gourd, a kin’ o’ whirlin’ ketched me,
  Ontil I fin’lly clean giv out an’ owned up thet he’d fetched me;
  An’ when nine-tenths the perrish took to tumblin’ roun’ an’ hollerin’,
  I did n’ fin’ no gret in th’ way o’ turnin’ tu an’ follerin’. 
  Soon ez Miss S. see thet, sez she, “Thet ‘s wut I call wuth seein’!
  Thet ‘s actin’ like a reas’nable an’ intellectle bein’!”
  An’ so we fin’lly made it up, concluded to hitch hosses,
  An’ here I be ’n my ellermunt among creation’s bosses;
  Arter I’d drawed sech heaps o’ blanks, Fortin at last hez sent a prize,
  An’ chose me for a shinin’ light o’ missionary enterprise.

  This leads me to another pint on which I’ve changed my plan
  O’ thinkin’ so ’s ’t I might become a straight-out Southun man. 
  Miss S. (her maiden name wuz Higgs, o’ the fus’ fem’ly here)
  On her Ma’s side ’s all Juggernot, on Pa’s all Cavileer,
  An’ sence I’ve merried into her an’ stept into her shoes,
  It ain’t more ’n nateral thet I should modderfy my views: 
  I’ve ben a-readin’ in Debow ontil I’ve fairly gut
  So ‘nlightened thet I’d full ez lives ha’ ben a Dook ez nut;
  An’ when we’ve laid ye all out stiff, an’ Jeff hez gut his crown,
  An’ comes to pick his nobles out, wun’t this child be in town! 
  We’ll hev an Age o’ Chivverlry surpassin’ Mister Burke’s,
  Where every fem’ly is fus’-best an’ nary white man works: 
  Our system’s sech, the thing’ll root ez easy ez a tater;
  For while your lords in furrin parts ain’t noways marked by natur’,
  Nor sot apart from ornery folks in featurs nor in figgers,
  Ef ourn’ll keep their faces washed, you’ll know ’em from their niggers. 
  Ain’t sech things wuth secedin’ for, an’ gittin’ red o’ you
  Thet waller in your low idees, an’ will till all is blue? 
  Fact is, we air a diff’rent race, an’ I, for one, don’t see,
  Sech havin’ ollers ben the case, how w’ ever did agree. 
  It’s sunthin’ thet you lab’rin’-folks up North hed ough’ to think on,
  Thet Higgses can’t bemean themselves to rulin’ by a Lincoln,—­
  Thet men, (an’ guv’nors, tu,) thet hez sech Normal names ez Pickens,
  Accustomed to no kin’ o’ work, ’thout ‘t is to givin’ lickins,
  Can’t masure votes with folks thet git their livins from their farms
  An’ prob’ly think thet Law ‘s ez good ez hevin’ coats o’ arms. 
  Sence I’ve ben here, I’ve hired a chap to look about for me
  To git me a transplantable an’ thrifty fem’ly-tree,
  An’ he tells me the Sawins is ez much o’ Normal blood
  Ez Pickens an’ the rest on ’em, an’ older ’n Noah’s flood. 
  Your Normal schools wun’t turn ye into Normals, for it’s clear,
  Ef eddykatin’ done the thing, they’d be some skurcer here. 
  Pickenses, Boggses, Pettuses, Magoffins, Letchers, Polks,—­
  Where can you scare up names like them among your mudsill folks?