popperlace
Wuz Spartans all on the keen jump for Thermopperlies,
Thet set on the Lincolnites’ bombs till they bust,
An’ fight for the priv’lege o’ dyin’ the fust;
But Roanoke, Bufort, Millspring, an’ the rest
Of our recent starn-foremost successes out West,
Hain’t left us a foot for our swellin’ to stand on,—­
We’ve showed too much o’ wut Buregard calls abandon,
For all our Thermopperlies (an’ it’s a marcy
We hain’t hed no more) hev ben clean vicy-varsy, 160
An’ wut Spartans wuz lef’ when the battle wuz done
Wuz them thet wuz too unambitious to run.

Oh, ef we hed on’y jes’ gut Reecognition,
Things now would ha’ ben in a different position! 
You’d ha’ hed all you wanted:  the paper blockade
Smashed up into toothpicks; unlimited trade
In the one thing thet’s needfle, till niggers, I swow,
Hed ben thicker’n provisional shin-plasters now;
Quinine by the ton ’ginst the shakes when they seize ye;
Nice paper to coin into C.S.A. specie; 170
The voice of the driver’d be heerd in our land,
An’ the univarse scringe, ef we lifted our hand: 
Wouldn’t thet be some like a fulfillin’ the prophecies,
With all the fus’ fem’lies in all the fust offices?
‘twuz a beautiful dream, an’ all sorrer is idle,—­
But ef Lincoln would ha’ hanged Mason an’ Slidell! 
For wouldn’t the Yankees hev found they’d ketched Tartars,
Ef they’d raised two sech critters as them into martyrs? 
Mason wuz F.F.V., though a cheap card to win on,
But t’other was jes’ New York trash to begin on; 180
They ain’t o’ no good in European pellices,
But think wut a help they’d ha’ ben on their gallowses! 
They’d ha’ felt they wuz truly fulfillin’ their mission,
An’ oh, how dog-cheap we’d ha’ gut Reecognition!

But somehow another, wutever we’ve tried,
Though the the’ry’s fust-rate, the facs wun’t coincide: 
Facs are contrary ‘z mules, an’ ez hard in the mouth,
An’ they allus hev showed a mean spite to the South. 
Sech bein’ the case, we hed best look about
For some kin’ o’ way to slip our necks out:  190
Le’s vote our las’ dollar, ef one can be found,
(An’, at any rate, votin’ it hez a good sound,)—­
Le’’s swear thet to arms all our people is flyin’,
(The critters can’t read, an’ wun’t know how we’re lyin’,)—­
Thet Toombs is advancin’ to sack Cincinnater,
With a rovin’ commission to pillage an’ slahter,—­
Thet we’ve throwed to the winds all regard for wut’s lawfle,
An’ gone in for sunthin’ promiscu’sly awfle. 
Ye see, hitherto, it’s our own knaves an’ fools
Thet we’ve used, (those for whetstones, an’ t’others ez tools,) 200
An’ now our las’ chance is in puttin’ to test
The same kin’ o’ cattle up North an’ out West,—­
Your Belmonts, Vallandighams, Woodses, an’ sech,