ever see,
Are ’bout ez mad ’z they wal know how to be; 150
It’s better than the Rebs themselves expected
’fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected;
Be kind ’z you please, but fustly make things fast,
For plain Truth’s all the kindness thet’ll last;
Ef treason is a crime, ez some folks say,
How could we punish it in a milder way
Than sayin’ to ’em, ’Brethren, lookee here,
We’ll jes’ divide things with ye, sheer an’ sheer,
An’ sence both come o’ pooty strong-backed daddies,
You take the Darkies, ez we’ve took the Paddies; 160
Ign’ant an’ poor we took ’em by the hand,
An’ they’re the bones an’ sinners o’ the land,’
I ain’t o’ them thet fancy there’s a loss on
Every inves’ment thet don’t start from Bos’on;
But I know this:  our money’s safest trusted
In sunthin’, come wut will, thet can’t be busted,
An’ thet’s the old Amerikin idee,
To make a man a Man an’ let him be. [Gret applause.]

Ez for their l’yalty, don’t take a goad to ’t,
But I do’ want to block their only road to ’t 170
By lettin’ ’em believe thet they can git
Mor’n wut they lost, out of our little wit: 
I tell ye wut, I’m ‘fraid we’ll drif’ to leeward
‘thout we can put more stiffenin’ into Seward;
He seems to think Columby’d better ect
Like a scared widder with a boy stiff-necked
Thet stomps an’ swears he wun’t come in to supper;
She mus’ set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper,
Keepin’ the Constitootion on to warm,
Tell he’ll eccept her ’pologies in form:  180
The neighbors tell her he’s a cross-grained cuss
Thet needs a hidin’ ’fore he comes to wus;
‘No,’ sez Ma Seward, ’he’s ez good ’z the best,
All he wants now is sugar-plums an’ rest;’
‘He sarsed my Pa,’ sez one; ‘He stoned my son,’
Another edds, ’Oh wal, ‘twuz jes’ his fun.’ 
‘He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead.’ 
‘’Twuz only tryin’ a noo gun he hed.’ 
’Wal, all we ask’s to hev it understood
You’ll take his gun away from him for good; 190
We don’t, wal, nut exac’ly, like his play,
Seem’ he allus kin’ o’ shoots our way. 
You kill your fatted calves to no good eend,
‘thout his fust sayin’, “Mother, I hev sinned!"’
                  [’Amen!’ frum Deac’n Greenleaf]

The Pres’dunt he thinks thet the slickest plan
‘ould be t’ allow thet he’s our on’y man,
An’ thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war
Jes’ for his private glory an’ eclor;
‘Nobody ain’t a Union man,’ sez he,
‘’thout he agrees, thru thick an’ thin, with me; 200
Warn’t Andrew Jackson’s ‘nitials jes’ like mine? 
An’ ain’t thet sunthin’ like a right divine
To cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please,
An’ treat your Congress like a nest o’ fleas?’
Wal, I expec’ the People wouldn’ care, if
The question now wuz techin’ bank or tariff,
But I conclude they’ve ‘bout made up their