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, a-havin' the Cornwallis ?*

This sort o' thing aint jest like thet,—I wish that I wuz furder,-†

Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder,

* i hait the Site of a feller with a muskit as I du pizn But their is fun to a cornwallis I aint agoin' to deny it.-H. B.

the means Not quite so fur i guess.-H. B.

(Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon

Cephas Billins,

An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten

shillins,)

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, a-ridin' to the gallus.

But wen 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' "Thet's furder an' you

can go."

sez,

"None o' your sarse,' 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;

* [Caleb Cushing, a distinguished Colonel of the United States army in Mexico, and at one period Minister to China.-J. C. H.]

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-pronged pitchfork

in me

An' made a hole right thru my close ez if 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;

Thet 's wy he did n'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;

* [Fanueil Hall, the famous old Town Hall of Boston.-J. C. H.] ✦ the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.-H. B.

[Robert Rantoul, a distinguished American orator.-J. C. H.]

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.
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.*

* it must be aloud that thare 's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is 1 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. Ef any thin 's foolisher and moor dicklus 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 Salt

river).

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 an'

"Wut air ye at ?”*

you a copse, 'fore you can say,

* these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Hero wick tha bekum.H. B.