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My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can't never choose him, o'course,-thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:

He's ben on all sides that give places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-
He's ben true to one party-an' thet is himself;
So John P.
Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. goes in fer the war;

He don't vally principle more'n an old cud;
What did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.
Robinson he

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' President Polk, you know, he is our country;
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;
An' John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies,
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies

Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum.
But John P.

Robinson he

Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life

Thet th' Apostles rigg'd out in their swaller-tail coats, An' march'd round in front of a drum an' a fife,

To git some on 'em office, and some on 'em votes;
But John P.
Robinson he

Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow.
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,
To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;
Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

THE COURTIN'.

GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still
Fur'z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,

All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown
An' peek'd in thru' the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace fill'd the room's one side
With half a cord o' wood in-
There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.

N

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetch'd back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,
Seem'd warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she look'd full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.

"Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,
A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd spark'd it with full twenty gals,

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,— All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curl'd maple,
The side she bresh'd felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She know'd the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she look'd some!
She seem'd to've gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heer'd a foot, an' know'd it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,-
All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'iter'd on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wish'd him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?

66 Wal

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no I come dasignin"" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals act so or so,

Or don't, 'ould be presumin';
Mebby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one fut fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he "I'd better call agin;

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Says she" Think likely, Mister! That last word prick'd him like a pin, Wal, he up an' kist her.

An' .

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetch'd back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,
Seem'd warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she look'd full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.
'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,
A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd spark'd it with full twenty gals,

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curl'd maple,
The side she bresh'd felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She know'd the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet

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