The World’s Wit and Humor: An Encyclopedia in 15 Volumes. 1906.
James Russell Lowell (18191891)A Letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow
T
On them kittle-drums o’ yourn,
’Tain’t a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
Thet is ketched with moldy 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 a-hold o’ me!
Hope it ain’t 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
S’posin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,
It would du ez slick ez grease.
They’re a dreffle graspin’ set,
We must ollers blow the bellers
Wen they want their irons het;
Maybe it’s all right ez preachin’,
But my narves it kind o’ grates,
Wen I see the overreachin’
O’ them nigger-drivin’ States.
Hain’t they cut a thunderin’ swath
(Helped by Yankee renegaders),
Thru the vartu o’ the North!
We begin to think it’s natur
To take sarse an’ not be riled—
Who’d expect to see a tater
All on eend at bein’ biled?
There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder
Than my Testament fer that;
God 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 God.
Make the thing a grain more right;
Tain’t a-follerin’ 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 ain’t to answer for it,
God’ll send the bill to you.
Every Sabbath, wet or dry,
Ef it’s right to go a-mowin’
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.
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.
Take sech everlastin’ pains,
All to git the Devil’s thankee
Helpin’ on ’em weld their chains?
Wy, it’s jest ez clear ez figures,
Clear ez one an’ one make two,
Chaps thet make black slaves o’ niggers
Want to make wite slaves o’ you.
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’ythin’ thet’s done inhuman
Injers all on ’em the same.
You’re agoin’ to git your rights,
Nor by lookin’ down on black folks
Coz you’re put upon by wite;
Slavery ain’t o’ nary color,
’Tain’t the hide thet makes it wus,
All it keers fer is a feller
’S jest to make him fill his pus.
I expect you’ll hev to wait;
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye
You’ll begin to kal’late;
S’pose 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?
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.
Like a cockerel three months old—
Don’t ketch any on ’em goin’,
Though they be so blasted bold;
Ain’t they a prime lot o’ fellers?
’Fore they think on’t they will sprout
(Like a peach that’s got the yellers),
With the meanness bustin’ out.
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 that call your people
Witewashed slaves an’ peddlin’ crew?
She’s a-kneelin’ with the rest,
She, thet ough’ to ha’ clung ferever
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!
Hain’t 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.
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—
Much ez we frail mortils can,
But I wun’t go help the Devil
Makin’ man the cuss o’ man;
Call me coward, call me traiter,
Jest ez suits your mean idees—
Here I stand a tyrant-hater,
An’ the friend o’ God an’ Peace!”
We should go to work an’ part—
They take one way, we take t’other—
Guess it wouldn’t break my heart;
Man hed ought to put asunder
Them thet God has noways jined;
An’ I shouldn’t gretly wonder
Ef there’s thousands o’ my mind.