Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 57

Ezekiel Biglow .

Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle On them kittle-drums o' yourn,-- 'T aint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,-- Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me!

Thet air flag's a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday's best;-- Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest: Sence we farmers hev to pay fer't, Ef you must wear humps like these, Sposin' you should try salt hay fer't, It would du ez slick ez grease.

'T wouldn't suit them Southun fellers, They're a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollers blow the bellers Wen they want their irons het; May be it's all right ez preachin', But _my_ narves it kind o' grates, Wen I see the overreachin'

O' them n.i.g.g.e.r-drivin' States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth, (Helped by Yankee renegaders,) Thru the vartu o' the North!

We begin to think it's nater To take sa.r.s.e an' not be riled;-- Who'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,-- There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; G.o.d hez sed so plump an' fairly, It's ez long ez it is broad, An' you've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in G.o.d.

'T aint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; 'T aint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it, G.o.d'll send the bill to you.

Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'

Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it's right to go amowin'

Feller-men like oats an' rye?

I dunno but wut it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats,-- But it's curus Christian dooty This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.

They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face,-- It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains, All to git the Devil's thankee, Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?

Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' n.i.g.g.e.rs Want to make wite slaves o' you.

Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame, Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.

'T aint by turnin' out to hack folks You're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary color, 'T aint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye?

I expect you'll hev to wait; Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You'll begin to kal'klate; 'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin'

All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin'

To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be sech a goose Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy The etarnal bung wuz loose!

She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay's to mow,-- Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet's crowin'

Like a c.o.c.kerel three months old,-- Don't ketch any on 'em goin', Though they _be_ so blasted bold; _Aint_ they a prime lot o' fellers?

'Fore they think on't they will sprout, (Like a peach thet's got the yellers,) With the meanness bustin' out.

Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'

Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet's ollers dealin'

Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!

Ma.s.sachusetts, G.o.d forgive her, She's akneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer ever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless Wile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world!

Haint they sold your colored seamen?

Haint they made your env'ys wiz?

_Wut_'ll make ye act like freemen?

_Wut_'ll git your dander riz?

Come, I'll tell ye wut I'm thinkin'

Is our dooty in this fix, They'd ha' done't ez quick ez winkin'

In the days o' seventy-six.

Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers o' their own; Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South:--

"I'll return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cus o' man; Call me coward, call me traiter, Jest ez suits your mean idees,-- Here I stand a tyrant-hater, An' the friend o' G.o.d an' Peace!"

Ef I'd _my_ way I hed ruther We should go to work an' part,-- They take one way, we take t'other,-- Guess it wouldn't break my heart; Man hed ough' to put asunder Them thet G.o.d has noways jined; An' I shouldn't gretly wonder Ef there's thousands o' my mind.

[The first recruiting sergeant on record I conceive to have been that individual who is mentioned in the Book of Job _as going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it_. Bishop Latimer will have him to have been a bishop, but to me that other calling would appear more congenial. The sect of Cainites is not yet extinct, who esteemed the first-born of Adam to be the most worthy, not only because of that privilege of primogeniture, but inasmuch as he was able to overcome and slay his younger brother. That was a wise saying of the famous Marquis Pescara to the Papal Legate, that _it was impossible for men to serve Mars and Christ at the same time_. Yet in time past the profession of arms was judged to be ?at? ?????? that of a gentleman, nor does this opinion want for strenuous upholders even in our day. Must we suppose, then, that the profession of Christianity was only intended for losels, or, at best, to afford an opening for plebeian ambition? Or shall we hold with that nicely metaphysical Pomeranian, Captain Vratz, who was Count Konigsmark's chief instrument in the murder of Mr.

Thynne, that the Scheme of Salvation has been arranged with an especial eye to the necessities of the upper cla.s.ses, and that "G.o.d would consider a _gentleman_ and deal with him suitably to the condition and profession he had placed him in"? It may be said of us all, _Exemplo plus quam ratione vivimus_.--H. W.]

No. II.

A LETTER

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE Ma.s.sACHUSETTS REGIMENT.

[This letter of Mr. Sawin's was not originally written in verse. Mr. Biglow, thinking it peculiarly susceptible of metrical adornment, translated it, so to speak, into his own vernacular tongue. This is not the time to consider the question, whether rhyme be a mode of expression natural to the human race. If leisure from other and more important avocations be granted, I will handle the matter more at large in an appendix to the present volume. In this place I will barely remark, that I have sometimes noticed in the unlanguaged prattlings of infants a fondness for alliteration, a.s.sonance, and even rhyme, in which natural predisposition we may trace the three degrees through which our Anglo-Saxon verse rose to its culmination in the poetry of Pope. I would not be understood as questioning in these remarks that pious theory which supposes that children, if left entirely to themselves, would naturally discourse in Hebrew. For this the authority of one experiment is claimed, and I could, with Sir Thomas Browne, desire its establishment, inasmuch as the acquirement of that sacred tongue would thereby be facilitated. I am aware that Herodotus states the conclusion of Psammeticus to have been in favor of a dialect of the Phrygian. But, beside the chance that a trial of this importance would hardly be blessed to a Pagan monarch whose only motive was curiosity, we have on the Hebrew side the comparatively recent investigation of James the Fourth of Scotland. I will add to this prefatory remark, that Mr. Sawin, though a native of Jaalam, has never been a stated attendant on the religious exercises of my congregation. I consider my humble efforts prospered in that not one of my sheep hath ever indued the wolf's clothing of war, save for the comparatively innocent diversion of a militia training. Not that my flock are backward to undergo the hards.h.i.+ps of _defensive_ warfare.

They serve cheerfully in the great army which fights even unto death _pro aris et focis_, accoutred with the spade, the axe, the plane, the sledge, the spelling-book, and other such effectual weapons against want and ignorance and unthrift. I have taught them (under G.o.d) to esteem our human inst.i.tutions as but tents of a night, to be stricken whenever Truth puts the bugle to her lips and sounds a march to the heights of wider-viewed intelligence and more perfect organization.--H. W.]

Mister Buckinum , the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. it ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather cal'late he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a _pong-shong_ for c.o.c.ktales, and he ses it wuz a sos.h.i.+ashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a c.o.c.ktale onto his hat.

his Folks gin the letter to me and i shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed. send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, i don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time,[L] ses he, I _du_ like a feller that ain't a Feared.

I have intussp.u.s.s.ed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o'

prest with Hayin.

Ewers respecfly Hosea Biglow .

[Footnote L: In relation to this expression, I cannot but think that Mr. Biglow has been too hasty in attributing it to me. Though Time be a comparatively innocent personage to swear by, and though Longinus in his discourse ?e?? ??????

has commended timely oaths as not only a useful but sublime figure of speech, yet I have always kept my lips free from that abomination. _Odi profanum vulgus_, I hate your swearing and hectoring fellows.--H. W.]

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef't only looked like rainin', An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners, (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted,) an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.

Recollect wut fun we hed, you'n' I an' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, along o' the Cornwallis?[M]

This sort o' thing aint _jest_ like thet,--I wish thet I wuz furder,[N]-- Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder, (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins, An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten s.h.i.+llins,) There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar; It's glory,--but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git callous, I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus.

But wen it comes to _bein'_ killed,--I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time 't ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked; Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go."

"None o' your sa.r.s.e," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster?"

Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenoreetas; My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!"

An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would folly, The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-p.r.o.nged pitchfork in me An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my.

Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle, (It's Mister Secondary Bolles,[O] thet writ the prize peace essay; Thet's why he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay,) An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put _his_ foot in it, Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin it,-- Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em, Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em; How dreffle slick he reeled it off, (like Blitz at our lyceum Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em,) About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy To du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner, Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner, An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky,-- I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.