I spose you wonder ware I be; I can’t tell, fer the soul o’ me,
Exacly ware I be myself,—­meanin’ by thet the holl o’ me. 
Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an’ they worn’t bad ones neither,
(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin’ on me hither,)
Now one on ’em’s I dunno ware;—­they thought I wuz adyin’,
An’ sawed it off because they said ‘twuz kin’ o’ mortifyin’;
I’m willin’ to believe it wuz, an’ yit I don’t see, nuther,
Wy one shoud take to feelin’ cheap a minnit sooner ’n t’other,
Sence both wuz equilly to blame; but things is ez they be;
It took on so they took it off, an’ thet’s enough fer me:  10
There’s one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one,—­
The liquor can’t git into it ez ’t used to in the true one;
So it saves drink; an’ then, besides, a feller couldn’t beg
A gretter blessin’ then to hev one ollers sober peg;
It’s true a chap’s in want o’ two fer follerin’ a drum,
But all the march I’m up to now is jest to Kingdom Come.

I’ve lost one eye, but thet’s a loss it’s easy to supply
Out o’ the glory thet I’ve gut, fer thet is all my eye;
An’ one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin’ it,
To see all I shall ever git by way o’ pay fer losin’ it; 20
Off’cers I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an’ kickins,
Du wal by keepin’ single eyes arter the fattest pickins;
So, ez the eye’s put fairly out, I’ll larn to go without it,
An’ not allow myself to be no gret put out about it. 
Now, le’ me see, thet isn’t all; I used, ‘fore leavin’ Jaalam,
To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin’ seems to ail ’em: 
Ware’s my left hand?  Oh, darn it, yes, I recollect wut’s come on ’t;
I haint no left arm but my right, an’ thet’s gut jest a thumb on ’t;
It aint so bendy ez it wuz to cal’late a sum on ’t. 
I’ve hed some ribs broke,—­six (I b’lieve),—­I haint kep’ no account on
  ’em; 30
Wen pensions git to be the talk, I’ll settle the amount on ’em. 
An’ now I’m speakin’ about ribs, it kin’ o’ brings to mind
One thet I couldn’t never break,—­the one I lef’ behind;
Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o’ your invention
An’ pour the longest sweetnin’ in about an annooal pension,
An’ kin’ o’ hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to be
Consoled) I aint so ’xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be;
There’s one arm less, ditto one eye, an’ then the leg thet’s wooden
Can be took off an’ sot away wenever ther’s a puddin’.

I spose you think I’m comin’ back ez opperlunt ez thunder, 40
With shiploads o’ gold images an’ varus sorts o’ plunder;
Wal, ‘fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o’
Canaan, a reg’lar Promised Land flowin’ with rum an’ water,
Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation,
An’ gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation,
Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin’,