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James Russell Lowell - Mr. Hosea Biglow To The Editor Of The Atlantic Monthly
Work rating: Low

DEAR SIR,--Your letter come to han`
  Requestin` me to please be funny;
But I ain`t made upon a plan
  Thet knows wut`s comin`, gall or honey:
Ther` `s times the world does look so queer,
  Odd fancies come afore I call `em;
An` then agin, for half a year,
  No preacher `thout a call`s more solemn.

You`re `n want o` sunthin` light an` cute,
  Rattlin` an` shrewd an` kin` o` jingleish,         
An` wish, pervidin` it `ould suit,
  I`d take an` citify my English.
I _ken_ write long-tailed, ef I please,--
  But when I`m jokin`, no, I thankee;
Then, fore I know it, my idees
  Run helter-skelter into Yankee.

Sence I begun to scribble rhyme,
  I tell ye wut, I hain`t ben foolin`;
The parson`s books, life, death, an` time
  Hev took some trouble with my schoolin`;           
Nor th` airth don`t git put out with me,
  Thet love her `z though she wuz a woman;
Why, th` ain`t a bird upon the tree
  But half forgives my bein` human.


An` yit I love th` unhighschooled way
  Ol` farmers hed when I wuz younger;
Their talk wuz meatier, an` `ould stay,
  While book-froth seems to whet your hunger;
For puttin` in a downright lick
  `twixt Humbug`s eyes, ther` `s few can metch it,     
An` then it helves my thoughts ez slick
  Ez stret-grained hickory does a hetchet.

But when I can`t, I can`t, thet`s all,
  For Natur` won`t put up with gullin`;
Idees you hev to shove an` haul
  Like a druv pig ain`t wuth a mullein:
Live thoughts ain`t sent for; thru all rifts
  O` sense they pour an` resh ye onwards,
Like rivers when south-lyin` drifts
  Feel thet th` old arth`s a-wheelin` sunwards.     

Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin` thick
  Ez office-seekers arter `lection,
An` into ary place `ould stick
  Without no bother nor objection;
But sence the war my thoughts hang back
  Ez though I wanted to enlist `em,
An` subs`tutes,--_they_ don`t never lack,
  But then they`ll slope afore you`ve mist `em.

Nothin` don`t seem like wut it wuz;
  I can`t see wut there is to hender,               
An` yit my brains jes` go buzz, buzz,
  Like bumblebees agin a winder;
`fore these times come, in all airth`s row,
  Ther` wuz one quiet place, my head in,
Where I could hide an` think,--but now
  It`s all one teeter, hopin`, dreadin`.

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
  Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer
Than the last smile thet strives to tell
  O` love gone heavenward in its shimmer.

I hev been gladder o` sech things
  Than cocks o` spring or bees o` clover,
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
  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`;
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`.              

Snow-flakes come whisperin` on the pane
  The charm makes blazin` logs so pleasant,
But I can`t hark to wut they`re say`n`,
  With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
The chimbleys shudder in the gale,
  Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin`
Like a shot hawk, but all`s ez stale
  To me ez so much sperit-rappin`.

Under the yaller-pines I house,
  When sunshine makes `em all sweet-scented,        
An` hear among their furry boughs
  The baskin` west-wind purr contented,
While `way o`erhead, ez sweet an` low
  Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin`,
The wedged wil` geese their bugles blow,
  Further an` further South retreatin`.

Or up the slippery knob I strain
  An` see a hundred hills like islan`s
Lift their blue woods in broken chain
  Out o` the sea o` snowy silence;                 
The farm-smokes, sweetes` sight on airth,
  Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin`
Seem kin` o` sad, an` roun` the hearth
  Of empty places set me thinkin`.

Beaver roars hoarse with meltin` snows,
  An` rattles di`mon`s from his granite;
Time wuz, he snatched away my prose,
  An` into psalms or satires ran it;
But he, nor all the rest thet once
  Started my blood to country-dances,            
Can`t set me goin` more `n a dunce
  Thet hain`t no use for dreams an` fancies.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street
  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,
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,
  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`.

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
  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,
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
  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:
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
  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!
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
 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!
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