Aprul’s come back; the swellin’ buds of oak 91
Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke;
The brooks are loose an’, singing to be seen,
(Like gals,) make all the hollers soft an’ green;
The birds are here, for all the season’s late;
They take the sun’s height an’ don’ never wait;
Soon ’z he officially declares it’s spring
Their light hearts lift ’em on a north’ard wing,
An’ th’ ain’t an acre, fur ez you can hear,
Can’t by the music tell the time o’ year; 100
But thet white dove Carliny seared away,
Five year ago, jes’ sech an Aprul day;
Peace, that we hoped ‘ould come an’ build last year
An’ coo by every housedoor, isn’t here,—­
No, nor wun’t never be, for all our jaw,
Till we’re ez brave in pol’tics ez in war! 
O Lord, ef folks wuz made so’s’t they could see
The begnet-pint there is to an idee! [Sensation.]
Ten times the danger in ’em th’ is in steel;
They run your soul thru an’ you never feel, 110
But crawl about an’ seem to think you’re livin’,
Poor shells o’ men, nut wuth the Lord’s forgivin’,
Tell you come bunt ag’in a real live feet,
An’ go to pieces when you’d ough’ to ect! 
Thet kin’ o’ begnet’s wut we’re crossin’ now,
An’ no man, fit to nevvigate a scow,
‘ould stan’ expectin’ help from Kingdom Come,
While t’other side druv their cold iron home.

My frien’s, you never gethered from my mouth,
No, nut one word ag’in the South ez South, 120
Nor th’ ain’t a livin’ man, white, brown, nor black,
Gladder ’n wut I should be to take ’em back;
But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust
To write up on his door, ‘No goods on trust’;
                  [Cries o’ ‘Thet’s the ticket!’]
Give us cash down in ekle laws for all,
An’ they’ll be snug inside afore nex’ fall. 
Give wut they ask, an’ we shell hev Jamaker,
Wuth minus some consid’able an acre;
Give wut they need, an’ we shell git ’fore long
A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong; 130
Make ’em Amerikin, an’ they’ll begin
To love their country ez they loved their sin;
Let ’em stay Southun, an’ you’ve kep’ a sore
Ready to fester ez it done afore. 
No mortle man can boast of perfic’ vision,
But the one moleblin’ thing is Indecision,
An’ th’ ain’t no futur’ for the man nor state
Thet out of j-u-s-t can’t spell great. 
Some folks ’ould call thet reddikle, do you? 
’Twas commonsense afore the war wuz thru; 140
Thet loaded all our guns an’ made ’em speak
So’s’t Europe heared ’em clearn acrost the creek;
‘They’re drivin’ o’ their spiles down now,’ sez she,
‘To the hard grennit o’ God’s fust idee;
Ef they reach thet, Democ’cy needn’t fear
The tallest airthquakes we can git up here.’ 
Some call ‘t insultin’ to ask ary pledge,
An’ say ’twill only set their teeth on edge,
But folks you’ve jest licked, fur ’z I