THE BRIDGE

I b’lieve thet’s so; but hearken in your ear,—­ I’m older’n you,—­Peace wun’t keep house with Fear; Ef you want peace, the thing you’ve gut tu du Is jes’ to show you’re up to fightin’, tu. I recollect how sailors’ rights was won, 230 Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin’ gun; Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he Hed gut a kind o’ mortgage on the sea; You’d thought he held by Gran’ther Adam’s will, An’ ef you knuckle down, he’ll think so still.  Better thet all our ships an’ all their crews Should sink to rot in ocean’s dreamless ooze, Each torn flag wavin’ chellenge ez it went, An’ each dumb gun a brave man’s moniment, Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave:  240
Give me the peace of dead men or of brave!

THE MONIMENT

I say, ole boy, it ain’t the Glorious Fourth: 
You’d oughto larned ’fore this wut talk wuz worth. 
It ain’t our nose thet gits put out o’ jint;
It’s England thet gives up her dearest pint. 
We’ve gut, I tell ye now, enough to du
In our own fem’ly fight, afore we’re thru. 
I hoped, las’ spring, jest arter Sumter’s shame,
When every flag-staff flapped its tethered flame,
An’ all the people, startled from their doubt, 250
Come must’rin’ to the flag with sech a shout,—­
I hoped to see things settled ’fore this fall,
The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, an’ all;
Then come Bull Run, an’ sence then I’ve ben waitin’
Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin’,
Nothin’ to du but watch my shadder’s trace
Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun’ my base,
With daylight’s flood an’ ebb:  it’s gittin’ slow,
An’ I ’most think we’d better let ’em go. 
I tell ye wut, this war’s a-goin’ to cost—­ 260

THE BRIDGE

An’ I tell you it wun’t be money lost;
Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you’ll allow
Thet havin’ things onsettled kills the cow: 
We’ve gut to fix this thing for good an’ all;
It’s no use buildin’ wut’s a-goin’ to fall. 
I’m older’n you, an’ I’ve seen things an’ men,
An’ my experunce,—­tell ye wut it’s ben: 
Folks thet worked thorough was the ones thet thriv,
But bad work follers ye ez long’s ye live;
You can’t git red on ’t; jest ez sure ez sin, 270
It’s ollers askin’ to be done agin: 
Ef we should part, it wouldn’t be a week
’Fore your soft-soddered peace would spring aleak. 
We’ve turned our cuffs up, but, to put her thru,
We must git mad an’ off with jackets, tu;
‘Twun’t du to think thet killin’ ain’t perlite,—­
You’ve gut to be to airnest, ef you fight;
Why, two thirds o’ the Rebbles ’ould cut dirt,
Ef they once thought thet Guv’ment meant to hurt;
An’ I du wish our Gin’rals hed