Volume Iv Part 25 (2/2)
”Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's G.o.d's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?”
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, ”Thet exception is quite oppertoon,” sez he.
”Gen'nle Ca.s.s, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees; At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color: You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please,”
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Mister Jarnagin, ”They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon,” sez he.
”The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance, No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance,”
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- Sez Atherton here, ”This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon,” sez he.
”It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ex we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned,”
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- ”Yes, the North,” sez Colquitt, ”Ef we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon,” sez he.
”Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin'
In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine,”
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- ”Yes,” sez Johnson, ”in France They're beginnin' to dance Beelzebub's own rigadoon,” sez he.
”The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest,”
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- ”Oh,” sez Westcott o' Florida, ”Wut treason is horrider Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?” sez he.
”It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth sha'n't be spiled,”
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- ”Ah,” sez Dixon H. Lewis, ”It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon,” sez he.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS A Song With A Stolen Burden
Off with your hat! along the street His Lords.h.i.+p's carriage rolls; Respect to greatness--when it s.h.i.+nes To cheer our darkened souls.
Get off the step, you ragged boys!
Policeman, where's your staff?
This is a sight to check with awe The most irreverent laugh.
Chapeau bas!
Chapeau bas!
Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!
Stand further back! we'll see him well; Wait till they lift him out: It takes some time; his Lords.h.i.+p's old, And suffers from the gout.
Now look! he owns a castled park For every finger thin; He has more sterling pounds a day Than wrinkles in his skin.
The founder of his race was son To a king's cousin, rich; (The mother was an oyster wench-- She perished in a ditch).
His patriot worth embalmed has been In poets' loud applause: He made twelve thousand pounds a year By aiding France's cause.
The second marquis, of the stole Was groom to the second James; He all but caught that recreant king When flying o'er the Thames.
Devotion rare! by Orange Will With a Scotch county paid; He gained one more--in Ireland--when Charles Edward he betrayed.
He lived to see his son grow up A general famed and bold, Who fought his country's fights--and one, For half a million, sold.
His son (alas! the house's shame) Frittered the name away: Diced, wenched and drank--at last got shot, Through cheating in his play!
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