proves the wuth o’ proper fem’ly pride,
  Fer sech mean shucks ez creditors are all on Lincoln’s side);
  Ef I hev scrip thet wun’t go off no more ’n a Belgin rifle,
  An’ read thet it’s at par on ’Change, it makes me feel deli’fle;
  It’s cheerin’, tu, where every man mus’ fortify his bed,
  To hear thet Freedom’s the one thing our darkies mos’ly dread,
  An’ thet experunce, time ‘n’ agin, to Dixie’s Land hez shown
  Ther’ ‘s nothin’ like a powder-cask f’r a stiddy corner-stone;
  Ain’t it ez good ez nuts, when salt is sellin’ by the ounce
  For its own weight in Treash’ry-bons, (ef bought in small amounts,)
  When even whiskey’s gittin’ skurce, an’ sugar can’t be found,
  To know thet all the ellerments o’ luxury abound? 
  An’ don’t it glorify sal’-pork, to come to understand
  It’s wut the Richmon’ editors call fatness o’ the land? 
  Nex’ thing to knowin’ you’re well off is nut to know when y’ ain’t;
  An’ ef Jeff says all’s goin’ wal, who’ll ventur’ t’ say it ain’t?

  This cairn the Constitooshun roun’ ez Jeff doos in his hat
  Is hendier a dreffle sight, an’ comes more kin’ o’ pat. 
  I tell ye wut, my jedgment is you’re pooty sure to fail,
  Ez long ‘z the head keeps turnin’ back for counsel to the tail: 
  Th’ advantiges of our consarn for bein’ prompt air gret,
  While, ‘long o’ Congress, you can’t strike, ’f you git an iron het;
  They bother roun’ with argooin’, an’ var’ous sorts o’ foolin’,
  To make sure ef it’s leg’lly het, an’ all the while it’s coolin’,
  So ’s ’t when you come to strike, it ain’t no gret to wish ye j’y on,
  An’ hurts the hammer ’z much or more ez wut it doos the iron. 
  Jeff don’t allow no jawin’-sprees for three months at a stretch,
  Knowin’ the ears long speeches suits air mostly made to metch;
  He jes’ ropes in your tonguey chaps an’ reg’lar ten-inch bores
  An’ lets ’em play at Congress, ef they’ll du it with closed doors;
  So they ain’t no more bothersome than ef we’d took an’ sunk ’em,
  An’ yit enj’y th’ exclusive right to one another’s Buncombe
  ‘Thout doin’ nobody no hurt, an’ ‘thout its costin’ nothin’,
  Their pay bein’ jes’ Confedrit funds, they findin’ keep an’ clothin’;
  They taste the sweets o’ public life, an’ plan their little jobs,
  An’ suck the Treash’ry, (no gret harm, for it’s ez dry ez cobs,)
  An’ go thru all the motions jest ez safe ez in a prison,
  An’ hev their business to themselves, while Buregard hez hisn: 
  Ez long ’z he gives the Hessians fits, committees can’t make bother
  ’Bout whether ’t’s done the legle way or whether ’t’s done the t’other. 
  An’ I tell you you’ve gut to larn thet War ain’t one long teeter
  Betwixt I wan’ to an’ ’T wun’t du, debatin’ like a skeetur
  Afore he lights,—­all is, to give the other side a millin’,
  An’ arter thet’s done, th’