Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call ’em hisn now, cos the parson kind o’ slicked off sum o’ the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn’t want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on ’em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o’ didn’t hear him, for I never hearn o’ nobody o’ that name in this villadge, and I’ve lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer ’n I be.

If you print ’em I wish you’d jest let folks know who hosy’s father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it’s nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he’s a likely kind o’ lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

* * * * *

Thrash away, you’ll hev to rattle
  On them kittle-drums o’ yourn,—­
‘Taint a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
  Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
  Let folks see how spry you be,—­
Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller
  ‘Fore you git ahold o’ me!

Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten,
  Hope it aint your Sunday’s best;—­ 10
Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton
  To stuff out a soger’s chest: 
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer’t,
  Ef you must wear humps like these,
S’posin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,
  It would du ez slick ez grease.

’Twouldn’t suit them Southun fellers,
  They’re a dreffle graspin’ set,
We must ollers blow the bellers
  Wen they want their irons het; 20
May be it’s all right ez preachin’,
  But my narves it kind o’ grates,
Wen I see the overreachin’
  O’ them nigger-drivin’ States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,
  Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth
(Helped by Yankee renegaders),
  Thru the vartu o’ the North! 
We begin to think it’s nater
  To take sarse an’ not be riled;—­ 30
Who’d expect to see a tater
  All on eend at bein’ biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,—­
  There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder
  Than my Testyment fer that;
God hez sed so plump an’ fairly,
  It’s ez long ez it is broad,
An’ you’ve gut to git up airly
  Ef you want to take in God. 40

‘Taint your eppyletts an’ feathers
  Make the thing a grain more right;
‘Taint afollerin’ your bell-wethers
  Will excuse ye in His sight;
Ef you take a sword an’ dror it,
  An’ go stick a feller thru,
Guv’ment aint to answer for it,
  God’ll send the bill to you.

Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’
  Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 50
Ef it’s right to go amowin’
  Feller-men like oats an’ rye? 
I dunno but wut it’s pooty
  Trainin’ round in bobtail coats,—­
But it’s curus Christian dooty
  This ‘ere cuttin’ folks’s throats.