How in all Natur’ did you come to know
‘bout our affairs,’ sez I, ’in Kingdom-Come?’—­
‘Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin’ some, 240
An’ danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
In hopes o’ larnin’ wut wuz goin’ on,’
Sez he, ’but mejums lie so like all-split
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. 
But, come now, ef you wun’t confess to knowin’,
You’ve some conjectures how the thing’s a-goin’.’—­
‘Gran’ther,’ sez I, ’a vane warn’t never known
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;
An’ yit, ef ’tain’t gut rusty in the jints. 
It’s safe to trust its say on certin pints:  250
It knows the wind’s opinions to a T,
An’ the wind settles wut the weather’ll be.’ 
’I never thought a scion of our stock
Could grow the wood to make a weather-cock;
When I wuz younger ’n you, skurce more ’n a shaver,
No airthly wind,’ sez he, ‘could make me waver!’
(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an’ forehead,
Hitchin’ his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)—­
‘Jes so it wuz with me,’ sez I, ’I swow. 
When I wuz younger ’n wut you see me now,—­ 260
Nothin’ from Adam’s fall to Huldy’s bonnet,
Thet I warn’t full-cocked with my jedgment on it;
But now I’m gittin’ on in life, I find
It’s a sight harder to make up my mind,—­
Nor I don’t often try tu, when events
Will du it for me free of all expense. 
The moral question’s ollus plain enough,—­
It’s jes’ the human-natur’ side thet’s tough;
’Wut’s best to think mayn’t puzzle me nor you,—­
The pinch comes in decidin’ wut to du; 270
Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain’t nothin’ more ’n idees,—­
But come to make it, ez we must to-day,
Th’ idees hev arms an’ legs an’ stop the way;
It’s easy fixin’ things in facts an’ figgers,—­
They can’t resist, nor warn’t brought up with niggers;
But come to try your the’ry on,—­why, then
Your facts and figgers change to ign’ant men
Actin’ ez ugly—­’—­’Smite ’em hip an’ thigh!’
Sez gran’ther, ’and let every man-child die! 280
Oh for three weeks o’ Crommle an’ the Lord! 
Up, Isr’el, to your tents an’ grind the sword!’—­
‘Thet kind o’ thing worked wal in ole Judee,
But you forgit how long it’s ben A.D.;
You think thet’s ellerkence,—­I call it shoddy,
A thing,’ sez I, ’wun’t cover soul nor body;
I like the plain all-wool o’ common-sense,
Thet warms ye now, an’ will a twelvemonth hence,
You took to follerin’ where the Prophets beckoned,
An’, fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
Now wut I want’s to hev all we gain stick, 291
An’ not to start Millennium too quick;
We hain’t to punish only, but to keep,
An’ the cure’s gut to go a cent’ry deep.’ 
‘Wall, milk-an’-water ain’t the best o’ glue,’
Sez he, ‘an’ so you’ll find afore you’re thru;
Ef reshness venters sunthin’, shilly-shally