They may talk o’ Freedom’s airy
  Tell they’re pupple in the face,—­
It’s a grand gret cemetary
  Fer the barthrights of our race; 60
They jest want this Californy
  So’s to lug new slave-states in
To abuse ye, an’ to scorn ye,
  An’ to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a Yankee
  Take sech everlastin’ pains,
All to get the Devil’s thankee
  Helpin’ on ’em weld their chains? 
Wy, it’s jest ez clear ez figgers,
  Clear ez one an’ one make two, 70
Chaps thet make black slaves o’ niggers
  Want to make wite slaves o’ you.

Tell ye jest the eend I’ve come to
  Arter cipherin’ plaguy smart,
An’ it makes a handy sum, tu. 
  Any gump could larn by heart;
Laborin’ man an’ laborin’ woman
  Hev one glory an’ one shame. 
Ev’y thin’ thet’s done inhuman
  Injers all on ’em the same. 80

‘Taint by turnln’ out to hack folks
  You’re agoin’ to git your right,
Nor by lookin’ down on black folks
  Coz you’re put upon by wite;
Slavery aint o’ nary color,
  ’Taint the hide thet makes it wus,
All it keers fer in a feller
  ’S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tackle me in, du ye? 
  I expect you’ll hev to wait; 90
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye
  You’ll begin to kal’late;
S’pose the crows wun’t fall to pickin’
  All the carkiss from your bones,
Coz you helped to give a lickin’
  To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an’ ask our Nancy
  Wether I’d be sech a goose
Ez to jine ye,—­guess you’d fancy
  The etarnal bung wuz loose! 100
She wants me fer home consumption,
  Let alone the hay’s to mow,—­
Ef you’re arter folks o’ gumption,
  You’ve a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet’s crowin’
  Like a cockerel three months old,—­
Don’t ketch any on ’em goin
  Though they be so blasted bold;
Aint they a prime lot o’ fellers? 
  ’Fore they think on ’t guess they’ll sprout 110
(Like a peach thet’s got the yellers),
  With the meanness bustin’ out.

Wal, go ’long to help ’em stealin’
  Bigger pens to cram with slaves,
Help the men thet’s ollers dealin’
  Insults on your fathers’ graves;
Help the strong to grind the feeble,
  Help the many agin the few,
Help the men thet call your people
  Witewashed slaves an’ peddlin’ crew! 120

Massachusetts, God forgive her,
  She’s akneelin’ with the rest,
She, thet ough’ to ha’ clung ferever
  In her grand old eagle-nest;
She thet ough’ to stand so fearless
  W’ile the wracks are round her hurled,
Holdin’ up a beacon peerless
  To the oppressed of all the world!

Ha’n’t they sold your colored seamen? 
  Ha’n’t they made your env’ys w’iz? 130
Wut’ll make ye act like freemen?
  Wut’ll git your dander riz? 
Come, I’ll tell ye wut I’m thinkin’
  Is our dooty in this fix. 
They’d ha’ done ‘t ez quick ez winkin’
  In the days o’ seventy-six.