| |
| THRASH away, you’ll hev to rattle | |
| On them kittle-drums o’ yourn,— | |
| ’Tain’t a knowin’ kind o’ cattle | |
| Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; | |
| Put in stiff, you fifer feller, | 5 |
| Let folks see how spry you be,— | |
| Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller | |
| ’Fore you git ahold o’ me!… | |
| |
| Ez fer war, I call it murder,— | |
| There you hev it plain an’ flat; | 10 |
| I don’t want to go no furder | |
| Than my Testyment fer that; | |
| God hez sed so plump an’ fairly, | |
| It’s ez long ez it is broad, | |
| An’ you’ve got to git up airly | 15 |
| Ef you want to take in God. | |
| |
| ’Tain’t your eppyletts an’ feathers | |
| Make the thing a grain more right; | |
| ’Tain’t afollerin’ your bell-wethers | |
| Will excuse ye in His sight; | 20 |
| Ef you take a sword an’ dror it, | |
| An’ go stick a feller thru, | |
| Guv’mint ain’t to answer for it, | |
| God’ll send the bill to you. | |
| |
| Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’ | 25 |
| Every Sabbath, wet or dry, | |
| Ef it’s right to go amowin’ | |
| Feller-men like oats an’ rye? | |
| I dunno but wut it’s pooty | |
| Trainin’ round in bobtail coats,— | 30 |
| But it’s curus Christian dooty | |
| This ’ere cuttin’ folks’s throats.… | |
| |
| Tell ye jest the eend I’ve come to | |
| Arter cipherin’ plaguey smart, | |
| An’ it makes a handy sum, tu, | 35 |
| Any gump could larn by heart; | |
| Laborin’ man an’ laborin’ woman | |
| Hev one glory an’ one shame. | |
| Ev’y thin’ thet’s done inhuman | |
| Injers all on ’em the same. | 40 |
| |
| ’Tain’t by turnin’ out to hack folks | |
| You’re agoin’ to git your right, | |
| Nor by lookin’ down on black folks | |
| Coz you’re put upon by white; | |
| Slavery ain’t o’ nary color, | 45 |
| ’Tain’t the hide thet makes it wus, | |
| All it keers fer in a feller | |
| ’S jest to make him fill its pus. | |
| |
