think you ‘re goin’ to fail: 
  The rettlesnake ain’t dangerous in the tail;
  This ‘ere rebellion’s nothin’ but the rettle,—­
  You ‘ll stomp on thet an’ think you ’ve won the bettle;
  It’s Slavery thet’s the fangs an’ thinkin’ head,
  An’ ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,—­
  An’ crash it suddin, or you ‘ll larn by waitin’
  Thet Chance wun’t stop to listen to debatin’!”—­
  “God’s truth!” sez I,—­“an’ ef I held the club,
  An’ knowed jes’ where to strike,—­but there’s the rub!”—­
  “Strike soon,” sez he, “or you ’ll be deadly ailin’,—­
  Folks thet’s afeared to fail are sure o’ failin’;
  God hates your sneakin’ creturs thet believe
  He ‘II settle things they run away an’ leave!”
  He brought his foot down fercely, ez he spoke,
  An’ give me sech a startle thet I woke.