But, wile I drinked the peaceful cup of a pure heart an' mind, (Mixed with some wiskey, now an' then,) Pomp he snaked up
An' creepin' grad'lly close tu, ez quiet ez a mink,
Jest grabbed my leg, and then pulled foot, quicker 'an you could
An' come to look, they each on 'em hed gut behin' a tree;
An' Pomp poked out the leg a piece, jest so ez I could see,
An' yelled to me to throw away my pistils an' my gun,
Or else thet they'd cair off the leg, an' fairly cut an' run.
I vow I didn't b'lieve there wuz a decent alligatur
Thet hed a heart so destitoot o' common human natur.
However, ez there worn't no help, I finally give in,
An' heft my arms away to git my leg safe back agin.
Pomp gathered all the weapins up, an' then he come an' grinned,
He showed his ivory some, I guess, an' sez, "You're fairly pinned;
Jest buckle on your leg agin, an' git right up an' come,
'Twun't du fer fammerly men like me to be so long from hum."
At fust I put my foot right down an' swore I wouldn't budge:
"Jest ez you choose," sez he, quite cool, "either be shot or
trudge."
So this black-hearted monster took an' act'lly druv me back
Along the very feetmarks o' my happy mornin' track,
An' kep' me pris'ner 'bout six months, an' worked me, tu, like sin,
Till I hed gut his corn an' his Carliny taters in.
He made me larn him readin', tu (although the crittur saw
How much it hut my morril sense to act agin the law)
So'st he could read a Bible he'd gut; an' axed ef I could pint
The North Star out; but there I put his nose some out o' jint,—
Fer I weeled roun' about sou'west, an' lookin' up a bit,
Picked out a middlin' shiny one, an' tole him thet wuz it.
Fin'lly, he took me to the door, an', givin' me a kick,
Sez, "Ef you know wut's best fer ye, be off, now, double-quick;
The winter-time's a comin' on, an', though I gut ye cheap,
You're so darned lazy I don't think you're hardly wuth your keep;
Besides, the childrin's growin' up, an' you aint jest the model
I'd like to hev 'em immertate, an' so you'd better toddle!"
Now is there anythin' on airth'll ever prove to me
Thet renegader slaves like him air fit fer bein' free?
D'you think they'll suck me in to jine the Buff'lo chaps, an' them
Rank infidels thet go agin the Scriptur'l cus o' Shem?
Not by a jugfull! Sooner'n thet, I'd go thru fire an' water;
Wen I hev once made up my mind, a meet'nhus aint sotter;
No, not though all the crows thet flies to pick my bones wuz
I guess we're in a Christian land,—
THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED.
I DU believe in Freedom's cause,
Ez fur away ez Payris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Phayrisees;
It's wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an' triggers,-
But libbaty's a kind o' thing
Thet don't agree with niggers.
I du believe the people want
A tax on teas an' coffees,
Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,—
Purvidin' I'm in office;
Fer 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, -an' keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses.
I du believe it's wise an' good
To sen' out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An' orthydox conditions ;
I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.,
Nine thousan' more fer outfit,
An me to recommend a man
The place 'ould jest about fit.
I du believe in special ways
O' prayin' an' convartin';
The bread comes back in many days,
An' buttered, tu, fer sartin
I mean in preyin' till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An' in convartin' public trusts
To very privit uses.
I du believe hard coin the stuff
Fer 'lectioneers to spout on;
The people's ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An' gives a good-sized junk to all,-
I don't care how hard money is
Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.
I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press's freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An' in the traces lead 'em.
Palsied the arm that forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin',
An' withered be the nose thet pokes
Inter the gov'ment printin'!
I du believe thet I should give
Wut's hisn unto Cæsar,
Fer it's by him I move an' live,
Frum him my bread an' cheese air;
I du believe that all o' me
Doth bear his superscription,Will, conscience, honour, honesty, An' things' o' thet description.
I du believe in prayer an' praise
To him that hez the grantin'
O' jobs,-in every thin' thet pays,
But most of all in cantin';
This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o' sin to rest,—
I don't believe in princerple,
But oh I du in interest.
I du believe in bein' this
Or thet, ez it may happen
One way or t'other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin'.
It aint by princerples nor men
My preudunt course is steadied;
I scent wich pays the best, an' then
Go into it baldheaded.
I du believe thet holdin' slaves
Comes nat'ral tu a Presidunt,
Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a wal-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I couldn't ax with no face,
Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet,
Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
'll keep the people in blindness, —
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness;
Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder'n' ball
Air good-will's strongest magnets;
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it's a thing thet
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd been,
In pasturs sweet heth led me,
An' this'll keep the people green
To feed ez they hev fed me.
SUNTHIN' IN THE PASTORAL LINE.
ONCE git a smell o' musk into a draw,
An' it clings hold like precerdents in law :
Your gran 'ma'am put it there, when, goodness knows, —
To jes' this-worldify her Sunday-clo'es;
But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife,
(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?)
An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread
O'the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,
Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides
To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides ;
But better days stick fast in heart an' husk,
An' all you keep in't gets a scent o' musk.
Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read
Gits kind o' worked into their heart an' head,
So's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers
With furrin countries or played-out ideers,
Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack
O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back :
This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things,
Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,-
(Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink
Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink)—
This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May,
Which 'tain't, for all the almanicks can say.
O little city-gals, don't never go it
Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet!
They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks
Up in the country ez it doos in books;
They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives,
Or printed sarmons be to holy lives.
I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots,
Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots,
Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse
Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's,
Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose,
An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes :
I've seen ye, an' felt proud thet, come wut would,
Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood.
Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch,
Ez though't wuz sunthin' paid for by the inch;
But yit we do contrive to worry thru,
Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du,
An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out,
Ez stiddily ez though 'twas a redoubt.
I, country-born an' bred, know where to find
Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind,
An' seem to metch the doubting bluebird's notes,—
Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats,
Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl,
Each on 'em's cradle to a baby-pearl,
But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin,
The rebel frosts'll try to drive 'em in ;
For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't
'Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint
Though I own up I like our back'ard springs
Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things,
An' when you 'most give up, without more words
Toss the field full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds:
Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt,
But when it doos get stirred, there's no gin-out!
Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees,
An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,-
Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned
Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind.
'Fore long the trees begin to show belief,--
The maple crimsons to a coral-reef,
Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willers
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars,
Then grey hosschesnuts leetle hands unfold
Softer'n a baby's be at three days old.
This is the robin's almanick; he knows
Thet arter this there's only blossom-snows;
So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse,
He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house.
Then seems to come a hitch,-things lag behind;
Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind.
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