Ef I a song or two could make,
     Like rockets druv by their own burnin’,
  All leap an’ light, to leave a wake
     Men’s hearts an’ faces skyward turnin’!—­
  But, it strikes me, ’t ain’t jest the time
     Fer stringin’ words with settisfaction: 
  Wut’s wanted now’s the silent rhyme
     ‘Twixt upright Will an’ downright Action.

  Words, ef you keep ’em, pay their keep,
    But gabble’s the short cut to ruin;
  It’s gratis, (gals half-price,) but cheap
    At no rate, ef it henders doin’;
  Ther’ ‘s nothin’ wuss, ’less ’t is to set
    A martyr-prem’um upon jawrin’: 
  Teapots git dangerous, ef you shet
    Their lids down on ’em with Fort Warren.

  ’Bout long enough it’s ben discussed
    Who sot the magazine afire,
  An’ whether, ef Bob Wickliffe bust,
    ’T would scare us more or blow us higher,
  D’ ye s’pose the Gret Foreseer’s plan
    Wuz settled fer him in town-meetin’? 
  Or thet ther’ ‘d ben no Fall o’ Man,
    Ef Adam’d on’y bit a sweetin’?

  Oh, Jon’than, ef you want to be
    A rugged chap agin an’ hearty,
  Go fer wutever’ll hurt Jeff D.,
    Nut wut’ll boost up ary party. 
  Here’s hell broke loose, an’ we lay flat
    With half the univarse a-singein’,
  Till Sen’tor This an’ Gov’nor Thet
    Stop squabblin’ fer the garding-ingin’.

  It’s war we’re in, not politics;
    It’s systems wrastlin’ now, not parties;
  An’ victory in the eend’ll fix
    Where longest will an’ truest heart is. 
  An’ wut’s the Guv’ment folks about? 
    Tryin’ to hope ther’ ‘s nothin’ doin’,
  An’ look ez though they didn’t doubt
    Sunthin’ pertickler wuz a-brewin’.

  Ther’ ‘s critters yit thet talk an’ act
    Fer wut they call Conciliation;
  They’d hand a buff’lo-drove a tract
    When they wuz madder than all Bashan. 
  Conciliate? it jest means be kicked,
    No metter how they phrase an’ tone it;
  It means thet we’re to set down licked,
    Thet we’re poor shotes an’ glad to own it!

  A war on tick’s ez dear’z the deuce,
    But it wun’t leave no lastin’ traces,
  Ez’t would to make a sneakin’ truce
    Without no moral specie-basis: 
  Ef green-backs ain’t nut jest the cheese,
    I guess ther’ ’s evils thet’s extremer,—­
  Fer instance,—­shinplaster idees
    Like them put out by Gov’nor Seymour.

  Last year, the Nation, at a word,
    When tremblin’ Freedom cried to shield her,
  Flamed weldin’ into one keen sword
    Waitin’ an’ longin’ fer a wielder: 
  A splendid flash!—­an’ how’d the grasp
    With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally? 
  Ther’ warn’t no meanin’ in our clasp,—­
    Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally.