Would it jest meet your views, John,

To wait an' sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess,

I on'y guess,' sez he,
"Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell,

'T would kind o' rile J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!'

Who made the law thet hurts, John,

Heads I win, — ditto tails?

J. B.' was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess
(I'm good at thet),' sez he,
Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice
For ganders with J. B.,

No more 'n with you or me!'

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381

When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You did n't stop for fuss,
Britanny's trident prongs, John,
Was good 'nough law for us.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess,
Though physic's good,' sez he,
It does n't foller thet he can swaller
Prescriptions signed "J. B.,"
Put up by you an' me!'

We own the ocean, tu, John:

You mus' n' take it hard,

Ef we can't think with you, John,
It's jest your own back-yard.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'Î

guess,

Ef thet 's his claim,' sez he, 'The fencin'-stuff 'll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!'

Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honor when it meant

You did n't care a fig, John,
But jest for ten per cent?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess
He 's like the rest,' sez he:

'When all is done, it 's number one
Thet 's nearest to J. B.,
Ez wal ez t' you an' me!'

We give the critters back, John,

Cos Abram thought 't was right;
It warn't your bullyin' clack, John,
Provokin' us to fight.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess
We've a hard row,' sez he,

To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,

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400

410

May happen to J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!'

We ain't so weak an' poor, John,
With twenty million people,
An' close to every door, John,
A school-house an' a steeple.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess,
It is a fact,' sez he,

'The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B.,

Ez much ez you or me!'

Our folks believe in Law, John;
An' it's for her sake, now,
They 've left the axe an' saw, John,
The anvil an' the plough.

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439

Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, Ef 't warn't for law,' sez he, 'There'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J. B.

(When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)'

We know we've got a cause, John,
Thet 's honest, just, an' true;

We thought 't would win applause, John,
Ef nowheres else, from you.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess
His love of right,' sez he,

Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton:
There 's natur' in J. B.,

Ez wal 'z in you an' me!'

440

(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?),

An' so ole claw foot, from the precinks dread

O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed, Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides

To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; 10 But better days stick fast in heart an' husk, An' all you keep in 't gits a scent o' musk.

Jes' so with poets: wut they 've airly read Gits kind of worked into their heart an' head,

So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers

With furrin countries or played-out ideers, Nor hev a feelin', ef it doos n't smack

O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back:

This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things,

Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings

20

He [Arthur Hugh Clough] often suggested that I should try my hand at some Yankee Pastorals, which would admit of more sentiment and a higher tone without foregoing the advantage offered by the dialect. I have never completed anything of the kind, but, in this Second Series, both my remembrance of his counsel and the deeper feeling called up by the great interests at stake, led me to venture some passages nearer to what is called poetical than could have been admitted without incongruity into the former series. (LOWELL, in the Introduction' to the Biglow Papers, 1866.)

Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots. Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's, Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose,

An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes:

I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would,

Our Pilgrim stock wuz pethed with hardihood.

Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch,

Ez though 't wuz sunthin' paid for by the inch;

But yit we du contrive to worry thru,
Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du,
An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out,
Ez stiddily ez though 't wuz a redoubt.

40

Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left,

80 Then all the waters bow themselves an' come,

Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune An' gives one leap from Aperl into June: Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think,

Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink;

The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it,

An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; 90

To gret men, some on 'em, an' deacons, tu; 't ain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut:

Three-story larnin' 's pop'lar now; I guess
We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less,
For it strikes me ther''s sech a thing ez
sinnin'

By overloadin' children's underpinnin':
Wal, here it wuz I larned my A B C,
An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me.

We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute

150

Faith, Hope, an' sunthin', ef it is n't Cherrity,

It's want o' guile, an' thet 's ez gret a rerrity,

While Fancy's cushin', free to Prince and Clown,

Makes the hard bench ez soft ez milkweed-down.

Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arter

noon

When I sot out to tramp myself in tune,
I found me in the school'us' on my seat, 170
Drummin' the march to No-wheres with
my feet.

Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say

Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way:
It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew,
Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue.
I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell:

I thought o' the Rebellion, then o' Hell, Which some folks tell ye now is jest a metterfor

(A the'ry, p'raps, it wun't feel none the better for);

I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd win

180