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 delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all,
The holl on't 's mud an' prickly 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,
You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To say I've seen a scarabæus pilularius† big ez a year old ele
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
My gracious! it's a scorpion thet 's took a shine to play with 't,
I dars n'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 beanst-an ourang outang nation,
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;
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 dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.— H. B.
* these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.-H. B.
† 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 would n't stan' it no how. idnow as tha wood and idnow as tha wood.— H. B.
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.
I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkie fashion all,
An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind ɔ' 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 is n'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 damn pleases;
Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can,
I know that "every man" don't mean a nigger 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, would n'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
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, damn ye, you shall
Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I hed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity,
I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other music fol
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,
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.
DEER SIR its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and i wut 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. tha 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 was best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance fur the cheef madgustracy.-H. B.
DEAR SIR-You wish to know my notions
On sartin pints thet rile the land;
There's nothin' thet my natur so shups
Ez 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 Constitution,
Ez preudunt statesmun say, who 've planne
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 could n'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
'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 Institution,
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.
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 kin' o''nint By gittin' you inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint.
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