Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.
From Mason and Slidell: A Yankee IdyllJames Russell Lowell (1819–1891)
*****
I’m older’n you,—Peace wun’t keep house with Fear:
Ef you want peace, the thing you’ve gut to du
Is jes’ to show you’re up to fightin’, tu.
I recollect how sailors’ rights was won
Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin’ gun:
Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he
Hed gut a kind o’ mortgage on the sea;
You’d thought he held by Gran’ther Adam’s will,
An’ ef you knuckle down, he’ll think so still.
Better thet all our ships an’ all their crews
Should sink to rot in ocean’s dreamless ooze,
Each torn flag wavin’ chellenge ez it went,
An’ each dumb gun a brave man’s moniment,
Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave:
Give me the peace of dead men or of brave!
I say, ole boy, it ain’t the Glorious Fourth:
You’d oughto larned ’fore this wut talk wuz worth.
It ain’t our nose thet gits put out o’ jint;
It’s England thet gives up her dearest pint.
We’ve gut, I tell ye now, enough to du
In our own fem’ly fight, afore we’re thru.
I hoped, las’ spring, jest arter Sumter’s shame,
When every flagstaff flapped its tethered flame,
An’ all the people, startled from their doubt,
Come must’rin’ to the flag with sech a shout,—
I hoped to see things settled ’fore this fall,
The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an’ all;
Then come Bull Run, an’ sence then I’ve ben waitin’
Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin’,
Nothin’ to du but watch my shadder’s trace
Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun’ my base,
With daylight’s flood an’ ebb: it’s gitting slow,
An’ I ’most think we’d better let ’em go.
I tell ye wut, this war’s agoin to cost—
An’ I tell you it wun’t be money lost;
We wun’t give up afore the ship goes down:
It’s a stiff gale, but Providence wun’t drown;
An’ God wun’t leave us yit to sink or swim,
Ef we don’t fail to du wut’s right by him.
This land o’ ourn, I tell ye, ’s gut to be
A better country than man ever see.
I feel my sperit swellin’ with a cry
Thet seems to say, “Break forth an’ prophesy!”
O strange New World, thet yit wast never young,
Whose youth from thee by gripin’ need was wrung.
Brown foundlin’ o’ the woods, whose baby-bed
Was prowled roun’ by the Injuns’ cracklin’ tread,
An’ who grew’st strong thru shifts an’ wants an’ pains,
Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains,
Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain
With each hard hand a vassal ocean’s mane,
Thou, skilled by Freedom an’ by gret events
To pitch new States ez Old-World men pitch tents,
Thou, taught by Fate to know Jehovah’s plan,
Thet man’s devices can’t unmake a man,
An’ whose free latch-string never was drawed in
Against the poorest child of Adam’s kin,—
The grave’s not dug where traitor hands shall lay
In fearful haste thy murdered corse away!
I see—
Jest here some dogs begun to bark,
So thet I lost old Concord’s last remark:
I listened long; but all I seemed to hear
Was dead leaves goss’pin’ on some birch-trees near;
But ez they hedn’t no gret things to say,
An’ sed ’em often, I come right away,
An’, walkin’ home’ards, jest to pass the time,
I put some thoughts thet bothered me in rhyme:
I hain’t hed time to fairly try ’em on,
But here they be—it’s—
It don’t seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John,
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
We know it now,” sez he,
“The lion’s paw is all the law,
Accordin’ to J. B.,
Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”
It’s likely you’d ha’ wrote,
An’ stopped a spell to think, John,
Arter they’d cut your throat?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
He’d skurce ha’ stopped,” sez he,
“To mind his p’s an’ q’s ef thet weasan’
He’d b’longed to old J. B.,
Instid o’ you an’ me!”
On your front-parlor stairs,
Would it jest meet your views, John,
To wait an’ sue their heirs?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
I on’y guess,” sez he,
“Thet, ef Vattell on his toes fell,
’Twould kind o’ rile J. B.,
Ez wal ez you and me!”
Heads I win—ditto, tails?
“J. B.” was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
(I’m good at thet,”) sez he,
“Thet sauce for goose ain’t jest the juice
For ganders with J. B.,
No more than you or me!”
You didn’t stop for fuss,—
Britanny’s trident-prongs, John,
Was good ’nough law for us.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
Though physic’s good,” sez he,
“It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller
Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’
Put up by you an’ me!”
You mus’n’ take it hard,
Ef we can’t think with you, John,
It’s jest your own back-yard.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he,
“The fencin’-stuff’ll cost enough
To bust up friend J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
Of honor, when it meant
You didn’t care a fig, John,
But jest for ten per cent?
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
He’s like the rest,” sez he:
“When all is done, it’s number one
Thet’s nearest to J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
Coz Abra’m thought ’twas right;
It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John,
Provokin’ us to fight.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
We’ve a hard row,” sez he,
“To hoe just now: but thet, somehow,
May happen to J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
With twenty million people,
An’ close to every door, John,
A school-house an’ a steeple.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
It is a fact,” sez he,
“The surest plan to make a Man
Is, Think him so, J. B.,
Ez much ez you or me!”
An’ it’s for her sake, now,
They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John,
The anvil an’ the plough.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
Ef’t warn’t for law,” sez he,
“There’d be one shindy from here to Indy;
An’ thet don’t suit J. B.,
(When ’tain’t ’twixt you an’ me!”)
Thet’s honest, just, an’ true;
We thought ’twould win applause, John,
Ef nowheres else, from you.
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 wal ez you an’ me!”
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 ole J. B.
A-crowdin’ you an’ me!”
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 forgive,” sez he,
“But not forget; an’ sometime yet
The truth may strike J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
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!”