Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
His love of right," sez he,
"Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton;
There's natur' in J.B.,
Ez well ez you an' me!"
The South says, "_Poor folks down_!" John,
An' "_All men up_!" say we,--
White, yaller, black, an' brown, John;
Now which is your idee?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
John preaches wal," sez he;
"But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_,
Why there's the old J.B.
A-crowdin' you an' me!"
Shall it be love or hate, John?
It's you thet's to decide;
Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John,
Like all the world's beside?
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
Wise men fergive," sez he,
"But not ferget; an' some time yet
Thet truth may strike J.B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"
God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an' understand, John,
The _wuth_ o' bein' free.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess
God's price is high," sez he;
"But nothin' else than wut he sells
Wears long, an' thet J.B.
May larn, like you an' me!"
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
* * * * *
ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.
"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost,--only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.
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