The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 106

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 callate 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 PONGSHONG 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, says 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.

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, ahavin' the Cornwallis?

[Footnote: i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I do plze But their is fun to a Cornwallis I ain't agoin to deny it.--H.B.]This sort o' thing aint JEST like thet--I wish thet I wuz furder- [Footnote: he means Not quite so fur i guess.--H.B.]Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some for 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 when it comes to BEIN' killed--I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time 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 to 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 everlatin' 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,* thet writ the prize peace essay, *[Footnote: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.--H. B.]

Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay), An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but dont' 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 do 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.

I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage; I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin, An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin'

Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison) An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.

[Footnote: It must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater in lovin'

sho, but it sartinly is of the curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin'

himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. E fany thin's foolisher and moor d.i.c.klus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.--H. B]

This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver (Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver).

The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater; The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin'

Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'.

He talked about delis.h.i.+s froots, but then it wuz a wopper all, The holl on't 's mud an' p.r.i.c.kly pears, with here an' there a chapparal; You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat Is round your throat en' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut air ye at?"

[Footnote: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bek.u.m.--H. B.]

You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To say I've seen a SCARABAEUS PILULARIUS big ez a year old elephant), [Footnote: It wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how. Idnow as tha WOOOD and idnow as tha wood.--H. B.]

The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright--'t wuz jest a common CIMEX LECTULARIUS.

One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin, I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin, HIS bellowses is sound enough--ez I'm a livin' creeter, I felt a thing go thru my leg--'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter!

Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito-- (Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' GO my toe!

My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a s.h.i.+ne to play with 't, I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't).

Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion Thet Mexicans worn't human beans*--an ourang outang nation, *[Footnote: he means human beins, that's wut he means. I spose he kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes from.--H. B.]

A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter, No more'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter; I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkle fas.h.i.+on all, An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national But when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby, Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions, Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions, "Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!

It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon.

The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' ter; Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, which Caleb sez aint proper; He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly), Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An thet it's all to make 'em free that we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces, An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he d.a.m.n pleases; Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, I know that "every man" don't mean a n.i.g.g.e.r or a Mexican; An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs, Thet stick an Anglo-saxon mask onto State-prison feeturs, Should come to Jaalam Center fer to argify an' spout on't, The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on't

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter; O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin!

I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Baystate Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye?

Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;"

But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it!

An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, d.a.m.n ye, you shall ketch it!"

Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I bed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em link.u.m vity, I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other [illeg] follerin'-- But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em's a-hollerin', These Anglosaxon ossifers--wal, taint no use ajawin', I'm safe enlisted fer the war, Yourn, BIRDOFREEDOM SAWIN

A LETTER

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S.

H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD.

JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL

Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and I wus chose at a public Meetin in Jalaam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. I writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. the air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 which I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a c.o.c.ked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance furthe cheef madgutracy.--H. B.

Dear Sir--You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns Es bein' mum or underhand; I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur Thet blurts right out wut's in his head, An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led.

So, to begin at the beginnin'; An' come directly to the pint, I think the country's underpinnin'

Is some consid'ble out o' jint; I aint agoin' to try your patience By tellin' who done this or thet, I don't make no insinooations, I jest let on I smell a rat.

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, But, ef the public think I'm wrong I wunt deny but wut I be so-- An', fact, it don't smell very strong; My mind's tu fair to lose its balance An' say wich party hez most sense; There may be folks o'greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence.

I'm an eclectic: ez to choosin'

'Twixt this an'thet, I'm plaguy lawth; I leave a side thet looks like losin', But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; I stan' upon the Const.i.tution, Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to ware they'll stand.

Ez fer the war, I go agin it-- I mean to say I kind o' du-- Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart-- But civlyzation doos git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart.

About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain o' doubt, Nor I aint one my sense to scatter So's no one couldn't pick it out; My love fer North an' South is equil, So I'll just answer plump an' frank, No matter wut may be the sequil-- Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin' o' questions, I 'am an off ox at bein' druv, Though I aint one thet ary test shuns I'll give our folks a helpin' shove; Kind o' promiscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the ground I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round.

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudent farmers don't turn out-- Ez long'z the people git their rattle, Wut is there fer'm to grout about?

Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion In MY idees consarnin' them-- _I_ think they air an Inst.i.tution, A sort of--yes, jest so--ahem: Do _I_ own any? Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge; All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

Ez to my principles, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, I'm jest a candidate, in short; Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler, But, ef the Public cares a fig To hev me an' thin' in particler.

Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig.

P. S.

Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin'

I'll mention in YOUR privit ear; Ef you git ME inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kio' o' 'nint By gitt'n' YOU inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin'

At bein' scrouged from off the roost, I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin'

An' give our side a harnsome boost-- Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth; This gives you a safe pint to rest on, An' leaves me frontin' South by North.

THE CANDIDATE'S CREED.

(BIGLOW PAPERS.) JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,-- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with n.i.g.g.e.rs.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,-- Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in ANY plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote--and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses.