Coz Abram thought 'twas right;
It warn't your bullyina clack, John,
Provokina us to fight.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
We've a hard row,” sez he,
“To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow,
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.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
Ef ‘twarn't for law,” sez he,
“There'd be one shindy from here to Indy;
An‘ thet don't suit J. B.
(When ‘tain't 'twixt you an' me!)”
We know we've got a cause, John,
Thet's honest, just, an' true;
We thought 'twould win applause, John,
Ef nowhere else, from you.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
His love of right,” sez he,
“Hangs by a rotten fibre oa cotton:
There's natur‘ in J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!”
The South says, “Poor folks down!” John,
An‘ “All men up!” say we--
White, yaller, black, an' brown, John:
Now, which is your idee?
Ole Uncle S. says he, “I guess
John preaches wal,” sez he;
“But, sermon thru, an' cum to du,
Why, there's the old J. B.
A-crowdina you an' me!”
Shall it be love or hate, John?
It's you thet's to decide;
Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the world's beside?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
Wise men forgive,” sez he,
“But not forget; an' some time yet
Thet truth may strike J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!”
God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an' understand, John,
The wuth oa beina free.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
God's price is high,” sez he;
“But nothina else than wut He sells
Wears long; an' thet J. B.
May learn like you an' me!”
Atlantic Monthly.
