Ther’ ‘s critters yit thet talk an’ act
  Fer wut they call Conciliation;
They’d hand a buff’lo-drove a tract
  When they wuz madder than all Bashan. 
Conciliate? it jest means be kicked,
  No metter how they phrase an’ tone it;
It means thet we’re to set down licked,
  Thet we’re poor shotes an’ glad to own it!

A war on tick’s ez dear ’z the deuce,
  But it wun’t leave no lastin’ traces, 50
Ez ‘twould to make a sneakin’ truce
  Without no moral specie-basis: 
Ef greenbacks ain’t nut jest the cheese,
  I guess ther’ ’s evils thet’s extremer,—­
Fer instance,—­shinplaster idees
  Like them put out by Gov’nor Seymour.

Last year, the Nation, at a word,
  When tremblin’ Freedom cried to shield her,
Flamed weldin’ into one keen sword
  Waitin’ an’ longin’ fer a wielder: 
A splendid flash!—­but how’d the grasp 61
  With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally? 
Ther’ warn’t no meanin’ in our clasp,—­
  Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally.

More men?  More man!  It’s there we fail;
  Weak plans grow weaker yit by lengthenin’: 
Wut use in addin’ to the tail,
  When it’s the head’s in need o’ strengthenin’? 
We wanted one thet felt all Chief
  From roots o’ hair to sole o’ stockin’, 70
Square-sot with thousan’-ton belief
  In him an’ us, ef earth went rockin’!

Ole Hick’ry wouldn’t ha’ stood see-saw
  ‘Bout doin’ things till they wuz done with,—­
He’d smashed the tables o’ the Law
  In time o’ need to load his gun with;
He couldn’t see but jest one side,—­
  Ef his, ‘twuz God’s, an’ thet wuz plenty;
An’ so his ‘Forrards!’ multiplied
  An army’s fightin’ weight by twenty. 80

But this ‘ere histin’, creak, creak, creak,
  Your cappen’s heart up with a derrick,
This tryin’ to coax a lightnin’-streak
  Out of a half-discouraged hayrick,
This hangin’ on mont’ arter mont’
  Fer one sharp purpose ’mongst the twitter,—­
I tell ye, it doos kind o’ stunt
  The peth and sperit of a critter.

In six months where’ll the People be,
  Ef leaders look on revolution 90
Ez though it wuz a cup o’ tea,—­
  Jest social el’ments in solution? 
This weighin’ things doos wal enough
  When war cools down, an’ comes to writin’;
But while it’s makin’, the true stuff
  Is pison-mad, pig-headed fightin’.

Democ’acy gives every man
  The right to be his own oppressor;
But a loose Gov’ment ain’t the plan,
  Helpless ez spilled beans on a dresser:  100
I tell ye one thing we might larn
  From them smart critters, the Seceders,—­
Ef bein’ right’s the fust consarn,
  The ’fore-the-fust’s cast-iron leaders.

But ’pears to me I see some signs
  Thet we’re a-goin’ to use our senses: 
Jeff druv us into these hard lines,
  An’ ough’ to bear his half th’ expenses;
Slavery’s Secession’s heart an’ will,
  South, North, East, West, where’er you find it, 110
An’ ef it drors into War’s mill,
  D’ye say them thunder-stones sha’n’t grind it?