You wonder why we’re hot, John? 
    Your mark wuz on the guns,
  The neutral guns, thet shot, John,
    Our brothers an’ our sons: 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    There’s human blood,” sez he,
  “By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts,
    Though ’t may surprise J.B. 
    More ‘n it would you an’ me.”

  Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,
    On your front parlor stairs,
  Would it just 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 ’n with 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.”

  We own the ocean, tu, John,
    You mus’n’ take it hard,
  Ef we can’t think with you, John,
    It’s jest your own back yard. 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he,
  “The fencin’ stuff’ll cost enough
    To bust up friend J.B. 
    Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

  Why talk so dreffle big, John,
    Of honor when it meant
  You didn’t care a fig, John,
    But jest for ten per cent? 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    He’s like the rest,” sez he,
  “When all is done, it’s number one
    Thet’s nearest to J.B.,
    Ez wal ez t’ you an’ me!”

  We give the critters back, John,
    Cos Abram thought ’twas right;
  It warn’t your bullyin’ clack, John,
    Provokin’ us to fight. 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    We’ve a hard row,” sez he,
  “To hoe just now; but thet, somehow,
    May happen to J.B.,
    Ez well ez you an’ me!”

  We ain’t so weak an’ poor, John,
    With twenty million people,
  An’ close to every door, John,
    A school house an’ a steeple. 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    It is a fact,” sez he,
  “The surest plan to make a Man
    Is, think him so, J.B.,
    Ez much ez you an’ me!”

  Our folks believe in Law, John;
    An’ it’s fer her sake, now,
  They’ve left the axe an’ saw, John,
    The anvil an’ the plow. 
  Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
    Ef ’t warn’t fer law,” sez he,
  “There’d be one shindy from here to Indy;
    An’ thet don’t suit J.B. 
    (When ’tain’t ‘twixt you an’ me!)”