ez suits your mean idees,--
Here I stand a tyrant hater,     
  An` the friend o` God an` Peace!`

Ef I`d _my_ way I hed ruther
  We should go to work an part,
They take one way, we take t`other,
  Guess it wouldn`t break my heart;
Man hed ough` to put asunder
  Them thet God has noways jined;
An` I shouldn`t gretly wonder
  Ef there`s thousands o` my mind.
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