Thet I felt some stuck up is wut it’s nat’ral to suppose,
  When poppylar enthusiasm hed furnished me sech clo’es;
  (Ner ‘t ain’t without edvantiges, this kin’ o’ suit, ye see,
  It’s water-proof, an’ water’s wut I like kep’ out o’ me;)
  But nut content with thet, they took a kerridge from the fence
  An’ rid me roun’ to see the place, entirely free ’f expense,
  With forty-’leven new kines o’ sarse without no charge acquainted me,
  Gi’ me three cheers, an’ vowed thet I wuz all their fahncy painted me;
  They treated me to all their eggs; (they keep ’em, I should think,
  Fer sech ovations, pooty long, for they wuz mos’ distinc’;)
  They starred me thick ’z the Milky-Way with indiscrim’nit cherity,
  For wut we call reception eggs air sunthin’ of a rerity;
  Green ones is plentifle anough, skurce wuth a nigger’s getherin’,
  But your dead-ripe ones ranges high fer treatin’ Nothun bretherin: 
  A spotteder, ringstreakeder child the’ warn’t in Uncle Sam’s
  Holl farm,—­a cross of striped pig an’ one o’ Jacob’s lambs;
  ‘T wuz Dannil in the lions’ den, new an’ enlarged edition,
  An’ everythin’ fust-rate o’ ‘ts kind, the’ warn’t no impersition. 
  People’s impulsiver down here than wut our folks to home be,
  An’ kin’ o’ go it ‘ith a resh in raisin’ Hail Columby: 
  Thet’s so:  an’ they swarmed out like bees, for your real Southun
          men’s
  Time isn’t o’ much more account than an ole settin’ hen’s;
  (They jest work semioccashnally, or else don’t work at all,
  An’ so their time an’ ’tention both air et saci’ty’s call.)
  Talk about hospitality! wut Nothun town d’ ye know
  Would take a totle stranger up an’ treat him gratis so? 
  You’d better b’lieve ther’ ‘s nothin’ like this spendin’ days an’
          nights
  Along ‘ith a dependent race fer civerlizin’ whites.

  But this wuz all prelim’nary; it’s so Gran’ Jurors here
  Fin’ a true bill, a hendier way than ourn, an’ nut so dear;
  So arter this they sentenced me, to make all tight ‘n’ snug,
  Afore a reg’lar court o’ law, to ten years in the Jug. 
  I didn’ make no gret defence:  you don’t feel much like speakin’,
  When, ef you let your clamshells gape, a quart o’ tar will leak in: 
  I hev hearn tell o’ winged words, but pint o’ fact it tethers
  The spoutin’ gift to hev your words tu thick sot on with feathers,
  An’ Choate ner Webster wouldn’t ha’ made an A 1 kin’ o’ speech,
  Astride a Southun chestnut horse sharper ’n a baby’s screech.

  Two year ago they ketched the thief, ‘n’ seein’ I wuz innercent,
  They jest oncorked an’ le’ me run, an’ in my stid the sinner sent
  To see how he liked pork ‘n’ pone flavored with wa’nut saplin’,
  An’ nary social priv’ledge but a one-hoss, starn-wheel chaplin. 
  When I come out, the folks behaved mos’ gen’manly an’ harnsome;