Ez I wuz say’n’, I hain’t no chance to speak
So’s’t all the country dreads me onct a week, 30
But I’ve consid’ble o’ thet sort o’ head
Thet sets to home an’ thinks wut might be said,
The sense thet grows an’ werrits underneath,
Comin’ belated like your wisdom-teeth,
An’ git so el’kent, sometimes, to my gardin
Thet I don’ vally public life a fardin’. 
Our Parson Wilbur (blessin’s on his head!)
’mongst other stories of ole times he hed,
Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreads
Beforehan’ to his rows o’ kebbige-heads, 40
(Ef ’twarn’t Demossenes, I guess ’twuz Sisro,)
Appealin’ fust to thet an’ then to this row,
Accordin’ ez he thought thet his idees
Their diff’runt ev’riges o’ brains ’ould please;
‘An’,’ sez the Parson, ’to hit right, you must
Git used to maysurin’ your hearers fust;
For, take my word for ‘t, when all’s come an’ past,
The kebbige-heads’ll cair the day et last;
Th’ ain’t ben a meetin’ sence the worl’ begun
But they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one.’ 50

I’ve allus foun’ ’em, I allow, sence then
About ez good for talkin’ tu ez men;
They’ll take edvice, like other folks, to keep,
(To use it ‘ould be holdin’ on ’t tu cheap,)
They listen wal, don’ kick up when you scold ’em,
An’ ef they’ve tongues, hev sense enough to hold ’em;
Though th’ ain’t no denger we shall lose the breed,
I gin’lly keep a score or so for seed,
An’ when my sappiness gits spry in spring,
So’s’t my tongue itches to run on full swing, 60
I fin’ ’em ready-planted in March-meetin’,
Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their greetin’,
An’ pleased to hear my spoutin’ frum the fence,—­
Comin’, ez ’t doos, entirely free ’f expense. 
This year I made the follerin’ observations
Extrump’ry, like most other tri’ls o’ patience,
An’, no reporters bein’ sent express
To work their abstrac’s up into a mess
Ez like th’ oridg’nal ez a woodcut pictur’
Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor, 70
I’ve writ ’em out, an’ so avide all jeal’sies
‘twixt nonsense o’ my own an’ some one’s else’s.

(N.B.  Reporters gin’lly git a hint
To make dull orjunces seem ’live in print,
An’, ez I hev t’ report myself, I vum,
I’ll put th’ applauses where they’d ough’ to come!)

MY FELLER KEBBIGE-HEADS, who look so green,
I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreen
The world of all its hearers but jest you,
’twould leave ‘bout all tha’ is wuth talkin’ to, 80
An’ you, my ven’able ol’ frien’s, thet show
Upon your crowns a sprinklin’ o’ March snow,
Ez ef mild Time had christened every sense
For wisdom’s church o’ second innocence. 
Nut Age’s winter, no, no sech a thing,
But jest a kin’ o’ slippin’-back o’ spring,—­
                  [Sev’ril noses blowed.]
We’ve gathered here, ez ushle, to decide
Which is the Lord’s an’ which is Satan’s side,
Coz all the good or evil thet can heppen
Is ‘long o’ which on ’em you choose for Cappen.
                  [Cries o’ ‘Thet’s so.’]