Wut’s words to them whose faith an’ truth
  On War’s red techstone rang true metal, 130
Who ventered life an’ love an’ youth
  For the gret prize o’ death in battle? 
To him who, deadly hurt, agen
  Flashed on afore the charge’s thunder,
Tippin’ with fire the bolt of men
  Thet rived the Rebel line asunder?

’Tain’t right to hev the young go fust,
  All throbbin’ full o’ gifts an’ graces,
Leavin’ life’s paupers dry ez dust
  To try an’ make b’lieve fill their places:  140
Nothin’ but tells us wut we miss,
  Ther’ ’s gaps our lives can’t never fay in,
An’ thet world seems so fur from this
  Lef’ for us loafers to grow gray in!

My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth
  Will take to twitchin’ roun’ the corners;
I pity mothers, tu, down South,
  For all they sot among the scorners: 
I’d sooner take my chance to stan’
  At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, 150
Than at God’s bar hol’ up a han’
  Ez drippin’ red ez yourn, Jeff Davis!

Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed
  For honor lost an’ dear ones wasted,
But proud, to meet a people proud,
  With eyes thet tell o’ triumph tasted! 
Come, with han’ grippin’ on the hilt,
  An’ step thet proves ye Victory’s daughter! 
Longin’ for you, our sperits wilt
  Like shipwrecked men’s on raf’s for water. 160

Come, while our country feels the lift
 Of a gret instinct shoutin’ ‘Forwards!’
An’ knows thet freedom ain’t a gift
 Thet tarries long in han’s o’ cowards! 
Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when
 They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered,
An’ bring fair wages for brave men,
 A nation saved, a race delivered!

No.  XI

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW’S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY

JAALAM, April 5, 1866.

MY DEAR SIR,—­

(an’ noticin’ by your kiver thet you’re some dearer than wut you wuz, I enclose the deffrence) I dunno ez I know Jest how to interdoose this las’ perduction of my mews, ez Parson Wilber allus called ’em, which is goin’ to be the last an’ stay the last onless sunthin’ pertikler sh’d interfear which I don’t expec’ ner I wun’t yield tu ef it wuz ez pressin’ ez a deppity Shiriff.  Sence Mr. Wilbur’s disease I hevn’t hed no one thet could dror out my talons.  He ust to kind o’ wine me up an’ set the penderlum agoin’ an’ then somehow I seemed to go on tick as it wear tell I run down, but the noo minister ain’t of the same brewin’ nor I can’t seem to git ahold of no kine of huming nater in him but sort of slide rite off as you du on the eedge of a mow.  Minnysteeril natur is wal enough an’ a site better’n most other kines I know on, but the