Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs? I on'y guess,' sez he, 'T would kind o' rile J. B., Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win, — ditto tails? J. B.' was on his shirts, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess No more 'n with you or me!' 370 381 When your rights was our wrongs, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess, We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus' n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, 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, You did n't care a fig, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess 'When all is done, it 's number one We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 't was right; Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow, 390 400 410 May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!' We ain't so weak an' poor, John, '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; 426 439 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, We thought 't would win applause, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, 'I guess Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: 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, 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 By overloadin' children's underpinnin': 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, Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: 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 |