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[69]
     Assisted by Greeley, and Bennett, and Weed,
As miserable scoundrels as Tophet could breed,
     To fix up a plan for ‘ preserving the Union,’
In the bonds of a happy fraternal communion,
     By a terrible warfare of conquest and blood,
Such as never was known since the day of the flood.
     I gave you my minions from the purlieus of hell,
The ranks of your fearful grand army to swell;
     I stirred up the North with its vagabond crew,
And set witch-burning Yankeedom all in a stew,
     With its isms and schisms — fanatical trappings--
Its free-loving humbugs, and spiritual rappings:
     I called out its teachers,
(Hypocritical preachers,)
     And demagogue screechers,
To martial your leaders to conquest and fame;
     But, alas! to your shame,
No victory came,
     But reproach and disgrace on the whole
Yankee name.
     Your armies went forth, but not to the battle--
They went forth to plunder the fields of their cattle;
     To steal the young chickens, and capture the hens,
(Like ‘William Come-Trimble-Too,’ ) and put 'em in pens.
     In the pages of history, no loftier place
Can be claimed for your thieving and cowardly race,
     Than to tell they were valiant in stealing a hen,
But ran in confusion from the presence of men.
     When at last your Grand Army was forced to a fight,
They were routed, defeated, and driven in flight,
     Overwhelmed with confusion, from the plains of Manassas,
Like a miserable pack of terrified asses.
     Was't for this I labored with vigilant toil,
To sow tares of contention all over your soil?--
     To build up your party with lying pretensions,
With demagogue tricks, and Chicago Conventions?
     If this is the fruit of my labor and zeal,
I am sure I deserve the remorse that I feel,
     For becoming the tool
Of a shallow-brained fool,
     With the form of an ape, and the head of a calf;
It is sowing the whirlwind, and reaping the chaff.”
     “What say you to this?” cried Old Nick, waxing hot.
Quoth President Lincoln, “You must ask General Scott.”
     “Old Scott's an old ass, and Seward to boot;
And as for yourself, you're a pitiful brute,
     Too mean to let live, and too worthless to shoot.

“But to come to the point more directly in hand,
     Allow me once more in good faith to demand
The grounds of this pitiful, vile proclamation,
     For fasting and prayer by the whole Yankee nation.
Do you think that Jehovah will favor your cause,
     While you murder, and steal, and violate laws?
Will your prayers be heard when you ask the Eternal
     For help to accomplish your objects infernal?
No; this war, like yourself, is begotten in sin,
     And lose it or win,
You must now begin
     To fight with the spirit of ‘Seventy-six,
And abandon your pitiful Yankee tricks. “
     Quoth” Honest Old Abe, “” I'm in a very bad fix. “
” You are right now, for once, “said Old Nick, with a grin;
     ” But such are the fruits of transgression and sin.
Then where lies the blame? Not with me, I am sure;
     You made the disease: you must seek for the cure.
And now, in conclusion, your attention I call
     To a single fact more--'tis the saddest of all. “
(As he spoke, the hot tears came flush to his eyes.)
     ” The Gospel has made me the “father of lies;”
And the record is true. From the very beginning
     I have tutored the world in lying and sinning;
But it stirs up my soul with grief and vexation,
     To see your abominable Yankee nation
Outstripping me far in the depths of its shame,
     And heaping reproach on my kingdom and name.
I've one word to add; it's a terrible one!
     The race of your treachery is almost run;
Your political sky looks dark and dun;
     The fate-clouds are gathering o'er your setting sun;
You have ruined your nation — degraded its name,
     And hurled on its people a heritage of shame;
You have murdered its glory and pride at a blow,
     And filled its proud cities with wailing and woe.
The avenger is coming. O'er your dark future path
     Is brooding a storm of terrible wrath.
The wrongs of oppression, the blood of the slain,
     The pleadings of widows for their lost ones again,
The cries of the poor, all starving for bread,
     The curse of the nation, overwhelming with dread,
Shall break like an avalanche full on your head.

“Then woe to the day when Beauregard comes
     With his fiery legions from their Southern homes;
When the roar of their guns shall fill you with fright,
     And the flash of their sabres shall gleam on your sight.
Ah! then shall you sink to a merciless tomb,
     And the shouts of their triumph shall herald your doom.
Your fate is now writ by the “ hand on the wall:”
     O'er your “house on the sand” the bleak tempest shall fall,
And sweep you away in its ruins to hell;--
     I have finished my mission. Farewell-farewell! “

Thus saying, he left in a moment of time,
     And wound up his speech, where I wind up my rhyme;
He left General Scott in a passion and worry--
     Old Abe in a fit, and his wife in a flurry.

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