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 only manhood ever makes a man,
  An’ whose free latch-string never was drawed in
  Aginst the poorest child o’ 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 began 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’ said ’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

JONATHAN TO JOHN.

  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!”

  Blood ain’t so cool as ink, John: 
   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’
      Hed b’longed to ole J.B.,
      Instid o’ you an’ me!”

  Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,
   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 Vattel on his toes fell,
      ‘T would kind o’ rile J.B.,
      Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

  Who made the law thet hurts, John,
   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!”

  When your rights was our wrongs, John,
   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!”